April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and this year, students in my sociology course Sex Crimes and Moral Panic adopted the first Take Back the News Print Project at the University.

This project began with one student's question: Why do media and policy makers concentrate on stranger rape when over two-thirds of all rapes are committed by someone known to the victim?

Complex social situations surround acquaintance rape. "About 90 percent of rapes in college are committed by an acquaintance, but less than five percent are reported to police," said Jill Lipski of The Aurora Center for Advocacy & Education.

Because we live in a culture that rarely supports the victim, underreporting is common. Rape survivors are often blamed in the media, yet studies show fewer than two percent of rapes are falsely reported - the same as any other major crime.

We must believe and support those who have been assaulted, especially when they come forward and are faced with media slants and public scrutiny. Reporters need to be made aware of the impact they can have, and take concrete steps against perpetuating rape myths.

However, the media is not solely to blame. It serves as a reflection of our culture; a culture that is violence-producing and violence-accepting. Take Back the News has published over 100 stories that aim to shatter rape myths, and the University project contributes stories from survivors seeking to put a face and voice to how sexual assault affects our community. We thank these women for speaking out and advocating for a safer community for all of us.

"Healing is possible, and prevention will take communities working together to create a world that is not hostile to survivors, but a place where they are supported and heard," said Jill.

Men especially have an active role to play in its prevention, and all of us must challenge the normalization of sexual assault in our culture. Excerpts from survivors' stories can be found below.

Go to the Daily's online opinions section and www.takebackthenews.org for the complete stories. Change begins with individual action - these brave voices prove that.

Ariel. Minneapolis, Minnesota

The Valentine's Day of 1996 will forever be etched in my mind. When I was eighteen, I lived in Brentwood, NY in my own apartment with no roommates. I thought I was all grown up working as a waitress at a local restaurant. The head chef there began to take a liking to me and I have to admit it was flattering. He bought me roses and expensive perfume. Even though I did not especially like him, no one had ever treated me that way, so I finally agreed to go out with him. We actually went out twice. He took me out to dinner and taught me the meringue.

February fourteenth, 1996 at two am, my doorbell rang. I remember thinking it odd, but I wasn't alarmed. I was a grown up, remember? So I swing open the door and allow my visitor to enter even though he is slurring his words and acting kind of strange. Before I know it he was pawing all over me and I may have even allowed it until he started pulling on my pajamas. I thought he was joking. I remember giggling. He thought it was a game. He thought it was cute. I tried to reason with him, that I wasn't that type of girl and that I barely knew him. He still thought I was just being silly. He pulled harder. I wasn't giggling anymore. My shirt ripped. My heart pounded in my ears. He thought it was exciting and in turn became even more forceful. I became crippled with fear. He threw me to the bed and I began to plead. I was waiting for marriage, I cried. I was a good girl, I swore. I asked, Why are you doing this to me? He didn't answer. He spoke no words. Before I knew it he forced his way inside. Inside of my world. Inside of my head, my heart and my dreams of anything and everything. It hurt. All I could think was it had to be over soon. It had to be. It seemed to last an eternity. How could I have been so stupid? He rolled off of me and passed out. In my bed! I didn't know what to do. I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I showered longer than the water took to go cold and my skin was scrubbed red and swollen. I then sat on the bathroom floor with my knees pulled into my chest for the rest of the night and cried. I cried tears of pain, shame, and fear. Would anyone ever want me again?

Morning came and the man in my bed woke up. He was disoriented and confused. He saw that I was upset, but couldn't even understand why. How was I supposed to explain it to him? I just told him to leave. I washed my sheets and blankets in bleach and curled into a ball under my covers deciding to never come out. I didn't go to work that night or ever again. He came to my place that next day inquiring to my whereabouts at work and why I didn't call in. Through tears, I said, you raped me. He laughed. He was still laughing on his way out the door as I stood there helpless and humiliated and I never saw him again.

Even as I write this, I can't help but make excuses of my naiveté. I still can't accept that it wasn't my fault. I would tell anyone else it wasn't their fault; that there was nothing they could do. Eleven years have passed and I still wonder. Eleven years and I can't smell the scent of Shalimar (the perfume he bought me) without feeling nauseous and stricken with flashbacks. The days around Valentine's Day are filled with dread and remembrance. I still imagine doing things differently. What if I screamed louder? What if I fought harder? What if I spoke out back then? What if…? If only I knew then, what I know now: telling is half the battle.

Anonymous. Minneapolis, Minnesota

The beginning of my sophomore year of high school, I met the most amazing boy. I had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend; he was sweet and funny. However, due to circumstance, I didn't get the chance to date him until the very end of junior year. Once we did start dating, I was so happy because no one had ever treated me as kindly as he did.

A few months into the relationship was when I first knew something was wrong. He started being mean, he wouldn't let me hang out with my girl friends, and basically forbade me from speaking to my guy friends. I didn't want to break up with him for this, but these were my friends from elementary school. At the same time, I didn't know if anyone would love me if we broke up. It kept getting worse. He had no respect for me, constantly made me cry, never let me be with my friends, but was able to do whatever he wanted, while I sat alone at home on Friday and Saturday nights. I lost my virginity to him a few months into our relationship. After about a year was when it started getting bad. Growing up in a small town, rape had one meaning: when a stranger forced a girl into having sex with him. Rape didn't happen between acquaintances, friends, significant others; if rape happened, it was usually the girls fault. Now, after a year of dating, when we had sex, it hurt. He'd be forceful and rough, and even when I cried and asked him to stop, he wouldn't. He would yell at me to shut up and let him finish, and afterwards, would leave me to myself to finish crying while he went and played video games. Time and again, I went through this. It was stuck in my head that this was normal. He would be so sweet during the day when we were around other people, but by ourselves, it was different. I didn't think I could leave; we had plans to get married, his whole family was so excited about it. I was so afraid he would hurt me if I tried to break up, and he made me feel like no one would ever love me. I wasn't pretty, I was too needy, I was too demanding, I didn't do enough for him. As much as I loved him, because I did, it was never good.

For another 3 or 4 months, sex was like this. Consensual at first, forceful at the end, with me feeling degraded and left alone to cry. I had no one to talk to, and no one noticed that I wanted to die. But because I was taught that rape was a stranger on a girl, I didn't do anything. One night, everything changed and I knew it was wrong. We were alone for the night, and started fooling around. I didn't want to have sex, but it started anyway. I changed my mind, and asked him to stop. He took my shoulders, slammed me down on the floor, and held me while I cried and screamed. The pain was horrible, and after he finished, left me to go watch TV. I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what I had done to deserve this, I didn't know what I could do right anymore to make him stop doing this to me. I kept crying and screaming, and eventually he yelled at me to shut the f*** up, to go downstairs and go to bed. And I did, because I was too afraid to leave him to go home. Home was a half hour away, and it was so late at night, I didn't want to scare my parents.

I broke up with him shortly after this. He tried so hard to get me back, but I have wonderful friends who held my hand while I tried to deal. I didn't realize that rape could happen between significant others until almost a year after I broke up with him. I'm still dealing with the aftermath. I have severe anger problems, I have trust issues, and still, sometimes I'm afraid to have sex with my boyfriend of almost two years. All the memories still haunt me, but talking about it and dealing with the memories head-on has helped. I don't know if mentally or emotionally I'll be okay, but I've made progress. Enough that I can make it through the day without thinking about it and without worrying that he'll find me.

Jenna. Minneapolis, Minnesota

For Christmas 1996, I was given a bed set complete with sheets, pillowcases and a comforter all decorated in abstract cats. I was eleven years old. Ten years later, that bed set still covers my bed at my parents' house. I will never forget those cats and the design they were laid in. I remember how I traced the pattern over and over again with my right index finger on that day. My movement was jerky but continuous. It was soothing. It gave me purpose. I traced those lines over and over, never lifting my finger from the comforter.

It's odd, really. I don't quite remember anything in vivid detail before I sat on my bed. I couldn't tell you if I took off my shoes when I got home. I couldn't tell you if I greeted my pets or if they greeted me. I cannot recall if I went straight into my bedroom or was sidetracked along the way. I just remember sitting down on my bed, looking at those cats and tracing.

No matter how hard I think about it, I still can't recollect who I called initially. In fact, I don't even know how the phone got in my hand. Logic tells me I phoned Christa first because she came over right away. I know I told her what had happened and I know I traced the entire time I talked, I just can't remember if I told her over the phone or in person. I know that when she hugged me, I didn't cry and I didn't lift my finger.

My parents were called, I know that, I just don't know in which order. My brother's girlfriend was also called at some point. The conversations I had with them all seem a complete blur. Its almost as if I was drugged because I don't remember dialing any numbers or what was said. I just remember the cats. It was a sunny day outside. I remember that now, too. The sun shone through my blinds, onto my cats and onto my finger. I never looked up. I never looked at Christa. I don't know if she looked at me with pity or sympathy or fear. I just know those cats had to be traced. I couldn't stop tracing the cats. Eventually my brother's girlfriend came over and took me to the hospital. I don't know how I said good-bye to Christa, if I did. I have no clue which route we took to the emergency room. I don't know how long the two of us sat in the waiting room before my mother showed up. I might have talked to either woman but I'm not sure. I do know my finger kept moving on my pant leg, as if I could see the cats in my denim.

After a while they moved the three of us to a different waiting room, one that was more private as if to protect me now when it was too late. Finally, I was taken into an exam room. I don't recall the doctors or the nurses. I don't know the questions they asked or the answers I gave. I know I undressed and got beneath a flimsy paper blanket. It seemed to be some sort of canvas for me. As soon as I was under it, I began drawing the now familiar cats with my finger as my medium. At some point my father showed up. Later, my own doctor appeared. Throughout the entire ordeal-the rape exam, the officer taking my statement, my mother…god, my mother-I drew those cats.

I do remember other things besides the cats and their pattern. These things have crept up when I'm right on the cusp of dreaming. Mostly, what I remember is my mother: things she said to me at the hospital, the way she looked at me in the exam room, her complaints to the medical staff about the lack of privacy. I remember that the only time I stopped tracing my invisible cats on the hospital's blanket was when she asked me how many men I had slept with. Nothing's clear, though. The only thing I am hundred percent sure of is those cats.

I've gone through hours of therapy. I've retold the story numerous times. I've been taught to decipher each thought, each feeling that I had during the ordeal and that day afterwards. I've learned that the only thing worse than being a rape victim is being a rape survivor. Yet still the first image that comes to mind when I think of the rape is the cats and my finger tracing them. To this day I don't remember the actual assault or the day that preceded it. In fact, now, only a year and a half later, I cannot recall exactly what he looked like. I just remember those cats. I will always remember those cats.

Anonymous. Minneapolis, MN

Since birth, rape and sexual violence have impacted my life, shaping who I am the over the course of my life. No, that statement is inaccurate. Rape has not shaped my life since birth. It has shaped my life since conception. In February of 1980, my biological mother did the unthinkable. She violated societal norms: she fled her abusive marriage. There were no battered shelters to turn to, no centers for help. At that time in South Korea, fleeing one's husband or ending one's marriage was taboo. Shortly after she fled, my biological father tracked her down. Brutally beat her. Brutally raped her. She nearly died. He left her for dead in a stairwell. Yet nine months later, I was born in a home for unwed mothers in South Korea. As a Catholic, abortion was never an option for her. I too am Catholic. And not a day goes by that I don't think she made the wrong decision. I enjoy existing; I appreciate life. But I also appreciate reproductive rights. Were I ever raped, I would have an abortion. I marvel at the stupidity of her decision. And yet, I am grateful. To this day, my biological father does not know I was born. He is somewhere in South Korea, thousands of miles away from my world and my life in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I abhor rape, yet my life is the product of it. Were it not for rape, I would not exist. It is an odd feeling, a hollow feeling, to owe your being to rape.

My biological mother asserts, in her statements to the adoption agency, that she was not raped. She states she fled him, he tracked her down, and he then "made her pregnant." I understand, in part, that thinking. South Korean culture did not recognize marital rape. Legally, it was impossible for a man to rape his wife. Conjugal rights were the law of the land. And that mindset exists here in the United States. After birth, my biological mother gave me a gift -- new parents, new country, new opportunities, new freedoms -- yet how free am I in the United States? In every country I have been to -- United States, Switzerland, France -- sexual violence has shadowed me. I have been the almost-victim so many times. I too can recount the cliché story: A of a friend gave me a ride home from a party. He attacked me. Or attempted to. Drunk and sick, I vomited all over his car. Disgusted, he lost interest in raping me. He used my hair (rather long) and shirt to mop up the vomit. And drove me home. I was too sick to protest. He carried me up the stairs. Brought me a glass of water. I got off lucky, some friends say. But did I? The guy actually called me the next day and left a friendly, chatty voicemail. No feeling of guilt. Or remorse. Or accountability. No belief that he had done or attempted to do anything wrong. Just like my biological father does not believe he raped my biological mother. I have come to assume that rape will always haunt me, always be an integral part of who I am. Because I was born as the finished product of rape. Because I literally embody rape. Because of my past experiences. And especially because of the society I live in. And I have also come to assume that one day, like my biological mother, I too shall be consumed by rape.

Anne. Minneapolis, Minnesota.

When I was raped, I was very, very drunk. I was at an after bar at my friend's apartment (throughout this essay, I use the term friend rather loosely). I had started passing out on his couch (something I had safely done before) and my friend started touching me under my clothes. He told my "best friend," "I get Anne tonight." The sad thing is that this was in front of other friends of mine and no one did anything. My best friend and him told me I should go pass out in his bed, not taking into consideration how extremely intoxicated I was. Within a few minutes, he performed oral sex and told me how he had wanted me for a really long time. Then, he was on top of me and told me he had a condom on. I told him I didn't want to have sex with him. At first he said, "okay," and soon after, he asked again in a rather coercive manner and I, in my completely annihilated state, said okay and I laid there and let him do it. I saw him after this happened to me and I told him how drunk I was and how I was really uncomfortable with what happened and he brushed it off and he's later told me and others that I'm a wild woman. And my best friend told everyone I work with and people made fun of me for what happened. No one has made fun of him. Most of my friends are still friends with him. It seems like many people are too "Minnesota nice" and too timid to stand up for what is right. A few people understood and took me seriously. I will always be grateful for this. I just wanted someone to validate my feelings. I felt so disgusting and ashamed after this happened. I would cry whenever I would take a shower or get dressed. I saw a filthy and repulsive person in the mirror. I asked myself how I could have let this happen. Maybe when things seem so surreal we don't know what to do. I was raped and no one stopped it.

Anonymous. Minneapolis, Minnesota

My story is choppy and broken into bits in writing form. Just as I am. It is the way it is with rape. The aftermath of my assault has left me the target of ridicule and badgering. I see my rapist almost every other week. He works three blocks from me. Yes, he grins about it. It has been to the unfortunate delight of my rapists' University of Minnesota employee girlfriend! Just to show how difficult reporting can be. This clever sick girlfriend then preceded a three year no end badgering of me, ridicule of me, and harassment of me - stalking me through the internet...parking on my street endlessly. So my story didn't really end with the assault it actually began. She and he tape-recorded me without my knowledge, and his mother bought him a tape-recorder to help him protect himself from facing charges I guess. He tried to engage me in self incriminating disclosures, burned CD's of me and played them for others. As a matter of fact, his girlfriend seems to relish saying, we laughed about it. But I have to start at the beginning to show you that no matter what ...its worth reporting.

I was actually quite in love with my, I'll call him "my rapist." To understand rape, think of a child at a bus stop being bullied by a six foot nine, big, strong, angry kid and having everyone rally round the bully, saying, "oh, he isn't so bad," and leave the other to bleed. My rapist was adept at using his girlfriend to deflect his behavior, yes he used her too. He used her as a front. She proceeded to attack me every chance she got. But, my story is as follows. There was not one, but three separate assaults. It took me that long to deal with what was happening to me. To say [he] was an angry man would be an understatement. But I had no idea that he had an extreme case of an overbearing girlfriend. It is, by far, no excuse. When the final incident that I finally reported happened, I was half out the door anyway. We had been making love when it suddenly turned very hurtful and violent. He took his penis and rammed it into me sideways so hard I screamed and said stop you've badly hurt me. Not only did he not stop, he increased the deadly pace he continued for an additional ten minutes. For me hell… till he had his mind blowing orgasm. I lay there aching and in shock as if someone had beaten me up from the inside out. No condom. Blood and pain had me bent over. He had beaten me up! But in a way, that was invisible to others unless I had the audacity to report. I stood up bleeding. He got dressed with little or no emotion. Said I have to go now, he had to pick his girlfriend up from a ski trip! I didn't know that yet. In which he was jealous because she had been with some other men I guess. His view anyway. Pointed his finger at me and said remember "I'M the man."

In my kitchen where I had cooked him meals and played scrabble with him. In the kitchen where dreams are talked about and marriage plans discussed. I never saw him again to give closure, talk about, or remark on that night, because the next day when I went to the University of Minnesota to confront him and say you must take me to the clinic I'M bleeding, I met his girlfriend of two years. This double whammy shock, I'll call it the double-dogged, take-your-breath away moment of anguish. This heart broken, body broken moment had been so dizzying I sat down. She came out and called me names I won't repeat. He closed up the shop he worked at and ran like any good rapist coward would. His girlfriend and I talked a little. As I left he didn't say to me, are you OK? He said to her, now you know how I feel over your ski buddy. Unbelievable blindness. I didn't do a SARS kit and reported weeks later at the Aurora Center. Yes you can wait, but it's not a good idea. The police are under-educated, and in the eyes of the police department of my town, just another angry girlfriend. They even claimed I did it to get back at him. Ouch, seems everyone was so concerned with why I reported he smoothly got not only away with the horrific deed, he relished it. His father had been a cop he says. Nevertheless the police begrudgingly had me do a second report. A recorded one, and charged him with first degree rape. Which got dismissed. I was left shattered. Confused. Seeking solace and dodging his girlfriend endlessly. I still am. In my mind she's half the reason he has not gotten help for his crime. But it is not right to blame her. I do this to show an interesting result of rape, the Stockholm syndrome... where you actually begin to seek help and solace from the rapist because the police can't do much. And blaming his girlfriend is another side effect, its all him. But because she keeps things at a fever pitch of distraction.

He and I did talk again. And she'd throw fits. Finally I went to the sexual assault center. I will say I was slightly disappointed there too. They were in the process of moving and the move became a backdrop for disregarding feelings. At one point I felt suicidally alone. The memory of what he did to me will never leave. The words dismissed will never go and I cannot stand being touched. Justice is a funny thing; unless you have all your ducks lined up in a row and everything is perfect, the system just says no way.

On my honor, I have decided to support every single person, man or woman, who claims they have been violated. I've seen what the system does to people, we had restraining orders three ways. He, her and me. The very people who are supposed to help. The sexual violence center, the domestic abuse center seemed to be on another planet at times. PPPPlease know you are who we turn to. Believe, care and help us. Police, believe, care and help us. Courts, believe, care and help us. Because this is the only crime that you must face your abuser. His winks, his friends, the tormenting. When a store clerk is robbed she or he does not have to face the thief, but when the thief of our body and heart comes we are supposed to withstand gale force wind. Mocking, ridiculing...ice and people who just don't care. On a last note, while he was violently raping me, all I could think of was, I wonder how much this operation to fix the rips in my vagina will cost me. That's how violent it was. I am now known in my community, thanks to his friends, as troubled. Rape leaves a mark. An unfair mark, and open and vulnerable to judgment, scrutiny, and malice. So much hurt. But, once again, for every rapist that gets away, and every lawyer who does not see a 'win' in the case, there is one who believes you. And if none believe, you know what happened. You know that your pain and degradation was not your fault. Unless we report, we feed a system that is lethargic, lazy and slow minded. In his restraining order against me, he rubbed my face in it again, saying she accused me of rape but it was dismissed. Oh yes, it was dismissed. Words that I will forever have to live with. And you know, and I know, dismissed simply means, one more brave soul tried…for lack of any real method of caring for the injured. If everything happened in front of witnesses, what a wonderful world this would be. To find your power, you have to tell yourself every day look how strong I am. I survived and continue to survive him, his friends, his badgering. I am alive, aware, awake and a good person. Every day, peace.

Anne. Minneapolis. Minnesota.

When I first saw the article for this project I was so excited. I felt that this is what I've been waiting for to close the door on things. I thought that writing it would give me the courage to tell my advisor who thinks I'm lazy, worthless and a burden to financial aid, why I failed two consecutive spring semesters, or at least be able to say that word… that one word… to my counselor, so we can stop playing the guessing game. I originally wrote over 20 pages of "my story", but I'm not submitting that. I decided that I had preferred to be a statistic over being just another horrible story in this compilation. I was happy with that decision, because at the very least it was therapeutic to write it and desensitizing to continue reading over it. But even this I had to reconsider. Even though I don't think I have a real ending of my own (yet), there's the hope of giving someone out there the courage I never had…I don't know if this is me starting a new walk, tying up loose ends, healing, growing, moving on or what have you. I don't really know except that this is a story to tell.

My name is Anne…

and this is my story.

This is so hard. And not because of the subject matter, the hurt, the years of life it's taken away from me, but because when I think back on it, most of it just isn't there. Thanks to my own suppressive memory and the patchy years of therapy most feeling toward it is now numb. I don't know if that's the goal, but I'm finally able to live with it...most days.

Hah, therapy. Can't live with yourself, but even harder to live without yourself.

I've been living without myself for the past 3 years. I haven't reclaimed myself entirely, but I like to think I'm nearly there. Well, since this has turned to rambling, it would be best to start from the beginning. College has never been an easy time for me. Since I was really shy in high school I figured that going away to school would be the perfect opportunity to start opening up and to start being more outgoing. It was easy for me to join a few clubs and do some volunteering, but I really struggled to make friends on my floor. I actually really struggled to make friends anywhere. After a miserable couple of months with my roommate I decided to change dorms only to end up with someone on the opposite spectrum of the miserable scale. When I failed, I retreated to spending more time with my boyfriend that followed me to school. I never wanted him to change schools for me because I knew how easy it would be to cling to someone familiar.

So I'm friendless, totally friendless with the exception of a needy boyfriend. There was a big group of girls and a few guys in my hall that were friends with my RA. They ate supper together every night. Every night one of their group, usually a guy named Will, would come to the door and ask if my roommate wanted to get supper. For over two months I opened the door to give him the variety of responses corresponding with the location of my roommate. I would always wait a little while and then go down to supper myself. Each night I dined with my book. Just me and my book. A few times they were sitting tray to tray at a table right behind me and never bothered to invite me over. A few times I had heard them saying they should ask me to come but someone always thwarted that saying that I probably didn't want to be bothered since I had a book and all. I don't know about anyone else, but I cannot eat and read (other than skimming a paper etc.) at the same time. It's just impossible for me to keep track of where I am. Eventually one night when I said "sorry she's not here" he turned to walk away and suddenly said "hey, do you wanna get supper with us?" My heart leaped! I had been waiting so long for one of them to ask me. Instantly I had friends. I sat by ASA, the only other boy that was a regular to that group. ASA and I had a lot of things in common and outside of supper he was actively trying to get to know me and I him, since I had been waiting months to get to know anyone.

And I know this is supposed to be about my...

my...

you know, that one word.

That one word, of the thing that happened to me. my... ugh, my r-word.

And I promise it's still coming, but all this matters, it really does, or at least I think it does?

Maybe if I could have said that word, maybe I could have saved my self, or at least saved myself these 3 years of hell. I couldn't ever say it. When I tried to tell my counselor or a professor I became close to what happened all I could say was that "there is a boy in my dorm and he's mean. He's always mean, really mean, really, really mean and he's being mean to me. Please help me."

I couldn't get him to stop. I wasn't the mute shadow, I was my Self and it came out louder and stronger than it ever did before. I said No. I yelled NO! I begged him to stop. His body was crushing mine. My hands betrayed me. I had no control over them they were locked in a weird position all their own. I tried as hard as I could to unpin my arms, but no amount of squirming worked. How could I not get away? I was unpinnable by the standards of back yard wrestling. This body had gone through the tortures of two brothers on a trampoline for the previous 6 years. My mind reached for everything within range, what if your roommate hears? What about your suitemates? This isn't a good time. This really isn't a good time. I promise, please stop, please, please, you're hurting me. I have to study, please stop, I have to get to bed, please stop, it's late, I can't feel my arms, please stop. Every time I pleaded or cried harder he would kiss me, he would kiss my crying eyes and kiss my pleading lips. As if a kiss could make whatever was coming out of them all better...

I said NO! And that kills me every time when I think back on it. I may have had to choke it out through tears at some point, but I said it. Girls get r...ed because they don't say no, they get ra..... because they don't do anything. I said NO! I yelled NO! I fought and it still happened. When I awoke in my bed the next morning I was my usual groggy self listening to my roommates jet engine of a blow dryer at 6 am. I felt crappy to say the least. I was in disbelief about what happened, but I decided I needed a day off. One day in bed to pull myself together and then everything would be OK. With a click the roar of the hair dryer instantly died and I thought, "Ah, my official day in bed can begin now." But my roommate came around the corner laughing and said, "oh my gosh! You kept me up all night, you kept talking in your sleep saying 'no, ASA no' hahaha what was going on?" My heart stopped. I couldn't even swallow to digest what she just said. I just wanted to die right there. I quickly threw out "oh... well ASA kept bugging me to play video games last night, but I had SO much homework." She laughed, muttered something about ASA's annoying personality and went back to her sacred grooming rituals. I laid down and covered my head. My whole body felt like it was being weighed down with lead. How could she have laughed at me? How could she have laughed at that? How could I have said that in my sleep? I needed help and I needed help fast, I couldn't go on saying this stuff out loud.

It's odd that my main concern wasn't making sure that it stopped; my main concern was making sure no one would ever know. Protecting myself, was protecting him too?

How do you tell the person about to r.... you that he didn't even know how to put on a condom right. You can't. I started pleading "No ASA Nooooo." But he didn't listen he kept saying "just hold on, it's ok, it's ok" trying to comfort me, like there was something wrong with ME.

He called me kiddo. How f'd up is that?!

It was green, and from the campus sponsored free boy cover Wednesdays. I wanted to kill, maim and fight the mocking little happy face smiling up at me from the wrapper. After that time he never bothered with them again. Apparently it's too hard to hold on to a floppy person and a floppy condom. Eventually I became a mute shadow. When he came into my study room I would stop moving my pencil but continue to stare at my work. He would pick me up and carry me up two flights of stairs and into his room. He was such a barbarian. When he was done I was free to slip back downstairs gather my homework and fall apart in my bed. How long was this going to go on? I just prayed that I wouldn't say anything in my sleep ever again. Thankfully before I knew it the school year was over.

My first night in my new apartment I flew awake in bed, my mind was spinning and then I felt it. It came like a piercing stab to the stomach. Unconsciously I got up and ran to the bathroom. The bleeding was so heavy I knew something was seriously wrong though I had no idea what. I really thought I might be dying. I don't remember it entirely because I was in so much pain, my mind was dizzy and I remember being on the verge of vomiting the entire time. I had ten hours of heavy bleeding and ten days of bleeding to follow that. Things were starting to come together now. On my study abroad I got my period for 1 day each month. Just one day. I never even thought twice about it because I was traveling on the other side of the world, I was bound to be "off". My mother and sister flew out to travel with me at the end of my studies and they had a good laugh when they saw me. Little skinny as a rail/toothpick/twiggy had a potbelly. I blamed my domed stomach and inability to fasten the button on my shorts to my poor diet while abroad. Even though I ate mostly rice and fish I heavily supplemented my diet with... ice cream, pizza and other goodies. When my mom and sister were with me, they were constantly remarking about the weight they were losing while I continued to bulge. This got a bit confusing since I was eating strictly what they were, but I passed it off and was excited at the idea of not being underweight for the first time in my life. All of these things flooded into my mind at once and it hit me... I had a miscarriage, or at least I thought I did. I went to what I knew best, my computer and sure enough the signs were all there. It said it was important to go to the doctor incase all of it wasn't expelled--shudder-- I hate that word, but incase all of it wasn't gone from my body life threatening infections could happen. Like hell I was going to have someone violate me again, let alone pay to be violated! I also figured since these things happen all the time naturally, no worries.

And in a matter of months I was back to normal, and I thought life would be normal. That semester I buried myself in three things. My bed, my homework, and cream cheese coffee cakes from Rainbow. I thought Christmas break, a nice relaxing three weeks off from school, would be just enough time for me to put my life back together and to get me back on my feet. Boy, was I wrong. Not much changed when I got back, but I only buried myself in two things. My bed and cream cheese coffee cakes from Rainbow. I tried to go to class, but I couldn't. My body was so exhausted. I had never felt such exhaustion before. It took so much strength just to be able to wrench apart my eyelids. I did have one motivation for school work though. It was a group of boys that would call me and invite me to their study group. I would always turn them down saying "I just don't think I'm going to do the homework this week", but they would threaten to come in and drag me from my bed if I didn't produce myself to the stairs of my apartment building in 10 minutes. I credit those study sessions to saving my life. If it hadn't been for them I would never have left my inky cave. For an entire semester they were the only people that I talked too, the only time I ever saw daylight, walked leisurely and had the time of my life at three a.m. Mickey's raids. It still makes me smile thinking about the jukebox that would play nonstop for a quarter and the waitress that it always pissed off. How can you go wrong with Chantilly Lace? She was the only person that I ever saw get visibly upset over that song.

Hooray! I'm healed!!! Just kidding.

My first time was with my boyfriend. It was so wrong, it was wrong in every way. He started breathing heavy and pressing his body against mine. I started to get scared and asked what he was doing. He told me the moment was right, it felt right, that it was right. In a way, his mom was the only one that was right. She said that our behavior was dangerous. That we should never sleep together, nap together and to always keep a distance between us especially at school. She said one of these days if we kept up with this dangerous behavior that there was just too much temptation and things would get hot, heavy and out of control. She'll never know how right she was. He was dripping sweat all over me and I tried to push him off. I was scared of having him inside of me. He always said that before this day came he wanted to talk about every aspect of it so we'd both be prepared. I kept bringing this up to him. He completely ignored me and kept on with what he was doing. Our relationship was already in shambles and I had never any want to be intimate with him. I told him that this was not the right time, that it didn't feel right. He said it was the right time and I needed to stop because I was ruining the moment. I kept saying "not now, pleeease NOT now." I never really thought it would happen, but I was no longer a part of what he was doing. He had transformed from a human to a beast. He continued to drip sweat all over me and would exhale his hot breath on my face. He didn't notice me crying he didn't notice my hands pushing against his chest and eventually beating on his back. He didn't notice my legs fighting against his. I told him he didn't have protection and he said that it didn't matter protection would ruin our first time anyway. He wanted to have 100 percent feeling when he defiled me. The harder I pushed him away, the harder he pushed himself into me. It hurt so incredibly bad. I told him this and begged him to stop. I started saying through tears that how can there be a moment if both of us aren't in it. He kept on. I wasn't just crying from the pain, I was crying because of the look on his face and the determination in his eyes. This wasn't my boyfriend this was a machine. When he was done, he rolled off of me and went to his computer. I laid in his bed, wrapped in his buttercup sheets shaking, crying and trying to understand what just happened. When he was done doing whatever meaningless task he felt the need to do, he came back over to me and said that we should get to the dining hall before it closed. My soul became numb.

I had a lot of regrets because I said everything except no, not now isn't no, this isn't a good time isn't no, and stop isn't even no. I figured I was raped because I couldn't say no. What other reason could their have been?

I was still crying when I got dressed and he asked me what was wrong. I couldn't say anything, I couldn't even look at him. He came and sat next to me and demanded that I tell him what was wrong. I thought he was completely stupid that he didn't realize any of this. I yelled that I was upset he didn't listen to me, that we weren't protected and that we promised to talk about these things before they happened. I also told him that I wasn't ready, I felt totally pressured and completely used. His response "Well, you should have said something!" It made me so angry, he didn't even apologize. He eventually told me that what we just did was stupid. And In my head I was saying it was what you did, not me, you! And he questioned how I could be so foolish, that I could be pregnant and the next day I needed to go to Planned Parenthood and have a pregnancy test. I was horrified. (I have to mention this for my own intelligence I realize it takes time before you can have an accurate pregnancy test… but right then just didn't seem like the best time to correct him.) But the next day had rolled around and I was resolved to go to Planned Parenthood with him. When I got to his apartment he had no notion of why I was there and had no idea of why I would ever want to go to Planned Parenthood. I was shocked, I was confused, how could the events from the previous day just slip from his memory? I continued to be with him because he loved me…right? And well if he didn't love me he was my only friend… But many nights while we would be sleeping together the beast would take over him and he would force himself on me. Except now it included protection. hoo…ray… I eventually quit fighting and did everything in my power to distance myself from his boy parts, his boy covers and his one boy things. I reviewed lectures in my head, named the states in alphabetical order, then challenged myself to think of all the capitals, I practiced double digit multiplication I had mastered 12X12 through 19X19 and now was working up to 29X29. I was so good, I could imagine myself anywhere else, I could create a vivid alternate reality where I was loving life and loving myself.

When ASA happened, I ran to him. He was my only friend he was the only person that loved me, he was my boyfriend, he would protect me. As I sat crying on his bed, he told me that if I didn't stop he would take me to a hospital and have me checked in as an inpatient. I stopped crying, pleaded for him not too and curled up on his lap. At least I felt safe for the night. I wanted to tell him because I wanted reassurance that things would be ok, that it wasn't my fault that I was loved and that he would help me get through this. Instead he was shocked and horrified. His main concern was that he could have a disease from this boy and that he didn't really know me after all. I was nothing more than a slut. How could I do this to him? How could I betray him like this? Never mind the manner that it was done in… He decided I was sleeping around behind his back. He told me to leave that he couldn't stand the sight of me. That was the farthest thing from the sympathetic hug I was longing for.

Sometimes I feel like I have the words "Violate me" tattooed across my forehead.

A boy once told me that he was glad I was a fresh girl. Puzzled by this he went on to explain, that I was fresh, clean, pure, untainted and untampered with. The kind of girl he truly admires. I guess I can pull the wool over the best of them. I may have looked fresh on the outside, but my insides were nothing more than a rotting, decaying and crumbling core.

I've gone down many paths to try to get healed from this. I've tried the physical and the spiritual; meditating to free my mind, hopeless hours in counseling and re-succumbing to Christianity. I thought Shakespeare said it the best "More needs she the divine than the physician." I had forgiven him, what more was there to do? I begged for God's forgiveness for losing my self, allowing these sins to take place against my body and asked to be made pure again. I prayed for God to forgive him and to protect all those that may wander too close to him and to heal him from doing those things again. Though I couldn't ever ask to be forgiven for not being able to stop it and lastly and most importantly I could never forgive myself for not being able to stop it. I don't think I will ever be able to forgive myself for that. There was always something more I could have done, I could have screamed out at the top of my lungs, I could have smashed him over the head with something, I could have ripped him apart with my teeth, just anything, but I was so scared of any one else knowing. I've had so many crazy thoughts, crazy thoughts like maybe I deserved it or maybe that's just how life is… I even thought maybe it's because of how I dressed. Isn't that why Christian mothers campaign for modesty? But hello…I didn't even wear v-necks because I thought they showed too much… or at least too much emaciated sunken-in collar bone. crazy.

Part of me was and is scared of my parents finding out. Sex isn't something you do until you're married and sex isn't something you just do. You do it when you're married and only when you want and are ready to have children. And even after I have children I will probably still profess an air of virginity to my parents. Some days were so hard, sometimes I only got through them by remembering my professors famous words, "just keep on keeping on." At one time these words were meaningless, and nothing more than annoying scribble across the top of my returned homework, but now it's something I live by.

What happened has stopped me but it won't anymore. I own it now. If I had stayed on track with my education I should have finished a degree in engineering in three and a half years. Instead my transcript is littered with F's it will be closer to 6 years and I don't think I'll make it into graduate school.

I want this to be absolutely disgusting. I want this to be so horrible and I don't think I'm doing a good job of it because it's not writing it's just ramblings. I want anyone that does read this to know how disgusting it is. For the people that commit them to know how badly others are hurt and for the people that endure them to realize how deep these wounds run.

It has strained every relationship I've had or ever been in. I would lash out at my parents when they called to ask how my day was. I had panic attacks if I boy would ask to hold my hand. I withdrew from everyone and everything always on the pretense of "If I could just swallow this, all of this and bury it deep, I can be ok." I've spent hours being yelled at by professors and advisors. They tell me that I need to grow up, settle down, drop out, quit working, work more, try counseling and to stop being so damn lazy. And every time I just sit there and take it. I accepted that I was lazy, stupid and a burden to financial aid. Every time I sat burning in my chair thinking if only they knew, if only they knew this wasn't me, if only they knew there was something wrong. I didn't think I'd ever let them know, but now maybe I will. I've actually considered pressing charges… but how does it work when it's just he says/she says? My parents just got done fighting a battle in court for my younger sister on a much lesser degree. They were so torn apart, how can I possibly lay this on them?

This has been a lot of things for me. It's sent me on a roller coaster of emotions. Sometimes I felt so empowered and sometimes I felt so ashamed... I had so many questions. What do I tell? What don't I tell? How much do I tell? Why should I tell?

But now…

What's done is done.

We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it;

And I can only hope that somebody somewhere will get something out of this.

To submit your story, e-mail takebackMNews@hotmail.com or go to takebackthenews.org.

The project is coordinated by Heather Hlavka, Department of Sociology and Sarah Brunsberg, psychology senior.

Heather Hlavka is a University instructor. Please send comments to letters@mndaily.com.