Caitlin’s Story
I was asleep when it started. It hadn’t been a deep sleep - I was so uncomfortable and overheated by the large body next to me. But there weren’t many options for accommodations that night, so I dealt with it.
He and my best friend, Carly, had driven up to my college campus to go to an Old Dominion concert with me and visit. I had been having a rough time at college. I had been diagnosed with depression and had already been experiencing intense suicidal ideations. They both knew this and were making an effort to be there for me. Carly was doing a better job by far - she had been to the dark places before. But he hadn’t. His idea of “suffering” was getting a bad grade on an exam - I envied him for that, but it also meant he made me feel even more alone than I already did. He was supposed to be my partner, but lately, everything had just felt off. I had been toying with the idea of breaking up and had even told him I was thinking of ending it, but he was adamant we just needed to spend more time together. That’s what prompted the visit in the first place, and I asked Carly to tag along.
I should have known it wasn’t going to be a good weekend from the moment they arrived. I was ecstatic to see Carly, but when he hugged me, my skin crawled. The kiss felt wrong. It was a stage kiss like I was trying to put on a show, trying to prove my whole world wasn’t crumbling. The concert was that Friday night, though, and I figured it would be a good distraction, a way to ease back into being around him.
After the concert, we walked back to my dorm. My roommate was spending the night in her friend’s apartment, meaning I had our 12 by 20 haven to myself for the night.
He was a bigger guy, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of having to share my twin-sized bed with him. I asked Carly if she’d rather sleep in the bed with me, but she said she’d take the floor. That meant he and I would be squished together between my paper-thin sheets. We all laid down but talked for a while until Carly started to doze off. I reached down from my bed to where she laid on the floor and adjusted my heated blanket over her body, turning it up a notch. Having been friends for nearly thirteen years, I knew she always woke up cold.
He was next to fall asleep, arm around my waist, holding me against him. A few months earlier, I would have thought, “this is heaven.” But my heart was screaming against his touch, knowing my love for him had died in the months after we graduated high school. I don’t remember falling asleep.
What happened when I awoke is forever scorched in my mind.
One of his large hands grasped my breast, twisting it and groping it like a hungry child. The other was under my panties, painfully rubbing me.
“What are you doing?” I croaked.
He whispered back, “I started playing with your boobs, and your little moans were so cute, I couldn’t help it.”
My eyes shot around the room, landing on Carly in fetal position only a few feet away, sleeping soundly.
He grabbed my hand and placed it on his crotch. “Come on, baby, it’s been so long.”
“I don’t want to. And Carly’s right there - what if she wakes up?”
I could practically hear his smirk. “Guess we’ll have to be fast.”
He began rubbing me and fingering me faster, his calloused fingers dragging across my most delicate skin. He had such a grip on me, and I was so sleepy, I didn’t know what to do. I started crying silently, and after a few minutes, I faked an orgasm. Satisfied, he pulled his hands away from my crotch, held me around the waist again, and fell back asleep.
I honestly didn’t think much of it the next day or in the days that followed. Maybe it was a coping technique. Perhaps it was denial. I don’t know. The day after it happened, Carly had to go home, but he stayed. It made me uncomfortable to dress and undress in front of him, even when I asked him to turn around, but he would just say something like, “baby, it’s been so long since I saw your beautiful body,” and I would just give up. He left Sunday, and I was left alone, trying to process my feelings towards him.
I can’t tell you when I finally processed what had happened - that whole semester is a blur for me - but I remember telling my therapist what happened. How it wasn’t the first time, how he had coerced me into nearly every sexual act we had done throughout our relationship, how he admitted in high school he had coerced me and begged for forgiveness, asking that I wouldn’t report him, the way I would shake my head, and he would say it wouldn’t happen again, but it always happened again. But that night, that was the first time I hadn’t even been conscious and couldn’t even protest. I told my therapist all of this and said I couldn’t explain why, but it all felt wrong. She is the one who first called it sexual assault and relationship abuse. She is the one who watched me fall apart in confusion and pain.
I struggle to call what happened to me “assault” or “abuse,” though I know that’s what it was. I once loved my partner dearly, wanted to make him happy, and I felt pressured by both him and society to satisfy him. I was never taught that coercion was wrong; I only knew that it felt wrong.
I broke up with him two months after the incident.
I never confronted him about what happened, any of it, nor did I report anything. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, and I was terrified of the potential backlash. I was terrified people would question my story, the timeline, when my memories were already out of order and fuzzy from dealing with intense depression. And I loved him once; he may have broken me, but I don’t want to ruin his life. If that makes me naive, then I’m naive. At least this time, it’s my choice.