A graduate student is sexually assaulted by a labmate.
Please note: This story contains description of sexual assault that may be disturbing to some listeners.
This story is appearing anonymously on our podcast. For more on why we made this decision, see our blog post here.
This story originally aired on August 17, 2018 in an episode titled “Help.”
Story Transcript
Ten years ago, I was raped. It didn’t happen in a dark alley and my rapist was not a dangerous-looking guy. I was raped while sleeping at a friend’s house by her roommate, a PhD candidate at the same research center where I worked and, in a couple of months, I would have started my own PhD.
He managed to enter my room and undress me without waking me up. I woke up to the sound of his belt buckle. He was unbuckling his belt with one hand while the fingers of his other hand were inside my vagina. It took me a couple of seconds to understand what was going on. I went from disoriented to confused to petrified. For a fraction of a second I thought this could be the end for me.
I tried to push him away but he didn’t move. Scared, I asked him what he was doing. With his fingers still inside my vagina, he asked me if I wanted him to continue. A clear and categorical no came out of my mouth.
He still remained inside me for what felt like ages. I could see him considering whether to ignore me or not. Finally, he left. Sometimes, I still wonder how long he was in the room looking at me and thinking how to proceed while I was sleeping peacefully.
I looked around the bed for my underwear and pajamas, put them back on and stared at the ceiling not knowing what to do or how to feel until, I guess out of exhaustion, I fell asleep again. I woke up a couple of hours later and went to my friend’s room. I remember feeling vulnerable and wanting a hug. I needed to feel comforted and I didn’t want to be alone, especially not in that house.
My friend looked at me in surprise when I woke her up. Probably it was really early in the morning. I couldn’t tell. I felt like time had stopped. I hesitated before sharing with her what her roommate had done. And when I did, she was also confused and unsure what to do. Eventually, she went to check his room and found it empty. I just wanted to go home.
To add another layer of confusion, while I was waiting for the train to go home, he called me. I didn’t answer at first but he wouldn’t stop calling. Finally, I answered. He just repeated how sorry he was and that he was not understanding what was going on for him. I remember saying that I could report him but I wouldn’t.
I was so confused, so not myself. I didn’t even know if what had happened to me was officially rape. It would take me many years and multiple conversations with lawyers and therapists to believe that, yes, it was.
As I was on my way back home, I started feeling a cloud come over me. Sounds were distorted and my vision was blurry. I don't even know how I got home.
It took me twenty-four hours to go to the police. And the fact that I didn’t have a more immediate response still haunts me. By going to the police, I was making it real, and also I was fearful of the consequences.
After talking to my sisters and mom I decided to report the assault and my mom and I went to the Catalan police. They were actually really nice and respectful and handled the situation better than I expected. They told me my report would go through the system and in a few months could probably go before a judge. For a brief period of time, I felt like I was putting an end to the nightmare. Little did I know my nightmare was about to begin.
It was the beginning of the summer and, in an attempt to escape reality, I hid from the world at my grandma’s beach house, like a wounded Little Red Riding Hood. I spent the whole summer unable to sleep without locking my bedroom door, suffering daily anxiety attacks and mostly feeling like an empty vessel. None. Nothing. Completely unworthy.
My behavior became self-destructive and I pushed away people that I loved and that really cared about me.
When the summer ended, I felt ready to move on and start a new chapter in my life, my PhD. I don’t remember exactly when, if it was in my first day back at my research center or later, but I walked by the door and there he was, sitting with other PhD students and drinking coffee like nothing happened. He looked at me and said, “Hi.”
I ran to the closest bathroom, locked myself in and started crying uncontrollably unable to breathe. I stayed there the whole day until it was dark outside. I don't know if someone ever entered either looking for me or just to pee. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t relate to reality.
It was the first of many panic attacks I was going to face during my first year as a PhD student. At this point, almost everyone from students to faculty they knew, with different level of detail and veracity, what had happened and another slap of reality was beginning. Almost from one day to the next I went from victim, if I was ever considered like one for some people, to aggressor. And my aggressor became the victim.
People I thought were my friends asked me to withdraw the police report because he was truly sorry and he had already sought help and he was going through therapy. Well, me too.
At the same time, I had to hear things like, “You exude sex from all your pores,” “You're too hot,” “You can come to work in sweatpants.”
One professor even told my advisor that I had had a lot of boyfriends and often came to work wearing a miniskirt. Highly educated people thought that I was the one to blame, not him.
I felt powerless.
Because the situation was unbearable and I was not able to work, with my adviser’s support I went to talk to the director of my research center and asked him to transfer my perpetrator at least until the legal situation was resolved. He told me he didn’t have the power to do so unless I had a restraining order and that he needed legal proof of the assault for him to take action.
I learned later that he was either lying or mistaken, but clearly he didn’t want to confront the situation. It was easier for him to minimize it and look the other way. It was clear he and the institution were not going to help me.
I felt powerless.
A few months later, the judge working on my case asked me for a meeting. As I entered the city court with my lawyer, I felt that maybe in here I was going to find the type of response that I was hoping for.
I narrated the rape all over again in a room full of strangers staring at me. It felt like a second violation. I answered every question. I clarified every detail.
At the end of the meeting, the judge told me that he was going to dismiss my case because, in his opinion, I didn’t have one. He said my rapist didn’t use violence. He had stopped when I asked him to stop. And, in his statement, he declared that he called me by my name, which apparently qualifies as asking for consent. Since I didn’t have witnesses it was my word against his.
The judge even added that my rapist’s version was more credible because he was a nice PhD student without a criminal record. It mattered little that I was asleep therefore unable to consent and that I also was a PhD student without a criminal record.
I felt powerless.
Failed by my peers, my institution and the legal system, I thought about quitting my PhD, at least to put an end to the torture of seeing him at work every day. But somewhere over the rainbow, someone believes you and lends you a hand.
My adviser believed me and in me and she was not going to allow me to quit. She knew that by staying there I was not going to finish my PhD, so she sent me far away to a different lab, to a different institution, to a different country. That’s how I came to the U.S. She used her power to keep me in science.
This was not my first experience of sexual harassment or assault in an academic environment. Sadly, it was not the last one either, but it was the hardest and almost defeated me. It took me ten years to gain my power back, the power to speak up, the power to fight for my rights, the power to help others, the power to say out loud, “Enough!”
Slowly, I started talking about my experience and found, astonished, that colleagues, friends, family members had gone through similar experiences. How long are we going to allow people, our institutions, the legal system to overpower women?
The last push that I needed to share this story for the first time in ten years was the MeToo Movement. I feel that I belong to the saddest sorority ever, but a powerful one. Don’t underestimate the power of women. We started using our voices and we will no longer be silent.