Confronting my rapist

Writing has always been my passion, an element of my future career, and my escape. But I haven’t written about this moment until now. I haven’t written about it until after I slapped my rapist across the face in a crowded bar earlier tonight.

In a mere three weeks, I’m graduating from college and leaving Bloomington and Indiana University. During the last semester, it is natural to reminisce on past college events, including the themed parties, grueling final projects and varied roommate experiences that formed my college career.

While reminiscing, there’s always this one story that creeps back into focus. I tend to tell a lot of stories, not all of them are told well or with purpose, but the point is, I’m a talker. I tell my friends and my parents everything, but I don’t always tell this story.

My freshman year of college, I started seeing this guy. As most first-month-of-college relationships (if it can even be called that) are concerned, it failed. But it didn’t fail because we realized we were better as friends or were heading down different paths. It ended because of one very specific, very sober night.

I was in my dorm alone while my roommate was out of town. The guy asked if he could come back to my dorm since he lived far off of campus. I said yes. He came over, belligerent.

He’s the kind of guy that, when drunk, likes to get in fights and wrestle with his friends. I let him sleep in the same bed, but I told him I wasn’t in the mood. He kept trying; I kept refusing. He put his hands on me, and I pushed them off. He got angry. I got nervous he was going to get physical. I let him fuck me.

After that, I ended it. My view of sex didn’t change, and I didn’t really see an issue with the scenario until later on. It was a textbook definition of rape, but since I didn’t feel it was  “emotionally traumatizing,” as I had always heard it would be like, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t go to the police, and I didn’t make a scene.

It wasn’t until after I turned 21 and would see him at the bars and have mini panic attacks that I realized this was truly a problem.

For three years I have fantasized what it would be like to tell him what he did.
Tonight was that night.

Tonight, I saw him at the most popular bar in town. I was there with a dear friend when I saw him walk inside.

He was standing there with his friends as I got up to go to the bathroom. I went to the bathroom, knowing I would have to pass him on the way back. Conveniently, he was standing fully in my way back to the table. I pushed through his barricade of friends in typical bar etiquette, and as he noticed, I stood in front of him.
“Do you remember me? Do you remember my freshman year?”
“Yeah, yeah I remember you.”
“Do you remember that night when you came back to my dorm room?”
He mumbled something like, “Yeah, you tell me,” eyeing his friends like a joke.

I turned around to his friends and said, “I want you all to hear this too.” Then I turned back to face him and said, “I’m telling you this soberly. You raped me. You fucking raped me. You forced yourself on me and fucking raped me.”

His eyes looked towards his drink and the floor; so I stared at him and said, “Look at me in the eyes when I tell you this.” He looked at me, and one last time I said,
“You raped me.”

Then I slapped him across the face and walked away.

He probably told his friends I was a crazy bitch.

I’m not. I’m a rape victim who realizes that it’s never too late to say something.
I don’t condone violence and while it seemed right at the time, slapping him was not the liberating aspect of this experience.

Little one-night dorm instances like mine happen all the time and we think it’s okay. It’s not.

Rape is a heavy word that doesn’t always feel like a heavy burden. But there’s a reason why this story always creeps back into my mind and there’s a reason why I’m so scared and determined to publish it. Stories have power, and by sharing my story, I’m taking the power I lost that night back.

Bari Finkel