Facing Reality

I had imagined much about my sophomore year at Harvard: what it would be like to live in a House, which classes I wanted to take, how my friend groups might change.  I did not know that, by the time sophomore fall arrived, those questions would be taking up very little of my time. What I could not have imagined then is that, instead, I would spend the year dealing with the aftermath of being raped.

Miles away from home and Harvard in an unfamiliar city last summer, I was paralyzed and terrified when a stranger forced himself on me.  As someone to whom physical intimacy is part of a deeper emotional commitment, I found myself numb and in shock.  I didn’t know where to turn or who to tell; neither could I fully comprehend the effect this would have on my life in the coming months.  I told myself I had not understood what had happened, that this could never happen to me. And if something had happened, it wasn’t anything to bother other people with.

When night came that day, I could neither control my body’s shaking nor breathe through the overwhelming intensity of my sobs. I called my best friend, a Response peer counselor, and tried to find the words to tell her what had happened.  I barely remember our conversation, but she breathed with me as I cried myself hoarse on the phone.  The only other person I told was my boyfriend. I couldn’t bear to tell my secret to family members because I feared that further acknowledgment of the experience would somehow make it more “real.”  I stumbled through the rest of summer in a state of semi-shock and hoped that, given enough time, the pain that fought to make itself known at the slightest provocation would fade.

Upon returning to campus in the fall, I had high hopes.  The change of environment and the distraction of challenging new classes boded well for turning the page on my summer.  It soon became clear, though, that the stresses of my fast-paced life on campus were exacerbating, rather than distracting me from, the memories and aftereffects of that traumatic experience. Problem sets that once would have been a breeze were difficult to complete without an emotional breakdown, and the language class that used to be the highlight of my day became a test of how long I could keep myself from crying.  I was frustrated that what seemed like an overreaction to the experience over the summer was affecting my ability to function normally.

Because I resented the idea that dealing with the aftereffects and trauma of rape might prevent me from taking advantage of opportunities on campus, I ended up over-extending myself.  I found it unfair that one man’s cruel decision could negatively influence and limit my Harvard experience to such a large degree.  In an effort to prove I could still be the person I wanted to be, I took on a leadership role in one campus organization at the beginning of the semester and ran for a leadership position in another in the middle of the semester.  While this process showed me that my former happy and ambitious self was still inside of me, the stress proved too much.  Food started to make me nauseous, and I lost 10 pounds in the span of two weeks.  I became more lethargic and, after returning from Thanksgiving break, I stopped going to class for a week.  I instead spent hours watching TV and rereading the Harry Potter series, trying to escape into the lives of their fictional characters—and evade the grief and frustration that still hadn’t subsided in mine.

During this time, I was more grateful than ever for the support of my boyfriend, who would hold me while I cried at the futility of it all and made me laugh when I thought I couldn’t, and of the true friends I had found over the preceding year and a half. The pain I was dealing with showed me not only who among those already in my life was willing to stick it out for me, but also who among those I didn’t know as well was worth having in my life. In particular, a number of women from my sorority showed me unconditional love and talked me through more than one 2 a.m. tearful phone call, some just because they had heard I was having a bad day.  I also forged a strong relationship with a friend who was having an equally difficult semester and to whom I could give as much as I took.  The depth of support I received from her and other important people in my life made those months bearable.

My resident dean was equally supportive.  Beyond understanding my situation and encouraging me to give myself more credit, she helped me think clearly and logically about my options in terms of making it through the semester.  Fueled by her support and recommendations, I worked with my professors to make up the work I had missed and finished the semester with four half-courses on my transcript.

The support of Harvard’s mental health services was also fundamental in getting me through the semester.

Prior to returning to Harvard in the fall, I had had a conversation with my best friend from home in which I opened up to her and she, in return, made me promise to give mental health counseling at school a try. “You know I’m the last person to think counseling would be helpful,” she told me as I eyed her skeptically, “but it really helped me last semester after my mom made me promise to try it.”  Unconvinced, I told her I would, but I couldn’t see myself following through when I got to campus.

A week or two into the semester, the struggle to finish simple assignments and get excited about my classes became overwhelming. Frustrated, confused, and emotionally exhausted, I was ready to give anything that had a chance of helping me a try.

My friend who is a Response peer counselor introduced me to Sarah Rankin at the Office of Sexual Assault Prevention and Response, who was kind and patient as I struggled to make it through the details of my story.  She told me that what I was experiencing was not abnormal and that it also wasn’t as uncommon here at Harvard as I thought.  She gave me tips for dealing with flashbacks when they unexpectedly arose—as they so often did—and she recommended someone I could see more regularly at Mental Health Services.

I had mixed feelings.  Everything I had heard about MHS was negative: “They never have time to meet with you,” “they’re way understaffed,” “they’re not even that good.” But talking with Sarah had made me feel genuinely better, and that indicated to me I had something to gain from talking with someone on a regular basis.

My best friend from home was right.  Talking to someone did help—a lot.  A week after I scheduled the 20-minute introduction call required of all new MHS patients, I was in an office with my newly assigned counselor, sharing for only the fifth time what had happened to me.  My counselor listened as much as I needed and at the end asked me one or two questions, designed to make me reconsider the way I was thinking about what had happened to me.  Throughout the course of our weekly appointments, I slowly built up an understanding of the full extent of the effects the experience had on my life. I started to build a framework within which I could deal with them.  My counselor coached me through what I wanted to say to my parents when they each were in town. She helped me come to terms with the reality of what had happened to me.  And, even though my counselor never made any mention of a legal process, our discussions helped me build the confidence I needed when I eventually decided to go to the Harvard University Police Department and explore the possibility of pressing charges.

At HUPD, too, all I was met with was understanding and a willingness to help.  While the case is not under their jurisdiction, since the incident was not on Harvard property and the suspect is not associated with Harvard, the HUPD officer I met with has been serving as a liaison between me and the officer investigating the case.  The process is ongoing. As a result of the accommodations HUPD has made, though, I have been able to press charges without any physical disruption to my day-to-day life. And while my experience with MHS could not prevent the pain I experienced last semester, it gave me a framework within which I could begin to understand it and start to pick up the pieces of my life.

The process of recovery has been long, and I imagine I still have a ways to go. Mental Health Services and Harvard’s support system gave me perspective and much-needed help during a difficult time in my life. My story is just one sliver of the broader experience with mental health support at Harvard, and as such I don’t expect to be able to find a panacea for this campus’ problems from within it.  However, I do hope that more of those of us on campus who are struggling will seek help in one form or another.  For its part, I hope that the University can expand on what it is doing well, as in my case, to match the overwhelming need.  There are many here who stand to benefit from receiving the same compassionate care I did.

Editors’ Note: The author of this piece requested anonymity due to the sensitivity of the legal case discussed in the article. It is our hope that this piece will bring to light issues that affect members of our community and inform campus-wide conversations on sexual violence and health services at Harvard.

—Marina N. Bolotnikova and Michael F. Cotter, Editorial Chairs

—Robert S. Samuels, President