I’m not sure how to convey the emotion I felt when I was told that I had sex the previous night.

No words could describe the confusion I felt, the disbelief, the deep feeling of shock that set in right after I heard the news, or the countless feelings that barraged and overwhelmed me.

“Helpless” is the best word I can think of that sums up the feeling of being taken advantage of by a boy while I was knocked out and completely unaware of what was going on; while I was beyond the point of giving consent and beyond the point of saying no.

I spent nights wide awake, trying to decide if this was my fault, because at first I believed that it was. I relived the few moments that I began to recall from the muddled night — the pressure on the bed, the hands turning me over, a tongue on my most intimate parts.

I cursed myself for drinking so much, for being irresponsible, for trying to live what I thought was the “true” college experience. I thought about the eyes of the two male officers while I quietly explained to them my story; how they looked both so uncomfortable and sympathetic while I told them, in detail, how this boy had violated me.

During class, I agonized over whether or not to tell my parents that I was raped. I tried to imagine a way to tell them that I was so drunk at a party that I didn’t wake up when a boy took advantage of me. I couldn’t. I wanted to spare my parents the heartache and the worry.

The thought of my dad picturing his baby girl unconscious with a boy on top of her was enough to keep this whole situation to myself.

To this day, I have an internal battle with myself whether today is the day to sit my parents down and explain to them that I filed a police report. It kills me to know that I didn’t go to them when all I wanted to do was be held in my mom’s arms while I cried.

My residence hall, which was supposed to be a safe place, became an anxiety-ridden hell. My walk through the building was spent with hyper-vigilance while I searched for my perpetrator. I knew that he had friends in the building and I did not want to run into him unexpectedly. I recall one time where I thought I saw him and ran as fast as I could to the building over.

Now, almost a year and a half later, things have changed. I’m still constantly on the lookout for him while I am in places where I know his friends lived. I would just like to be able to walk around my campus without the constant fear of running into the boy who raped me.

Since my freshman year, I have been proactive and learned from the incident. I joined the Sexual Assault Program, and I truly believe that by learning more about rape culture and helping others, I am constantly helping myself.

The biggest thing that I have learned from the Sexual Assault Program is how taboo rape is, especially on a college campus. I have heard too many students victim blame other students who have been assaulted, saying that it was their fault because they drank too much, they wore the wrong clothes or they said it was rape because they were embarrassed or regret it.

Every time I hear someone blaming the victim, whether it be an article in the news, an overheard conversation or a close friend, it both angers and saddens me that the only reason I have learned about rape culture is because I have been raped.

No one should ever be made to believe that it was their fault they were raped. No one should be told, “You weren’t passed out. You reacted. You’re just upset because you’re a slut and you’re trying to cover your image. You weren’t blackout. You knew.”

And it took me a year and a half to learn that.

This February, it will be three years since I was sexually assaulted. I’ve had to relive my story countless times — telling my roommate who encouraged me to go to the police, the police officers the Monday after the assault, the detective two weeks later, the counselors I’ve seen, the Office of Inclusion attorney six months later, my sister one year later and this impact statement a year and a half later.

Luckily, I was one of few survivors whose perpetrator was expelled from campus. That is not an easy feat. Although the process was slow, and despite having to relive my story and resurface vulnerable feelings every few months, I was glad to know that I was surrounded by peers and adults at MSU who cared and who took the time to listen.

I chose to share my story to empower others who have felt what I’ve felt — because I know now that I’m not alone. In fact, the more I share my experience, the more I feel like less of a victim and more of a survivor. I’ve had time to be able to move on from being bitter about what had happened, to becoming better.

By making ourselves vulnerable and telling the stories that are difficult to tell, we are impacting the world in hopes of making it a better place. I hope that other survivors feel the warmth of support that I have encountered and reach out so that they can fully heal and, eventually, share their stories as well.

The author of this letter is a psychology senior at Michigan State University.