Dating as a Survivor: an Open Letter to my Perpetrator

To my perpetrator:

I won’t flatter you, but I will admit that I’m not the same as I was. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’ve lost a lot of friends. When I go out, I stare at the door with my back to the wall. If you’re there, I watch you and wonder if you’ll do the same thing to whoever you meet that night. I avoid academic spaces I used to feel safe in. And you and I aren’t in the same classes anymore, because I failed after I was told that the only option was for me to continue going to lectures with you. You’ll also notice that I’m not embarrassed about what happened like you wanted, no, expected, me to be. I don’t avoid your gaze anymore; I stare back. 

I’ve noticed you’ve changed as well. You seem bolder now, entitled to spaces you know you don’t deserve to be in. I’m sure now that you feel you’ve been forgiven, that I’ve finally given into your pressure and recanted. To be clear, your actions were in violation of Title IX guidelines, and there is not a day that goes by I don’t wonder if I could’ve prevented you from hurting others if I had just followed through with the report. 

I know that it’s not my fault, but even after months of therapy, advocacy projects, and support from other survivors, I lay awake some nights asking myself how I could’ve let this happen. I wish that I had just stood up for myself, but instead, you’re allowed to continue your life as if nothing has changed… because nothing has. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at you without replaying that night. I still feel nauseous when you walk into the room, though I know you wouldn’t dare address me. Despite all of my strength, you and your actions still occupy so much space in my mind. 

Make no mistake: I’m not ashamed of how often I think about what you did to me or how the trauma has since manifested in my daily life. That shame should be yours. And truthfully, if the only thing that keeps you up at night is not the guilt for what you’ve done, but the fear that I’ll tell others what you did to me, that’s fine by me. Know that I won’t forget. 

You know who you are. Sit with that fear, feel our eyes on you, and let your anxiety make you question why you are where you are. I’ll do the same, but you know it’ll be for a different reason.

Fuck you,

A Relentless, Enraged, and Empowered Survivor

Dating as a Survivor: I Gave a PowerPoint Presentation to my Perpetrator

My heart was pounding as I set my laptop at the head of the table, fumbling with the power cable. Regrettably, I had had one too many shots of espresso; my hands were sweating. I jumped as my laptop cable clattered to the floor. 

What if the presentation is too long? What if the text is too small and no one can read the testimony? What if I forget what to say?

I was doing one last review of my presentation on relationship and sexual violence prevention and response as attendees started to file into the conference room. I took a deep breath and smiled at my colleagues. The meeting would present a valuable opportunity to discuss concrete action against RSV tolerance on campus. I hardly even noticed when he walked in. 

Then he sat down at the other end of the table. He pulled out a notebook, folded his hands, and leaned back in his chair to get a better view of the slides. Within moments, everything changed. 

In 2021, I was assaulted by someone I thought I could trust. In the months following, he did everything he could to make sure I wouldn’t report it. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work. I won’t go into more detail for a few reasons: 1. Survivors are prone to minimizing their own trauma when comparing experiences, and 2. I’m still terrified of his retaliation. To this day, I have not gone forward with a formal Title IX report, although I had (and have) every right to. I don’t know that I’ll ever feel comfortable doing so. 

While, ultimately, he got what he wanted, I wouldn’t say that he won. My involvement in RSV prevention and response is sure to keep him nervous. Full disclosure: I don’t believe in the “You wouldn’t be who you are today if it weren’t for your trauma!” anecdote. There is not a doubt in my mind that I would still be as vocal about RSV prevention as I am today without it. I wouldn’t even say what happened to me was a catalyst for everything that I’ve advocated for since; that title goes to the countless powerful survivors and allies that have come before me. Regardless, it did change something about me. 

The change became obvious weeks after the assault when I finally went to the Title IX Office. I had been over the possibilities with my therapist countless times. At the time, I didn’t know what I wanted to do; I said that I just wanted him to leave me alone. Truthfully, however, I wanted my professors to understand that I wasn’t skipping class because I was lazy, but because I no longer felt safe walking on campus. That I wasn’t finishing my exams, not because I didn’t study, but because I couldn’t help from looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to take a seat behind me. I wanted someone to hear me and tell me that what he had done to me was wrong. 

But, unlike ever before, I was intimidated, exhausted, and broken. I, like many other survivors, received a blunt overview of the processes which favored my perpetrator by default, presumptuous questions of my credibility, and an insistent “Why don’t you go home and think about it?” instead of the help I so desperately needed. After everything that I had been through, I just wasn’t prepared to fight the system which should have been there to protect me.

After what he had done to me, his subsequent harassment, and my experience with the Title IX office, I attended a #MeToo WashU protest with a handful of other survivors and allies. It was a cold night in January, and we were painting the snow with red dye to raise awareness about RSV within Greek Life. In the moments between passing bottles of dye and running for more food coloring, we made polite conversation. Where are you from? What do you major in? It was nice to be surrounded by people I had never met, but somehow trusted. Still, we all saw the giant societal elephant in the room. I was starting to lose feeling in my fingers, wondering why I had bothered to come to such a small protest on a night before class, when someone finally said it. 

You know, it’s been a while since I’ve been this comfortable around other people. I lost so many friends after the assault.

While I can’t speak for the other protesters, I know that I have never looked at WashU, or my assault, the same way since. 

Reflecting on my experience, the institutional support I needed to recover and thrive was non-existent. Not that it would have mattered, because federal Title IX guidelines prohibit direct action upon a perpetrator, such as asking them to leave a class, group, or residential area for the survivor’s safety, until a formal investigation has been completed and the perpetrator is found “responsible” by the appropriate administrative committee. So when I started seeing him holding leadership positions among student groups I frequented, I accepted it as something that couldn’t be fixed at an institutional level. Instead, I started to share my story and take comfort in the fact that I wasn’t alone. While I still made it a point to avoid him, and I wouldn’t shy away from an explanation if someone took notice, I stopped staring at the ground, biting my lip, or leaving the room. I learned to rely on the people around me and find strength in community. 

Would you be surprised if I told you I’ve gotten used to his face? If I told you that being in the same room with him no longer makes me nauseous? Well, maybe a little.

See, I’ve changed so much, but when he walked into the conference room for the RSV prevention meeting, I was no longer sitting at the head of the table; I was on the bed of the darkened bedroom asking where the condom was. When I pulled up my PowerPoint presentation, I was sitting on my roommate’s floor, crying as I recounted what he did to me. And when I spoke of my own Title IX experience, gesturing towards a slide with quotes from other survivors, I was in the clinic, trying to explain to the nurse why I couldn’t stop shaking. 

While the presentation went well (from what I’m told–I don’t remember it at all), I felt like a failure. I’ve already made so many concessions for him, I thought. I kept quiet! I didn’t file the Title IX report! Why did I continue the meeting instead of demanding he leave? Why did I let him have this, too? What’s wrong with me? 

Looking back now, though, I know I did the right thing. After all the work that’s been done, I wish I could say that it’s gotten easier. Unfortunately, survivors of RSV still receive the brunt of the suspicion, especially when we don’t stay quiet. It’s dangerous to stand up for ourselves. Without mandated survivor protections from the University, there will always be perpetrators that infiltrate the spaces we create, especially those dedicated to activism. And perpetrators will always use their presence to attempt and intimidate the survivors around them.

You’d think that any perpetrator would avoid such a situation, especially if they were remorseful. Why did he show up to a meeting specifically for RSV prevention? To be honest, there are plenty of reasons why he might want to. For example, he might want to absolve himself of any guilt in the eyes of the other attendees. Surely the rumors aren’t true if he’s working on preventing RSV himself, right? He might think that if he contributes to the movement against RSV, he’s somehow atoning for the sins he was not held accountable for in the first place. Or, frankly, he just feels empowered due to the fact that he wasn’t held accountable.

See, it wasn’t my place to call him out for intruding; that was the responsibility of those around me. Those who were privy to his behavior and to my discomfort. If I had interrupted the meeting and made a scene by demanding he leave, what do you think would’ve happened? Unfortunately, WashU does not always guarantee a safe space for disclosure. 

As fellow students, what can be done to protect survivors? There is no perfect answer. No flowchart developed by professionals, no outline of fail-proof screening processes, no support from the administration. The federal government won’t protect us, and neither will the University. It’s up to us to enforce a campus culture of survivor empowerment and perpetrator condemnation. This can take several forms, including socially isolating perpetrators, centering survivor perspectives and experiences, and calling out instances of RSV sympathizing. Regardless of what you do, one thing that is paramount to all else is absolute intolerance of all behaviors that are permissive of RSV and those who commit it. Every. Single. Time.

If you’re still wondering why all of this is necessary, please understand this: for so many of us, everything has changed.

Dating as a Survivor: Uni in a Post-Dobbs World

I wasn’t planning on going out. My clothes were sticking to my skin from a long shift at work. The air was still thick with July, but summer was quickly coming to an end. It was this feeling that finally persuaded me. I arrived at the party with my friends, to a small two-bedroom apartment just off the Loop. Purple LED lights illuminated the liquor on the kitchen island, sticky with spilled sprite and littered with solo cups. A friend introduced us next to the pong table, assured us that we would get along. He held out his hand and made a big show of asking me to dance. Giggling, I let him pull me into his arms. He seemed so kind–charming, even–as we spun around the living room. Eventually, we stumbled out into the thick, summer air and called an Uber. It was all consensual… until it wasn’t. 

There were several issues with our encounter. We were both drinking. I was high. There was no preceding conversation about consent. I was struggling to stay awake, to keep my eyes open. And while I have a tendency to blame myself, today I refuse to take the full blame. I do remember asking him to wear a condom, watching him unwrap it, watching him put it on. And I remember the moment I realized he had taken it off. His reply when I asked, “What happened to the condom?” caused my stomach to fall. 

“What condom?”

He didn’t bother to stop, only grabbed my hair and pushed harder. My head was swimming, but the rest of me froze. I remember the rush of heat to my cheeks when I realized that I was alone with him in an unfamiliar house, and even if I managed to escape him, I wouldn’t know my way out. I remember the burn in my throat as I tried to remember the way home. I wondered if I’d even be able to walk without falling. I was willing someone, anyone, to call my phone, walk through the door, anything to break the stupor. Something to convince him to roll off of me. No one came.

Two days later, I developed the symptoms. 

7 AM the next morning. The rear view mirror reflected the sunrise and made me nauseous. I was waiting in the parking lot of the clinic. My face was wet and my hands were shaking. It was 80 degrees and I was sweating under layers of clothing because I could not stand the sight of my own skin. The same thought, over and over: How could I have let this happen again? Sure, I’ve been in romantic relationships that have turned abusive, sketchy hook-ups that morphed into something dangerous… but this one was someone that my friends had recommended. A fellow student. This time I had been sure to ask for a condom. I had done nothing wrong, but still I was left to deal with the consequences.

To be clear, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. After a week of nauseating suspense, all of the test results came back negative, although I did have one of the worst sexually induced yeast infections the nurses had seen (apparently he was not as clean-shaven as he had appeared.) I recognize that things could have turned out much differently. Since the Supreme Court leak in June, like many of us, I’ve been to countless protests and rallies to fight the overturning of Roe v. Wade. Strangely enough, going to these events almost gave me a sense of comfort. People of all backgrounds spoke of their personal experiences, with megaphones in front of the crowd or quietly in a group between chants. Unsurprisingly, many of them detailed their abuse from men. Listening to stories from those brave enough to share, including our Congresswoman Cori Bush, confronted me with the reality that I am not alone. I’m sure that we can all agree, while the sense of solidarity is reassuring, it is horrific. This ruling truly affects us all. 

In a sick twist of fate, Dobbs v. Jackson was decided nearly a year after my encounter. After almost a year of enduring his harassment, unending therapy appointments, and unhelpful discussions with the campus Title IX office, I was reminded again of my place in this world. Scratch that–our place in this world. My heart aches for every person in danger of losing their dignity. One person I met at a rally and exchanged numbers with revealed to me that it was the one-year anniversary of leaving their abusive partner, who had attempted to trap them with an unwanted pregnancy. They’re preparing for their second year of university now; they’re studying social work.

You’ve heard it before, but I will say it again: it is never your fault. The circumstances are unimportant. We deserve to make our own decisions, to put ourselves first, and to feel safe. This fight is not over. 

Now, a shout-out to those in power: it is your responsibility to listen to us. 

Specifically, I’d like to call on the Washington University administration, who released a pre-prepared email to the student body reminding us that this ruling “elicits passionate responses from individuals on all sides of the debate,” to listen to their students. No amount of “constructive dialogue” will fix the damage that has been done… but tangible support is a good start. What exactly can the Washington University administration do? WashU’s Planned Parenthood Generation Action chapter has already submitted our list of demands:

1. Release an official statement of support for the right to choose, condemning the Dobbs v. Jackson decision

2. Make a public promise to continue teaching medical students how to provide vital abortion care

3. Discontinue use of  Crisis Pregnancy Centers (in place to intimidate people out of pursuing abortion care) as Brown School of Social Work practicum sites

4. Provide WashU employees with funds to access abortion care out of state

5. Ensure that WashU police cannot provide information about students, faculty, or staff to the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department if it is related to abortion care

Washington University has yet to even acknowledge this list, further proving they also are complacent with these rights being stripped from their students and community members. (Read: the WashU administration feels perfectly fine with enforcing our place in this world as people undeserving of the right to our own bodies.)

Why do I share my story? I will not get justice. I can not have closure. I am not interested in sympathy. 

It’s simple: I want your attention. I have been living in a burning home ever since that night; all I want is for you to smell the smoke. Hear me when I tell you: we do not need to justify our desire for self-governance. I’ve shared my story, like countless other brave and unshakeable souls, but the truth is you do not need another damn story. No one has ever asked, “How did the fire start?” before attempting to put it out. No one has ever said, “How does the fire feel?” or, “What about the person that started it? Isn’t it their decision also?” before throwing water.

Hear us when we tell you: we are on fucking fire. Now, go get a goddamn bucket. 

Dating as a Survivor

The first night wasn’t terrible. I sat on the floor, wearing nothing but my underwear in front of the full-length mirror. The fly-aways and frizz of my hair; the butterfly tattoo that matched my mother’s; the visible slump of my shoulders. I was taking in every detail as if for the first time. Finally, my eyes, tear-soaked and red. I remember thinking they were pretty.

The first morning was hard. I had a dream that his arms were around me again, and though I was aware of the previous night, everything felt the same. I felt loved and safe. When I woke up, I was sweating. His sweatshirt hung neatly in the closet. His toothbrush on the bathroom sink.

We had broken up. To be honest, we had only dated for a few months and we never bothered to label it. I wasn’t entirely heartbroken. It only took me a few days to schedule dates with potential suitors throughout the next few weeks. After a few days, I stopped letting myself cry for him and poured myself into my friends, family, and work. This is healthy, I thought to myself. Maybe I don’t need him. Or his company. Or his… protection. 

To every date, party, and club, something followed. I should have felt refreshed, even comforted. Still, a thought asserted itself in the back of my mind, dark and overpowering, as if it had always been there. And late at night, all alone, the thought manifested into a voice. 

What if I never find someone like him again? A normal thought.

Someone who won’t force himself on me? Who won’t physically restrain me? Who won’t leave me with bruised thighs and bloody lips and handprints on my throat and – 

A less-normal thought.

Dating as a college student in an unfamiliar city is a harrowing experience. The people you meet are just as scared and nervous as you are; still figuring out who they are and what they want. Break-ups happen, and you will still catch someone’s eye on your way to class, ask them to coffee. You will dance with a stranger, get their number, and enjoy your breakfast date the next day. You will get a text from a high school crush and meet them when you go home for the summer. You will move on.

Dating as a survivor is different. This is my story.

I am a self-professed slut. This is a label I’ve always worn proudly. I’d grown up in a tiny mid-western town, and college presented a new opportunity to have the social life I’d always craved. As a freshman, I went on several ‘dates’—if that’s what you’d call them. Most of these I had agreed to with the mutual unspoken expectation of having no-strings-attached sex. He’d pick me up from my dorm, entertain me with mediocre conversation, take me somewhere, call me an Uber, and that was that. I was also wildly open about my experiences. Friends would watch me, slack-jawed and giggling, and marvel at the stories I’d tell them about hook-ups in public places, awkward encounters with older men, and light-hearted embarrassments.

Like any college freshman, I struggled with my identity and self-esteem. Suddenly thrown into a home filled with inexperienced teenagers, no longer responsible for my family or housing, I quickly learned how to let go. Almost too well. Movie nights with boxed wine and Saturday benders with friends gave way to sipping vodka out of a teacup at 10 AM, all alone in my room, staring at the same two paragraphs of a chemistry textbook for hours as midterms approached… knowing I didn’t know a damn thing that would be on the exam. 

I’ve always struggled with my mental health, and during that time the fight became overwhelming. I couldn’t keep up academically, I hated myself for drinking, and my mom and I hadn’t spoken in weeks. Out of habit, I turned to the one thing I knew would bring me immediate relief: male attention. And in this supposedly progressive university environment, it is still true that the easiest way for a woman to gain acceptance is through being sexually desirable. Another skill I knew all too well.

Growing up as a woman, especially a poor one, one of the first things you learn is that to mean anything to anyone, you must serve a purpose. To mean something to a man, you can really only serve as something to be possessed and enjoyed: either as a family member or a sexual object. I was disillusioned as a child into thinking I could just be a friend. One boy I considered closest to me would use phrases like “you’re like a sister to me,” a sentiment that seemed innocent enough until he locked his truck doors with me inside after Wednesday night youth group and announced he wouldn’t let me out until I touched him. On that cool, sweaty September evening, under the only street light in the high school parking lot, I learned that indeed, I was expected to serve a purpose. 

So I moved on with my alcoholism and broken resolve to a series of men who presented me with varying degrees of danger. The most innocent, the ones I never really thought of as unsafe, would do me the gentlemanly favor of buying my coffee before taking me. Some even offered to give oral before requesting I do the same. No one ever asked me if I wanted to wear a  condom, despite the fact I always brought my own. They either pushed inside of me without warning or unwrapped the condom wordlessly, using it for their own protection rather than my comfort. The dangerous ones, however, left me with an unshakeable fear and distrust of men, especially those that are bigger and stronger. 

After one encounter left me bruised and shaking, I decided it was best to handle my insecurities and loneliness alone. Despite calling off romantic relationships, I still acknowledged the need for the presence of a man. Just going to the grocery store alone would elicit unwanted advances and harassment from strangers. The campus that had once seemed awe-inspiring and promiseful now only served as a reminder that the men around me still expected me to serve my purpose. No longer did I admire the Ginkgo trees and tulips on my way to class; instead, I looked over my shoulder and avoided the crowd. I stopped leaving my home. I was isolating myself. 

And then I met him.

And in an unimportant yet touching series of thoughtful dates, shared cigarettes, and 4 AM conversations, I let myself fall for him. He was the first person that had ever taken the time to know me before having sex with me. He was the first person to demonstrate for me what truly consensual sex is: constant conversation, mutual trust, and gentleness. He made me feel neither like I was owned or that I owed him. But, what really got me was how safe he made me feel. How the flashbacks and intrusive thoughts paused in his presence, the recurring nightmares were less frequent, and how even when I was alone I had the feeling of confidence that only came from knowing that there was at least one person in the world who wanted me even when I was fully clothed. One person who never just saw a naked woman, but one that saw me. How could I not want him to stay forever? 

And like all things do when you’re twenty and you start thinking of the future, it falls apart. I hold no ill-will still, though I’ll admit I was devastated. I’ll admit I cried in my lab coat after listening to my coworker tell me about her relationship, letting my goggles fog. I’ll admit that I cried before telling my mother, who has lived my story and wants nothing but for me to be safe, that I was no longer seeing the man who never, ever yelled. And I’ll admit that I cried before throwing away his toothbrush, remembering the mornings we’d stand in front of the sink together. Lastly, I’ll admit I’m still devastated. I really, really wanted this to work out. 

And while what we had was great, I know now that it was never him. He was never the secret to curing my PTSD, or the only man I’d ever be able to explore Chicago with, or the best lover I’d ever have. He was just a boy who read the Instagram consent infographics instead of skipping through. A boy who listened to his previous girlfriends when they told him what they wanted. A boy with the basic human decency to know never to hit, yell, or force. Anyone else could have made me feel the same way, just by doing the bare-minimum. I’d spent so long surviving, I wasn’t willing to give up on the thought of thriving with someone by my side. So unwilling, in fact, I mistook the feeling for love.

Unfortunately, I haven’t found an adequate replacement yet, so I can’t end my story with “Don’t worry though! There’s someone for everyone :).” I am still plagued by nights alone with that voice. Half of my dates I cancel, out of fear or exhaustion. Coupled with the usual, recurring nightmares, I still dream that I’m in his arms. Those mornings never get easier. But his toothbrush is gone, and now I brush my teeth holding my cat in one arm, dancing in the mirror, and singing along to old jazz music he wouldn’t know.

Dating as a survivor is different. It comes with embarrassing quirks that are difficult to say out loud. It comes with a different set of expectations. I’ll probably never date someone without thinking of him, and the dozens of men before him. I definitely won’t date someone without first sizing them up in an attempt to estimate the danger. But, I know now what I need to feel secure in a relationship, even if I am a little ashamed to say it’s just safety and reassurance (lame, right?). I hesitate to end with a reminder to love yourself first, because I can’t necessarily say that I do. I still feel the pull of the readily accessible comfort of a man. However, I can say I am comfortable being alone if it means that I’m not sacrificing my needs just for an escape. From one survivor to another: we are different, but we are not difficult.

We will move on.

Essays That Got Me into Uni: The Dream Meets the Nightmare

“Now this is some nice skin.”

Why, thank you. I moisturize every day.

“Smooth and elastic.” 

“You’re right- I see no blemishes.”

I also wear sunscreen, no matter what the weather is like.

“It could be worth hundreds.”

Psh. Take me out to dinner first.

“How much do you think there is?”

“Can’t be sure, she’s awful small… Grab me the scalpel.”

Wait.

I open my eyes and lurch forward, swing my feet to the cold floor, and take off at a sprint.

Well, I try to open my eyes. My eyelids won’t move. It’s not that they’re heavy, it’s not that they’re stuck… they’re not mine. I pull my hands up to my face, try to feel the problem. My arms do not flex, and my muscles remain slack. My mouth refuses to budge; I scream instead, but my throat fails to produce any sound. A sickness burns in my stomach, crawls up my throat, and fills my head. 

Focus. The air around me is stiff and smells faintly of alcohol. I'm lying on my back, face up. Why am I here? Surely this is a dream. This must be the anesthesia. The blackness around me spins; my mind becomes murky.

My phone was ringing. I sighed and reached for my nightstand. The alarm clock read 2:54. After a 48 hour shift and only 3 hours of sleep, I was exhausted. I remained in my bed for only a second before getting up. I had long been resigned to the fact that this job didn't allow for proper sleep, and exhaustion was a feeling I had become used to. 

I threw on the jeans I had been wearing earlier and grabbed my keys. I nearly forgot to lock my apartment door before skipping down the stairs and starting my car. 

I'll be the first to admit my job isn't easy. Being a surgeon requires commitment that only a select few can handle. On occasions I am able to make it to the bar for a drink or two, I make sure to stay away from the topic of my occupation. Most men cringe when I tell them; this usually is followed by an endless string of questions in no way romantic. "What's the grossest thing you've seen?" "How much schooling was that?" And, my personal favorite: "You make how much?" While comments like these from strangers are understandable, it irks me when I hear them from coworkers. The male doctors that can't tear themselves away from the hospital long enough to retire; they are the worst. Of course, they're all just lonely. Unfortunately, this makes the new, young, (coincidentally female) surgeon seem like the perfect prey. Dodging their advances may be awkward at first, but the moment I mention pay grade they seem to simmer down. As one of the hospital's only orthopedic surgeons, I tend to make a considerable amount more than them. To a man, this is a threat. The long, unpredictable hours rarely leave room for relationships anyway.

Aside from the drawbacks, I'd never change a thing. I love my job. Even when it wakes me up in the middle of the night to tend to a patient. I pressed the gas harder. 

  My mind drifted away to thoughts about my upcoming case. I wondered what it could possibly be at this hour. Heart attack, car accident. It was a shame that I had only gotten a few hours of sleep; otherwise I'd be able to run through hundreds of scenarios with ease.

My eyes closed, just for a minute. 

I opened them to the taillights of a ford pickup, quickly approaching. My foot fumbled for the brake, slipped. At almost 60 miles an hour, my Nissan slammed into the bed of the truck. I remember thinking, I forgot to put on my seatbelt, before flying through the windshield and smacking the pavement. Moments later, the ambulance arrived. A familiar voice was standing over me. "Hurry, there's not much time!"

My mind returns to the room. The conversation is continuing. 

“... but the wife will be excited. Our sons have worked really hard to make it into this school, it’s the least I can do.”

I am stunned to recognize this as the voice of Chase. What is a paramedic doing in the OR? The fog around my brain begins to dissipate. Accompanying him is a man I am far more familiar with. My former superior, Dr. Ramond, clears his throat before replying. 

“No, I get it. Sher and I are looking at investing.” 

Small talk! How unprofessional! Who is looking at the monitors? 

Now I’m scared. I feel my heart thump in my chest. Surely, this will be a sign I’m awake. If I can just get my heart rate to quicken, they will notice the jump. I work to speed my breathing. My lungs won’t expand when I tell them to- something else, something mechanical, fills them at regular intervals. 

“... have to be quick. Hell, if she’s healthy enough, we could make enough to go into early retirement.”

They must think I’m asleep. Where is the anesthesiologist? They don’t know that they’re making a grave mistake… I hope that their liability insurance can cover this one.

The screech of wheels approaches me from across the room. They come to a stop, maybe feet away. The snap of surgical gloves. 

No.

A heavy sigh. Spearmint gum, used unsuccessfully to veil the stench of garlic and coffee, smacks between teeth. The overhead light squeaks as it is adjusted. 

“Oh! Just a minute! Found a playlist.”

Shoes scuff along the floor. The phone is placed on a table with a thump. 

“Alright.” The shoes return.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” 

Acoustic guitar and banjo accompaniment trill from the speaker. “Plowing these fields in the hot summer sun. Over by the gate, yonder here she comes, with a basket full of chicken, and a big cold jug of sweet tea!”

No.

The scalpel tears easily through my flesh. I can feel it as it slips underneath my skin and glides across the muscle.

Kenny Chesney hoots, drowning the ripping sound of my flesh, “She thinks my tractor’s sexy!”

The exposed muscle stings as the flap of skin is folded over.

Dear God, if you're there, I'm begging you. I'll quit my job and become a nun...

My mind floods with pain. What could possibly have happened to my body for this to be necessary? It must be an infection. The accident must have thrown me from the car. Across the pavement. I must have pebbles, glass, dirt, deep in my skin. In my muscle, probably. They're concerned about necrosis. This is a preventative measure. 

Another strip of my skin is folded back. This time, the scalpel slips into my muscle. The jagged edge digs into my flesh. "Whoops!"

Fuck that. Fuck this, there is no God.

"She's the only one who really understands what gets me. She thinks my tractor's sexy!"

The scalpel fumbles, tearing a chunk of muscle fibers away from my abdomen. It is one thing to be cut to pieces by your coworkers, but to be tortured with Kenny Chesney? What have I done to deserve this?

Just days before, I was talking to both of these people. Chase, to gain information about a patient, and Dr. Ramond, for advice on that same patient.

A hoarse chuckle. “Let’s leave some for the funeral.”

They think I’m… dead? Why remove damaged tissue?

“What do you say we open ‘em up? See what the kidneys are like?”

Why keep me alive? Torture?

“We’ll get the rest before unplugging the machines. The fresher, the better.”

These motherfuckers know damn well I'm alive. 

A snort. “Hell, I think we should take a look at her lungs while we’re at it. Heard there’s a severe COPD case in Seattle.”

Organs. I’ve been reduced to a breathing refrigerator.

"You know, the weird thing is, I don't feel bad for her at all."

"Why's that?"

"She's stuck up. Stuck up and selfish. All those times I've asked if she wants a drink, and she flat out ignores me. Or brings up her salary."

Both chuckle. 

How do I deserve this? By working hard? They must have used something to make me unconscious. A paralytic.

"Hey, wait…"

The music pauses abruptly, mid-howl. 

"Yeah?"

"She's… well, she’s moving."

"Psh. You're tired."

"No, Mark, come look at this."

There is silence as they stand over me, investigating the quarry. 

“Her eyes… are moving.”

Focus.

"Don't worry. We'll put her out of her misery soon."

My fingers flex, willing just one tendon to move. They merely twitch despite my straining.

“It’s nothing. Got that all packaged up?”

That's not going to work. My attention turns to my breathing. I must be intubated. The tube becomes heavy in my throat. Suddenly, I can taste my breath. Stale blood and sour air smart my tongue.

“Sure do. When do you meet the guy?”

Nauseousness overcomes fear. Hot bile climbs up my throat.

"Well, are you ready to take a look inside?"

The tube twitches. My throat seizes, my chest contracts. I'm choking now, uncontrollably. My skin burns and my abdominal muscles fail.

"SHIT!" 

My eyes peel open to the sight of two figures in white. The overhead light is blinding. My fingers grasp for the intubation tube, clawing at my mouth. The figures lunge for me. I flop towards the edge of the table and gag. 

“Grab her!” 

 The tube shreds my throat as I wrench, a vain attempt to pull it out. Blood fills my mouth. I pull away from my assailants, flailing as I fall to the ground. I hit the linoleum with a dull smack. My throat tears as I scream, muffled by the plastic. The lining of my esophagus splits, causing blood to gush from the wounds. My eyes clear, revealing the men. With a final tug, the tube loosens and slips out, spraying discharge. I crawl to my hands and knees, holding my arms in defense. The skin on my abdomen peels back and sags. A hoarse rasp escapes from my mouth. They’re fumbling. On their faces, a look of disbelief… and fear. 

The scalpel slithers out of a hand, clatters to the floor. At once, we tackle the ground. Chase reaches it first. I careen for him, a snarl slipping from my hematic throat. The scalpel tumbles from his bloodied grip. I snatch it from the floor and take a swipe at his abdomen. It misses by several inches, slicing his wrist open instead. He strikes my head with his fist, sending me back. I lurch for him again, this time taking aim at his chest. The blade glides into his flesh and slips, gouging into his neck. Shrieking, he clutches his wound and reals backward.

“Bitch!” Ramond lunges. I wield the scalpel like a dagger, waving it wildly. I slash at his face; it reaches his breast instead and tears his scrubs. He pauses, raises a hand to inspect the blood. 

My chance. 

Mustering all of my strength, I leap for his face. This time, I do not miss. My blade punches his cheekbone and diverts, sinking into the muscle of his jaw. He screeches and jerks away, leaving the scalpel imbedded in his face. It twists as he struggles, his eyes wide and his mouth open in horror. Disoriented, I fall onto my knees, eyes wide. On all fours, I clamor for the exit.

“Stay… away,” I grunt in pain. I climb up the slick wall, my muscles straining. My knees wobble. My fingers merely brush the exit button; the door whooshes open. Gasping, I stagger to my escape.

Essays That Got Me into Uni: Jeff Bezos versus Olive Garden’s ‘Unlimited Breadstick’ Deal

For this essay, I will assume three things: the supply of infinite food is given at one sitting (no breaks aside from conversation over dinner, brisk walks to the restroom, and other activities necessary for life), this infinite food is consumed by one person (to keep things simple enough for only two pages), and in the future our medical technology will have advanced to the point that we as humans have reached immortality.  I’ll set the scene: we are at Olive Garden. The lights are dimmed and add warmth to the atmosphere. Patrons are chatting and laughing at their respective tables, unaware that history is about to be made before their eyes (and their children's eyes, and their grandchildren's eyes.) The door opens every few minutes, letting a refreshing breeze of evening air into the room. The smell of famous Olive Garden breadsticks wafts in from the kitchen to the sound of plates rattling. It would be peaceful… if there wasn’t a job to do. 

In this scenario, our subject will eat at least one 140 calorie breadstick (with garlic topping, of course) every thirty minutes to keep the supply coming. This means that not only does the restaurant require the capabilities to prepare breadsticks for an extended amount of time (holidays included), the patron must also have the ability to consume such amounts (at least 6720 calories per day worth of breadsticks). And, while promises of unlimited food will initially get you two or three extra servings of *insert side dish*, after the check comes out, it is no longer in your server’s best interest to continue supplying your table. For this to be truly unlimited, a restaurant would need to be inclined to make it so. Not just anyone is capable of such persuasion; in this avaricious world, this is a feat only a rich man could achieve. To be safe, I’ll assume this person has the ability to pay for an unimaginable amount of food. Enter Jeff Bezos. 

Jeff Bezos is best known as the founder of Amazon, an astute investor, and philanthropist (although the last description may be a reach.) With a net worth of 110.2 billion USD, he has the capability to fund such an ambitious project. Perhaps he has taken the challenge from Elon Musk, who has enlisted Rib Crib for a similar expedition to achieve unlimited ribs. It will be a cold day in hell when Jeff Bezos steps in to a Rib Crib.

To make this breadstick supply truly unlimited, we’ll have to keep Jeff healthy enough to live out his days scarfing down carbs. To tackle this problem, a team composed of medical specialists such as cardiologists, dieticians, and paramedics will stand by to ensure nothing should happen. He’ll have to eat things other than breadsticks to keep his digestive system in function; however, he may lack the appetite. For this, we’ll also introduce multivitamins and meal supplements into his diet. Still, he’ll have to get sleep. Technically, it is possible to go with only a few hours of sleep each night. Unfortunately, this causes adverse side effects in most people and can lead to heart disease, diabetes, and even a shortened life expectancy. According to Business Insider, Mr. Bezos prioritizes getting at least eight hours of sleep each night to make tact business decisions. To ensure Mr. Bezos remains his lively, robust self, we’ll have to find a way for him to sleep through a few 30 minute breadstick intervals. Luckily, the feeding tube was invented in the mid 1800s and has been improved upon greatly ever since. With today’s long-term pre-pyloric feeding tube, Mr. Bezos can catch his Z’s while never missing a breadstick.

Considering Mr. Bezos seems particularly fond of his physique and will be consuming upwards of 7000 calories each day (including vitamins and supplements), we’ll have to keep an eye on his weight. To calculate the amount of calories burned every day by Mr. Bezos, we’ll use this formula:  66 + (6.2 x weight) + (12.7 x height) - (6.76 x age). When his numbers are substituted in, we’ll get approximately 1499.9 calories. Multiplying this by 1.2 will supplement for the physical exercise he does whilst eating (i.e not a whole lot.) In all, Mr. Bezos will burn 1800 calories by simply living. However, he’ll need to stay in peak physical condition to continue his breadstick mission. To compensate for almost 7000 calories worth of breadsticks, he’ll have to do moderate exercise at regular intervals. For the sake of simplicity, we’ll set up a treadmill next to his table so he can burn the remaining 5200. The average man can walk at 4 miles per hour with a 6% incline and burn almost 1000 calories per hour. Since Mr. Bezos is a bit on the lighter side, weighing in at 154 pounds, we’ll assume he can burn 900 calories an hour. To burn at least 5200 calories, he’ll have to aim for walking about 6 hours a day. 

Not to mention, Mr. Bezos will eventually hear Nature’s call. The average middle aged man uses the bathroom 4-10 times a day, depending on varying underlying health conditions. Because I’m feeling particularly generous, we’ll allow Mr. Bezos to stretch his legs on his way to the lavatory 8 times a day. Not only will this allow for an invigorating change of scene, it will provide for a moment of quiet reflection which is essential for mental health. Mr. Bezos has made it a habit to meditate to increase his stress resilience, according to INC.com. Considering he will be eating one breadstick every 30 minutes, living with a permanent feeding tube, sleeping 8 hours a day, walking 6 hours a day, and answering to the inevitable media storm of questions as to why anyone would want to take on such a frivolous adventure, this will be a custom he will want to continue.

Jeff Bezos is about to be the first man to break the bonds of mortality; one small breadstick for man, one giant waste of resources for mankind. His legacy will live on for generations and inspire the invention of many a weight loss fad. Not to mention, he has inspired the world’s first 24-hour Olive Garden. A basket of breadsticks sits between us. Servers stand by at the ready with pitchers of water and parmesan cheese graters. Cooks in the kitchen are already bent over counters and ovens, looking forward to their shift ending. This project will cost a whopping $895,882 per year, which also happens to be the amount of money that could build 447 homeless shelters. Or pay for 3 days worth of utilities for an entire hospital. Or even pay for 1,500 children in Africa to attend school. Even more mind-blowing is the fact that realistically, Jeff Bezos could afford to pay for this many years in advance considering his existing wealth and the rate at which his investments are growing. It’s all about perspective. Tune in next time when we’ll explore the possibilities of Mark Zuckerberg consuming an unlimited amount of Garlic Herb Shrimp at Outback Steak House. 

Essays That Got Me into Uni: About Me (AKA an Overshare)

Growing up, I experienced the damaging effects that untreated mental illness and addiction have on a family. My father suffered from bipolar depression and alcoholism. In an effort to protect me and my brother, he kept us sheltered. The majority of my childhood was spent sitting cross-legged on a faded and stained carpet in front of a small television. We weren’t allowed to play with other children, nor were we allowed outside. Instead of protecting me, my father left me vulnerable; I saw myself as an outcast. By the age of twelve I was sneaking out to drink alcohol with older kids, sometimes even adults. My habits evolved quickly; eventually, it was more than alcohol and marijuana, and the kids I associated with were not my friends. It wasn’t just illegal and distasteful- it was harmful and dangerous. While I managed to get the help I needed, I see many others who suffer at the hands of their addiction and live their whole lives without support. Many of them are fellow students. Looking back, the experience has changed my perspective on mental health and has left me more perceptive and accepting of others.

Experiences that most people look back on fondly were ruined for me by my desire to do them too early, to go too far. To think back to that time in my life is painful. Deprived of a childhood and driven by my determination to get one, I inadvertently created a reputation for myself in that small town. It made it difficult to be taken seriously as a scholar, even after years of hard work. Although problematic, I have come to use this as motivation for a better future. In high school I made it a point to give nothing less than my utmost effort. My past experiences have inspired me to pursue a career in healthcare to help others struggling with addiction and to set an example for young students facing the same challenges. I became a CNA and a licensed phlebotomist at sixteen, and shadowed major metropolitan hospitals regularly. I have since decided to become a trauma surgeon to work in large cities experiencing violence and to offer support for troubled youth. 

Although my past was difficult to endure, it hurt my mother the most. Since I have become clean, we have formed a strong bond. Unfortunately, my father was not so forgiving. I was out with my mother one weekend when my father changed the locks to our home and pronounced us “kicked out.”  It was at this time I realized the apparent decline in my father’s mental health. After this, his behavior became very erratic. He accused my mother and me of doing heinous things, and would later text to ask if we were coming home. My father claimed that he had never forgiven me for my past, and this was a difficult assertion to deal with. The ordeal changed my perspective on mental health and has encouraged me to do more research in the field of psychology. I believe that one’s mental state will inevitably affect one’s family as well; to care for one’s mental health is to care for their family. 

When my mother and I were “kicked out,” we resorted to couch surfing until she could afford to buy a house. Two months later, we used our savings to buy a few air mattresses and the payment on a single-story 1950’s home, abandoned for a decade prior. The home was bare and dilapidated, with stained carpets and broken windows; it needed much work done to make it livable. Several times we were taken advantage of by friends, roommates, and repairmen. Together, we rebuilt the house and created a home despite the trials we faced. The experience, although cliche, truly showed me the meaning of friends and family, whilst also teaching me practical skills such as basic car maintenance, electrical work, and plumbing; all of which will be helpful as I begin my adult life in college. I’ve also come to know that absolutely anything can happen. If I had been told five years ago, one year ago, or even six months ago what my life would be like today, I would have been in disbelief. 

I am grateful for the trials I have faced and the opportunities I have received despite my downfalls, for they have left me more than prepared to tackle my life in college and beyond.

Essays That Got Me into Uni: A Sonnet (Written before I found out he cheated on me)

One day, I’ll write a poem about you

I thought to myself

Once I’ve found all the things I love about you

I want it to be heartfelt

I’ll start with your personality:

You’re real and I admire how you

wade through life with a child-like mentality

You’re inspiring, it’s true

Next, I’ll be sure to address

How the stunning face and sparkling eyes

with which you’ve been blessed

Frame a smile reminiscent of the sunrise

This is it darling; here you go

I love everything about you, and now you know.

Essays That Got Me into Uni: An Ode to the Voices

You come to me every night

sometimes in my dreams

sometimes in my nightmares

sometimes when I’m wide awake

you’ll sit at the edge of my bed

they say that it’s just in my head

Sometimes I just wait for you

When I’m scared or nervous

I know you’ll be there

I can do nothing solo now

I’m alone but I’m never lonely

I know it’s not just in my head

You keep me up at night

and frighten me all day

but you’re not all that bad

had it not been for you

I wouldn’t be where I am

It might just be in my head

Sometimes I forget all about you

It’s like you were never there

I’ll laugh and shrug and say

It’s just dumb luck I guess

But you and I know better

I know that it’s just in my head

You know my deepest secrets and 

you know all of my fears

I’d call you my best friend

but you’ve caused all these tears

that being said, you’ll never leave

Who would I be without my head?

Essays That Got Me into Uni: A Villanelle (For an engineer that has no concept of what a villanelle is)

What makes your body yours?

Undeniably, despite circumstance?

Is there anything that makes you different from peers?

Is it the mind, that shares

your thoughts and allows for romance

Or lips, that initiate such affairs

Maybe your eyes, as they never get old

and  they expose your soul, just a glance

of your feelings and self to behold

Is it the hands for their ability to hold

Or the feet that carry you as you dance

and sway across the floor

Perhaps it’s what you don’t want to divulge

Or even what one totes in one’s pants

The reasons for that, I will withhold

I think it must be the voice; I’m sure

this is the only thing that isn’t there by chance

All that you want to be and do, no matter how bold

Is held within your vocal folds

Essays That Got Me into Uni: Trauma-Dumping with the Lorax

As I sit down to write my essay,

My attention begins to flit away.

I glance at the news; all the experts say,

“We must act now! Don’t delay!”

The Lorax, I know, can relate to their dilemma today. 

Although the Lorax may be the obvious decision, 

this is my justification:

Despite the Onecler’s condemnation,

His friends facing starvation,

His home nearing damnation,

He remained steadfast in his location,

Upon a humble stump to voice his frustration.

And as forests burn down before our eyes

And stars seem to fall right from the night sky...

Still, we find ways to deny

That pollution has entered our water supply,

Entire species have died

I’m afraid our chance to act is quickly passing by.

Soon, we too will have to say goodbye. 

I have but one question

For the Lorax, who challenged the oppression:

How can one offer the suggestion

To those who have yet to learn their lesson

To change, at their own discretion?

The future is in our possession;

it is up to us to save it for the next generation.