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.