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. 

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