My last clear memory was stumbling away from the crowd, looking for a place to sleep. I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t. The night exists for me in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. The first time I was raped I was 16 years old.
