I was raped. About a year ago, a few weeks after my highschool graduation, two of my former class mates raped me. I had no car, no way to get to the police station, and it was only by the grace of God that my friend (who happens to be a nurse) was able to get me to the hospital the next day (and the day after that).

I was never able to follow up with the station because I couldn't tell my parents what had happened. I was too afraid. It was a secret I had to hold to myself. Plus, with college coming just around the corner, I couldn't jeopardize my life falling apart at that point.

So, I stayed quiet. I would cry myself to sleep at some points, sobbing until I was nearly heaving over the guilt and pain and anger and injustice. I had nightmares. I had flashbacks. Hell, I STILL have flashbacks. Seeing photos of the boys, seeing boys that look like them.... Walking to class with men behind me usually sent me into a panic attack. I'd HAVE panic attacks. I cut off all my hair, I started wearing baggy clothes, I went through a gender identity crisis.

I started working with my local Victim's Resource Center about two months ago. I met my amazing counselor who heard every gut-wrenching pain I had about the situation. I panicked one morning, thinking the time to submit my rape kit for testing was up, and I cried on the phone in a locked bathroom to eight different police departments until I found the right one who had my case.

Still, it wasn't until today that I reopened my case. It wasn't until today that I was able to reach out to them and tell them that, yes, I want and need to press charges against my rapists.

Today, I took the first step.