Three years later, I can name what happened to me. I was sexually assaulted on St. Patrick’s Day of 2015. I’d limped to the closest safe place – the men’s bathroom – in the hours after. I have lived through three anniversaries, trying to figure out whether to celebrate or mourn or ignore the date altogether. Graduation brings that same sense of uncertainty: I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. When I walk across the stage to get my diploma, I’m walking away from my dream school — a place where my friends live seconds away and my writing professors bring Girl Scout cookies to class. The routine is comforting, familiar: I know, down to the minute, how long it will take me to walk to the bar or gym or store. But I’m also leaving the place where I was raped. Living on this picture–perfect campus — where street lights bathe the leaves and the buildings look like gingerbread houses and a giant statue that says LOVE sits in the center of the green — has been a constant reminder of my trauma.