Imagine a country that is not only holy to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, but is also in the middle of a war zone.

Israel is at the crossroads of religion, culture, customs, war, and tradition. When I arrived in Israel in December 2014, it was only months after the country’s most recent conflict in the summer before, instilling a stirring of anxiety within me.

However, from the minute that I stepped off the plane, a new sensation took over.

The fear for my safety suddenly melted into a less rational and more pleasant fear that my 10-day trip wouldn’t be enough for me to see and experience everything that I had been excitedly waiting for. On my trip, I found a desire to explore not only more of my Jewish culture and heritage, but also a love of travel and experiences outside of my comfort zone.

We spent 10 days traveling up and down this country that is smaller than New Jersey, coming in close contact at times with countries such as Syria and Jordan, whose borders were only miles away. Hours were spent in outdoor markets, eating our way through cities, walking the same paths that prophets and world leaders had taken before, and seeing Israel through different eyes.

From 5am hikes up huge mountains that once stood as forts, to swimming in the lowest place on Earth, the Dead Sea, Israel offered a variety of different experiences all wrapped up in one country. More than anything though, going to Israel taught me to be proud of my heritage.

Going from a community with a large Jewish population to a large university of 35,000 incredibly diverse people, it’s easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of college life and lose sight of how important you really are.

For me, I was able to understand the concept of “world citizen” in this trip because going to Israel and seeing the culture that I love so much in person really changed my perspective on how I choose to live my life.

We had seven Israeli soldiers join our trip halfway through. Service in the army is mandatory for 18 year olds with men serving three years and women serving two at least. That was a turning point for me in the trip because it really showed me the distinctions of the ways that 18 year olds in Israel lived vs. my life as an 18 year old in the state.

They were fighting for their country’s safety while I was at university getting a degree.

The stark contrasts in our lives didn’t take away from how similar we realized we all were. They listened to the same music, watched the same shows, and wanted the same things for their future as I did. I had never thought about these soldiers as more than just people who were thousands of miles away, fighting for a country that I loved.

Even months later we were able to reconnect with some of these people when they came and visited Athens. This time, we were able to show them our side of being college students. Keeping those connections really brought this trip full circle. Those 10 days brought me much closer with my religion, my community, and who I want to become.

Deep down, I truly believe it’s the cross cultural exchanges that have the most amazing impact on changing a person no matter where they go.

Maital is also part of a phenomenal organization all AIESEC. In conjunction with our partnership with their organization, please see their blog here:

I started playing tennis between 6 ½ and 7 years old. Most of my tennis friends started playing tennis through a family member, but I was introduced to tennis in a fairly unique way. I remember being introduced to tennis like it was yesterday.

I was sitting on the bleachers located inside the basketball gym at the Samuel L Jackson Boys & Girls Club after school one day when a counselor entered the gym and announced “We are starting a tennis program once a week on Fridays, who wants to sign up?” I wrestled back and fourth with the idea of signing up or not.

From that moment onward, myself and a group of other kids started playing tennis with a guy I knew as Coach Dave every Friday. Coach Dave approached my mom one day after tennis practice and told her that I had talent and strongly advised me to join a tennis program and play more consistently. Shortly thereafter, my mom signed me up to play tennis on a regular basis after school at Washington Park Tennis Center.

I steadily improved from the consistent practice and eventually joined the USTA Team Tennis League and played for Washington Park. I progressed from team tennis to playing state level tournaments starting at 8 years old.

Once I reached a high ranking in the state, I progressed to playing southern level tournaments; once I reached a high ranking in the southern section, I progressed to playing national level tournaments where I reached a top 10 national ranking in the 14s, 16s, and 18s age groups.

I played tennis for the University of Georgia, from which I recently graduated, and I have created a full time professional schedule for myself to play in the near future as I try to reach my goal of becoming a successful professional tennis player.

This was my tennis journey in a nutshell. I will take you through the process of my tennis life in more detail and uncover some of the struggles my family and I had to overcome, and the people that have positively impacted my life along the way.

I grew up in a single mother home, and my mom raised my twin sister and me in the city of Atlanta. I was pulled out of school when I was 9 years old to play competitive tennis.

I’m aware that 9 years old is a little young to seriously commit to anything, but my mom knew that I loved tennis and decided to pull me out of school, so I could do more of what I loved.

From 9 years old onward, my mom sacrificed everything for me to play.

She didn’t know anything about tennis or where my career would lead; she just wanted me to keep doing whatever made me happy. My competitive tennis started when I signed up to play team tennis for Washington Park; I eventually progressed from playing team tennis to state level tournaments.

Once I worked my way up through the rankings at the state level, I played southern section tournaments. I struggled at the beginning each time my mom and I decided to play higher level tournaments, but I was able to overcome the challenges I have faced this far due to the major sacrifices my mom made for me to play tennis and the generous help of friends and coaches.  

I can 100 percent write that I would not be where I am today if it weren’t for the help of my mom and others.

There were many parents in my neighborhood that put their own needs in front their children’s needs. There are many parents in general that are afraid to sacrifice their lives for their children to play a game with hopes of one day becoming a successful professional; my mom was not one of those parents. She used all of the money we had, which wasn’t much, for me to play competitive tennis.

I don’t know how my mom had the courage to make the decision to give up pretty much everything for my career and have the faith that things would work out the way it did.

My mom was really good at stretching money and making it last. When we traveled to tournaments, we did not exactly stay in the nicest hotels; we sometimes slept in the car. Whenever we did not have enough money to go to important tournaments that I needed to play, my friend’s parents paid for my entry fee into the tournaments and let me travel with them.

The first half of my junior career was a struggle financially, but I was able to overcome my odds with the help of my Mom, Henry Hammond, Jimmy Vaughn, The Jang-Milsten Family, The Oh Family, Stephen Diaz, Bill Ozaki, and Brian Devillers.  

Henry Hammond acted as a father figure throughout my life so far. I was lucky enough for him to step into my life at random, coach me for free, give me financial support, and be a positive influence on my life. His high level of emotional investment in me as a person and as a player is a huge reason for all of the success I have had thus far.

Jimmy Vaughn was my first consistent childhood coach and is mostly responsible for building my foundation as a tennis player.

He felt like a family to me because of the close relationship we developed through countless hours spent together on the court. Both the Jang-Milsten and Oh family allowed me to go to several tournaments I would not have been able to attend because of financial problems.

They either paid my entry fee or let me stay with them and their children at tournaments for free. Henry Jang-Milsten and Eugene Oh were my best childhood friends growing up and, we are still very close despite not seeing each other often anymore. Stephen Diaz and Brian Devillers were both extremely important in developing my game in my early teenage years.

They both recognized that my family and I didn’t have a lot of money but still allowed me to train with them at their academy for little to no cost. Lastly, Bill Osaki helped run the tennis accociation office in Georgia and always tried to financially help me anyway he could. All of these people invested way more than they were required simply because they cared about me as a person and believed in me as a tennis player.

All of the help I received helped me get through the first half of my junior career; in the second half of my junior career, the United States Tennis Association (USTA) helped me.

The USTA tennis academy is located Boca Raton, Florida. They selected a handful of kids each year to live in a dorm, take online classes, and receive coaching from some of the best coaches in the world for free. Their goal was to house young, talented players with hopes of helping them grow into successful professional tennis players some day.

Due to the hardwork from everyone that helped develop me in the first half of my junior career, I was able to win one of the biggest national tournaments of the year in the 14 and under age group which put me on USTA’s radar.

USTA selected me to live and train in Boca Raton in 2015.

This was a miracle for me and my family because the USTA pays for everything: the school, living, coaching, and tournaments; our biggest hurdle which was money was no longer an issue. Rodney Harmon was the head of the United States Men’s Tennis Association at the time, and he personally scouted my game and granted me the opportunity to live at USTA. The opportunity Rodney gave me was life changing, and I really appreciate him for that.

Jay Berger eventually took over during my stay at the USTA, and I appreciate him for keeping me at USTA and believing in me as a player. Hugo Armondo, Mike Sell, and David DiLucia worked with me during my time at the academy. All of these coaches immensely improved my game on the court and were extremely positive inlfuences in my life.

These 3 coaches definitley helped shape my personality and how I perceive the world today. Hugo helped me get better on the court simply because we have the exact same gamestyle.

Hugo taught me numerous patterns to use that would help me get more looks at forehands. David is very structured, does everything with a purpose, and always seems to laugh, smile, and be happy all of the time. I’m not quite as good as David in these areas, but these areas of his personality definatley rubbed off on me.

Mike Sell was kind of like my family member away from home. He believed in me as much if not more than anyone else; he put tons of extra time and effort into me, and he was always tough on me if I was not doing the right thing. He always seemed to have an eye on me to make sure I was getting the most out of myself every single moment of the day.

On top of his emotional investment in me, he is a really good coach. Mike is one of the handful of people that I’ll always be very close with.

After the USTA, I attended the University of Georgia where I spent 4 great years. I finished as high as 15 in the country and was a one time All-American. I learned countless life lessons and ultimately learned how to be a more responsible adult. Manny Diaz and Will Glenn are great coaches and people.

The University of Georgia is such a special place because it has a family feel to it. It is the Georgia Tennis Family experience that has made me love UGA. Manny, Will, and the UGA Staff always cared about me as a person first and as a player second.

Regardless of my successes or failures in tennis or school; regardless of personal issues outside of tennis and school; regardless of me making bad decsions that everyone knew that I would later on regret, the UGA tennis family was always there for me.

I appreciate all UGA has done for me, I appreciate all USTA has done for me, and I appreciate everyone that has helped me before UGA and USTA days because I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for them.

Lastly and most importantly, I have to give my mom my biggest thanks for giving up everything for me to play tennis and giving me one of the most fun childhoods a kid could ask for.

We didn’t have a lot of money, but I got to do as a child what most people would love to do every moment of the day: I got to do what I loved. To top it off, I got to spend an enormous amount of time with the people I love most in my mom and sister.

My sister and I were homeschooled by my mom since 9 years old, so we probably spent more time together than another family would with their kids. I’m now moving onto the next chapter of my life and pursuing my dream of becoming a top 50 ranked professional tennis player and couldn’t be happier and more excited to take on the challenge.

I am extremely grateful to have a fair opportunity at chasing my dream, and I have everyone who has helped me along this journey to thank because I wouldn’t not be here if it weren’t for them.

A twenty-something man sits on the ground next to a bus stop reading a worn, paperback book. His skin is pale and his hair a light shade of brown, stopping just below his shoulders. It’s a cold day in Chicago. He wears a thick, over-sized, tan coat, a winter hat, and gloves with holes at the end of each finger. He is baby-faced, attractive and homeless.

His name is Patrick. I met him on a recent business trip.

I nearly walked by him. Five minutes earlier I had given my restaurant leftovers, a bottle of water, a banana, and $2 cash to an older, African-American gentlemen panhandling near my hotel. Ben was his name and he had kind eyes.

When I saw another person with a cardboard sign, I didn’t know what I could offer. I stopped anyway and offered him a banana and $2 cash. His eyes lit up and he devoured the banana like he hadn’t eaten in days.

I introduced myself and then asked him if he had a place to stay for the night.

He told me he’s been staying in an abandoned building with four other people, which he said made it safer than staying somewhere alone. He communicated well and looked directly in my eyes as he spoke. He seemed so…normal.

I hate that word, but Patrick is not who I picture when I think of the homeless in America. He is too articulate. Too good-looking. Too young. He told me he has been homeless on and off for the last six years. He didn’t have identification, but he knows a place that will help him get some. I asked him if he had a plan.

“Yes, I’m going to shovel snow to earn some cash, but we haven’t had a good snowfall yet.”

I found out he just got out of prison only a couple of months ago. His family is from California, but he hasn’t seen them in a while. Then he asked me questions I haven’t stopped thinking about.

“Why are you helping me? Why did you stop? Do you have a friend or family member who is on the street?”

He asked it politely, innocently. It caught me off guard. I thought about it for a few seconds, but struggled to articulate an answer.

The first thought in my mind was “Why wouldn’t I help you? You are a person, just like me. Just as valuable.”

Then I admitted to myself that there are plenty of times I don’t stop. I thought back on the last few months of my life. I thought again about Nish Weiseth’s book Speak and how it challenged all the excuses I made for not stopping.

Finally, I answered him honestly. “I don’t know. There’s a lot of reasons I guess. Because it’s easy. It’s easy to help someone. It’s easy to say hello. I can’t do a lot, but I can do something.”

“I like that,” he said with a smile.

But I wasn’t quite satisfied with my answer. I knew I should have mentioned God. My faith is the best thing in my life, but was I helping him because of it? Maybe, but it wasn’t the main reason.

The main reason I helped him, why I help anyone, is because it could have been me. I could have lived a life that took a path that led me to that moment, shivering on a sidewalk in Chicago with a cardboard sign.

I helped him because I have empathy. In fact, I often imagine myself living the lives of others. I imagine what it would feel like to go through what they go through and then I want desperately to take away any pain they may feel. Because I am them and they are me.

Maybe that’s why I write. To let those emotions out. To give them a place to breathe. To share Patrick’s story with others. Because he is worthy of it.

I did end up mentioning God before I walked back to my warm hotel for the night. I told him that I’m a Christian and that I know God loves me and that God loves him too.

He told me he went to church once a long time ago and he liked how it felt. I said “I do too.”

I wanted to say more about Jesus, but I also wanted him to know that I was talking to him because he was important, not because I had an agenda.

Then he asked me if I was a hugger and I said “yes.”

He asked if he could give me a hug and I said “yes.” Not to brag, but I’m a good hugger.

It would be a shame not to share that gift with the world. Actually, the truth is, I love hugs. They are timeless and universal and transcend everything that might divide us. They are the easiest way to love your neighbor.

If you want to learn more about me, check out my platform: http://cynthiaaenglish.com/

I am an avid gamer, I love video games, and for a while video games were the only thing I had going for me. Skyrim, Dark Souls, Civilization, all of these games can be set to varying degrees of difficulty. Most games start you out on a “standard” mode. If my life were a video game, I would have been started on Hard Mode.

In April 2013, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. In February 2015, my diagnoses was changed to Bipolar Disorder. No matter the label, I have been living with my mental illness since I was at least twelve years old.

I don’t entirely remember when it started, I just remember family and friends telling me to “stop being so negative all the time.”

My story really begins at the end of sixth grade. My parents and I decided that it was okay for me to skip seventh grade and go straight into 8th grade so I could go to a prestigious private high school in my hometown. It seemed like a good idea at the time. At this private school, 8th grade is part of high school, so here I was, a twelve year old going into high school. I was pretty excited for this new chapter in life.

Turns out being the youngest, most naïve, and physically weak member of your class isn’t good for your social life. I was awkward as I was just hitting my growth spurt. I was socially awkward because I was always socially awkward. Needless to say I wasn’t in the popular crowd. In fact I wasn’t in a crowd at all. I was alone.

Loneliness sucks, especially when people go out of their way to make your life absolute hell. Every chance they got, insults were hurled at me. Never fists, only insults. I scurried around the school, frightened of the next verbal assault. It got so bad that I refused to change for gym in the boy’s locker room, as I couldn’t stand being in a tightly packed room with my bullies able to hurl their insults at will.

I eventually got fed up and reported my bullies to the school. It worked, the insults stopped, however I was shunned by the majority of my class for getting the ringleader of the bullies suspended.

I was just as alone as ever.

Fast forward to senior year of high school. I now had friends, I had a few girlfriends in the intervening years, life was supposed to be going well, but it wasn’t. I was always negative, always “in a funk” I was always the one that killed the happy mood.

My negativity made it hard to keep friends around, though thankfully a few stuck with me. After senior year I went to college at Auburn University. It was not my first choice school, but it was the only one I received a scholarship for. It was the Army ROTC scholarship. I hoped Auburn would see me turn over a new leaf, that in the promised land of college, I would finally hit my stride and flourish socially and academically. That new leaf didn’t turn.

Early in the semester my new roommate and I had a physical altercation. The fight centered around him waking me by urinating on me while he was drunk. I may or may not have hit him… I was considered at fault by the University, so they gave me my own room. I would have no roommates. I was alone.

From then on I lead a miserable existence. The depressive part of bipolar disorder consumed me. I felt that my very soul was being tortured by this depression. I quit ROTC because I couldn’t handle it mentally and as a result, I lost my scholarship.

I had no friends within a hundred miles, and my pervasive horribly negative and fatalistic mood was pushing away the ones that were already far away. I hated life, I could barely drag myself out of bed, my grades plummeted, and I thought my family believed I was a failure. They didn’t, but nothing would get through my depression. At this time I didn’t know anything was wrong with me. I just thought that this was part of life. It isn’t.

Reader, if you identify with anything I have said please tell someone, I didn’t and I almost died for it.

One Friday in the April of 2013, I decided to end my life. It wasn’t the first time I had this thought, it had been a daily thought since September 2012. I was finally ready. I went home to Birmingham that weekend, my parents and little sister had left the house that night. I was alone.

I got my handgun, which was my 18th birthday present a few months earlier, I loaded it, and placed it against my head. I put my favorite song on full volume. I gave myself the run time of the song to pull the trigger. In hindsight it seems dramatic, but it seemed appropriate at the time. If you’re interested the song is “Explorers” by Muse. Well the song finished, and I couldn’t pull the trigger. The next day I started my road to recovery.

When I told my parents what I had tried seriously to do, they quickly got me psychological help. I was put on medication to control depression. It worked slightly, but was not fully effective as I am Bipolar and not depressed, but I wouldn’t know that for a year or so. Yet, I was slowly getting better.

In the fall of 2013, I rushed Alpha Phi Omega-National Service Fraternity and gained some of my closest friends. In October of 2014, I published my first book, “Hell Has No Stars” which is about my struggle with depression.

I wanted to use my story to help others, and thankfully I found an outlet for that.

My psychologist knew of my desire to help people and set me up to give a speech on my story to Active Minds at Auburn University. Active Minds is a college group dedicated to spreading mental health awareness and ending the stigma around mental health. I was drawn to the group and became a member.

Now, almost two years to the day that I tried to kill myself, I am so glad I did not. They changed my diagnoses to Bipolar Disorder after I had a documented manic episode earlier this year, but I did not let that deter me. Now I am Vice President of my chapter of Alpha Phi Omega. Active Minds just elected me to be the Vice President of the chapter for next year. I will graduate college on time with a degree in History. I have friends. Life has improved so much since my darker days.

I can say now that I love life. I am not alone. I may still be playing life on hard mode, but the game has gotten a little easier.

I hate politics. Well actually, I despise politics. If you know me personally, you know that. But I just have to ask that you keep a few things in mind when you brag to me how you are a part of the “Drumpf Train.”

First of all, it’s not Drumpf that I hate so much, it’s his ideology: racism, sexism, homophobia, discrimination, etc.. I’m not able to comprehend that so many people I know are willingly supportive of such a hateful human being. It’s also not a Democrat/Republican issue. Quite frankly, I don’t belong to either of those two parties. Let me break it down why I am personally, as Kirsten, offended by the ideologies of Donald Drumpf.

First and foremost, I was blessed enough to be raised as a part of a biracial family. This taught me strong family values, respect, and the importance of fighting for equality. When you say “Drumpf,” I hear “racial injustice.” I don’t like that. If you know me and seem to care about me, why would you brag about the cruel things this candidate has to say about my family? You know my family is black, yet you’re so willing to openly cheer to me how you support a racist. That’s quite rude and inconsiderate.

“Drumpf,” you say. “Social injustice,” I hear.

I’ve also been blessed enough to have an array of gay/bi/lesbian friends and family in my life. I don’t like that either. Love is love. I’m religious, but people need a dose of reality. It’s not all Adam and Eve; you have to respect that not everyone believes in that (you do support the 1st amendment, don’t you?) How do you preach about the greatness of American freedom, yet attempt to infringe upon those rights when granted to people that are just wanting to live their lives in peace and happiness? They’re not bothering you, and you’re being quite mean.

I’m a feminist. Drumpf just isn’t. It would be totally bizarre and completely unnecessary for me to repeat how he refers to women. You know what he said. Hmm… Not really a fan of that either. I recall when you were worried about the transgender community sexually assaulting your children when being given their free right to go into their restroom of choice, yet now you’re supporting someone who actually has a record of sexual assault. Wait, you’re not worried about this candidate’s record of sexual assault? I’ll just sip my tea and mind my own business.

I’m currently majoring in Physics and Astronomy at the University of Georgia. You exclaim to me, “Oh my god, Kirsten! That’s so cool,” yet your vote for Drumpf tells me that you’re okay with his plans to cut NASA’s funding, and there’s also the possibility that you believe climate change is a hoax, or not a pressing issue. Tell me how cool you find my astrophysics studies when I can’t find a job in four years because one of the possible major employers of my desired profession isn’t able to pay me. Tell me how cool it is then.

In conclusion, I’m baffled by the people in my life that appear to support and claim they love me, yet personally go out of their way to strike down my friends and family. The voting is over, I’m not attempting to sway anyone. It just saddens me to know that my country willingly opts to have a leader who strongly supports such hateful ideals.  Next time you think about screaming “Drumpf” in my face as I peacefully exercise my right of the first amendment, please consider what you’re ACTUALLY supporting before you advocate for it. I really don’t think people think these things through.

On a side note, I reach out to all of those who share my sadness, and I encourage you to reach out to me if you wish. We may have lost the battle, but we have not lost the war. LOVE DRUMPFS HATE, and in the end, love will always prevail.

“We don’t value craftsmanship anymore! All we value is ruthless efficiency, and I say we deny our own humanity that way. Without appreciation for grace and beauty, there’s no pleasure in creating things and no pleasure in having them. Our lives are made drearier, rather than richer!’’ – Bill Watterson

Today is the era of immediate satisfaction and faster mindsets, people often forget that fine craftsmanship demands time and that the end result is worth the wait. Of course we could work all day long and assemble a vast production lineup or portfolios but all odd and absurd. That would be gross. This gives our senses a very limited space to experiment with the products we are making. Less we can play with the art, least is the end result. But this too is the reality that today everything is machine-oriented. Sad but true!

Pakistan today has the 2nd largest reserves of leather but unfortunately fails to bring up its own leather brand. A young man, Taimoor Saleem, was very much moved by the idea of bringing up the leather products (Jackets, shoes, bags) in front of the world and show it the magic of Pakistan’s 100 years old craftsmanship. Also through this the rural employment was going to have a platform to showcase their skills and have a stable future.

He planned to initiate an online platform named MCCVANI, through which sales would be done, eleminating all the factors which could cost the consumer double of every price, i.e Middle-man and store front; and 5% of each purchase would be donated to the artisans working for Mccvani.

However today, there are more than hundreds of craftsmen who long daily for someone to hire them, who long daily to show the world what real talent means, who long daily to speak through luxurious elite stores.

The worst of it is when you do not give the due praise to a person needing the most. Who if hired, do not get their due pay or they have to go through harsh realities of life.

People who face odd timings, bear scorching heat of summers and immense cold of winters when carry the tool in their hands full of dust, create magic. Yes! Everything we see in re-known outlets is made with those wrecked hands who tell the story of absolute hard work, sweat, time and passion.

So basically MCCVANI is an unconditional online-fashion brand where fashion rules are not being blindly followed but the artisan are given large space to come up with the best crafting Pakistan has to offer.

The world needs more innovative heads who can create real opportunities for artisans who know how to blow life in in the dummies standing outside an elite stores. Who knows how to fetch attention of a person moving by the roadside. These wrecked handed people need appreciation mare than any body as a whole.

MCCVANI is ready to take its flight on kickstarter in next few weeks. Pledge and help this very social cause to grow and celebrate leather luxury through rural artistry.

I have tried to recreate events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain the anonymity of the people involved in what you are about to read, I have changed their names.

My name is Audrey, and I thought this type of thing only happens to others. Yet I woke up one day and found that I had become the main character in a horror story I’d only heard about in movies or newspapers. Suddenly, I was what all parents dread for their children… but, I didn’t fit the part.

In fact, I’m what most people would call a good girl — high school valedictorian, straight A college student, ballet dancer, and in many ways an over-achiever. But no one ever told me about the Dan Laws (referred to as D.L. from this point forward) I could encounter in my life. Those attractive and brilliant Ivy league jocks I’d dreamed of introducing to my mother.

Screw Your Sister

In September of 2007, I started school at a prestigious university in New York City. 2 months later, I join a KAT, a sorority on campus.

I’m not really what you’d call a sorority girl. I’m not blonde and I don’t curl my hair. I don’t get manicures. I don’t go shopping with my girlfriends or spend countless hours covering my face with makeup. And I’m really not into body built beer drinking frat boys or fat necked football players. Though I never fully get involved in the sorority microcosm, being a KAT sister has led me to socialize with people I would never have met otherwise. That’s how I first encountered D.L.

When I first laid my eyes on him I was already tipsy. I was at the annual KAT Halloween Party — otherwise known as Screw Your Sister or SYS. On Screw Your Sister night everyone wears a costume and all the girls are randomly paired up with a surprise date (usually a frat boy). The trio — the sorority girl, the boy, and the fake ID — then join the group of other drunk students for a night of bar hopping.

So on SYS night, I shuffled through my closet and found an old hippy costume that was eligible for a little recycling. With a little makeup and some peace and love accessories — also recycled — this outfit would do. Bright colors intertwined into fun patterns. Sexy but not slutty. I slipped it on, painted my face with obnoxiously colorful makeup, checked myself out in the mirror, asked my roommates how I looked, and off I went, ready to have a good night.

Little did I know, I wouldn’t wake up in my own bed the next morning.

“He’s not here yet,” Rachel, one of my closest sorority sisters, tells me as I walk into the KAT house. Great. I’m dateless. I decide to tag along with Rachel and her date until mine shows up. Apparently, my mystery man had a late exam and wasn’t going to be out for a while.

At our first bar stop, I get a Long Island Ice Tea. Long Island Ice Teas are boozy — very boozy. I decide that one drink will suffice for the night. But at the next few bars we go to, my sisters convince me to have just one more drink. And another. Until I’m positively happy and definitely tipsy.

At our last bar stop, D.L. shows up. My late date. He’s cute, seems friendly, and, most importantly, he’s clearly not scared of girls. At our university, such boys are a rare find.

The Tampon Incident

Oh my god. Where am I? Whose bed is this?

My head is pounding. My stomach is twisting into knots. My shoulders are nude. I peak under the pale blue blanket that is weighing over my body. I’m wearing absolutely no clothes. Oh my god. There is a window on my right and a body on my left. Who’s body? His back is turned. No shirt. No boxers. Just like Adam without the leaf.

Should I wake him? I don’t even know his name. Should I leave? No. Logistically I can’t. To get out of bed, I have to crawl over him. Sneaking out is not a viable option. Plus, if I just bounce, I’ll clearly end up feeling like shit. Maybe he’s nice. What if he asks me to leave? I’m so embarrassed.

I tap him on the back. Actually it’s more of a slap than a tap. He flips around, puffy face and crusty eyes. “Hey. Uh I’ve never done this before. Who are you?” I ask apologetically. He laughs, “Are you serious?” I don’t have to answer; by the look on my face he can tell I’m definitely not joking.

We reintroduce ourselves and, according to him, I ask him the same questions I’d asked the night before.

How would I know? As far as I’m concerned, last night never happened. We hang out in his room for a few hours, talking about parents, politics, school, friends, and whatever else comes to mind. A normal “let’s meet” conversation between two strangers connected only by age and education. Except we’re laying in his bed, butt naked. The conversation flows.

I eventually forget about my headache and start to relax. Maybe this isn’t that bad. Maybe this is what college experiences are all about? Waking up, still a little inebriated, in some hot stranger’s room — who turns out to be a pretty decent guy. Had to happen once, right?

His father died last year, unexpectedly. Soon thereafter, he broke up with his girlfriend of three years. Jen. They aren’t allowed around each other because he helped her cheat on an exam. I ask him who “they” are. “University faculty,” he answers. Hum, I didn’t know professors could impede on your personal life like that. This guy must be a big shot.

Yes, a big shot, no doubt. Not only was D.L. a TA at a prestigious university during his senior year of high school, but he’s also a TA in two of his classes at our university. Plus, D.L. is a DJ and plays the guitar in a band.

So this guy is attractive, single, really smart, fun, and has already experienced tragedy in his life.

Have I found Mr. Perfect? Oh, and I forgot to mention that he is from my home town and that he’s filthy rich.

After chatting for a few hours, I finally get up. My headache is back — full blast. I look at myself in the mirror. Before I get a chance to say anything he apologizes for the giant blackish purple hickeys that plaster my neck. They are huge. And ugly. But I don’t even care. At this point, aspirin is all I can think about.

Before I leave his room he asks for my number. I give it to him. I’d be happy to see this guy again.

I rush back to my dorm room, a few blocks up from where he lives. I get to my room, when suddenly my stomach turns. I turn around, and sprint down the hallway to the nearest bathroom just in time to projectile vomit all over the wall of my favorite stall — like the girl from the Exorcist minus the contorted backward bending torso.

I feebly attempt to clean the vomit on the stall walls before clambering back to my room. My roommates are gone so I strip down and fall into bed. Wow, this is without a doubt the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I’ve never been sick in the morning before. And I don’t recall ever having such a painful headache.

I remember suddenly that I’d been wearing a tampon last night before I went out.

There isn’t the usual string between my legs so I assume I must have taken it out at some point during the night. At least I hope I did.

Just to make sure, my fingers go exploring. Nothing. They go a little further. Just in case. The tampon is there, way up there. I wasn’t sure if we’d really had sex or just fooled around. Now, I’m pretty sure we did. No human fingers, for pleasure’s sake, could have reached up that far.

While I try getting it out, my mind is racing. What if I can’t get it out? What if people find out I had sex with a tampon? I didn’t even know that was physically possible. I’m so embarrassed. He must think I’m a total freak. Ewwwwww. I’m disgusted by myself. And totally ashamed. After much struggling, I finally manage to yank it out. Yuck.

I’m mortally ashamed. I assume I had sex not only while I was on my period, but while I was wearing a tampon. What if he tells his buddies? What if girls in my sorority find out? But first things first. My head is about to burst — I need medicine or something, anything, to numb the pain.

I call my friend, Emily, who comes running with a handful of vitamins and Tylenol. I get out of bed to take the pills. Emily has seen my naked body a trillion times, but this time she gasps “Your back! What happened?”

My back is covered with deep scratches, some still bloody.

“Rough sex?” Apparently. I can’t remember.

It’s Not Like We’re Dating or Anything

Now, let’s review for a moment. We have Audrey, that’s me. We have D.L., the picture perfect frat boy that I woke up with. We have Emily, the girl who nursed me when I thought my head might pop open, splattering the white walls of my dorm room with burgundy particles of brain. Now, let me introduce Adam.

Before this story began, I had a friend with benefits — a fuck buddy, named Adam. We’d been sleeping together for four months but were not in a formal relationship. I met Adam when I was still a freshman at my favorite coffee shop. He’d already obtained his English BA from our university and was working at a reputable publishing house.

Adam was ridiculously good looking and even more ridiculously smart. He was a brilliant writer. But, as most genius authors go, Adam was also totally lost. He had black hair, dark eyes, and when he’d let himself relax, he had a child’s laugh. Adam was perfect for me — except that Adam didn’t actually like me.

Sometimes we’d have good conversations but mostly we had great sex. I was too intimidated by him to be myself around him. I wanted to impress him, show him that I was just as smart as he was, but when we were together, all I could successfully do was talk fast, blush, and giggle nervously.

It didn’t help that he was too full of himself to see anything beyond, well, himself. Though our relationship did not make me happy, I still stuck with him because I hoped he’d eventually like me back.

A few days after I met and slept with D.L. at SYS night, Adam invites me over for a home cooked dinner — pasta for supper, sex for desert. While I walk over to his apartment, I look forward to him discovering the scarlet hickeys D.L.’s mouth had imprinted on my neck. I hope he’ll be upset that I spent the night with someone else. I imagine him declaring his love for me and asking me to never be with another boy ever again. We’d kiss, make love, and I’d forget about SYS night’s mishap.

While D.L. seems like a nice guy, I am totally willing to never see him again if that can get me any closer to Adam.

Unfortunately, Adam doesn’t drop to his knees out of jealousy. He does not beg me to be his, only his. Instead, he brings a cigarette to his pursed lips, lights it, slowly draws in the smoke, and blows out that sweet smelling first puff. Then, he asks me how hooking up with someone else was.

I watch the round fuzzy red light consume the tip of his cigarette. I nonchalantly reply it was okay and ask if he minds.

“You can do whatever you want. It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

I stared at the tower of ash on the tip of his cigarette. My heart crumbled, but I kept smiling like that was the answer I’d expected all along. And while we continued sleeping together, I continued to long for his affection, but we never discussed it again.

D.A.N.C.E.

Between Halloween and Christmas break, I run into D.L. once or twice. We seldomly text back and forth. We are on friendly terms, there has been nothing sexual since the night we hooked up. And over the months, I assume he’s forgotten about the tampon incident. Still, I’m so embarrassed.

Sometime in late November, he invites me, along with some buddies, to a Justice concert. I more than willingly agree to go. Who would refuse a Justice concert? And who knows, maybe he’ll sweep me off my feet and help me let go of Adam?

At the concert, the music is blasting, the people are dancing, and I’m having a great time. D.L.’s still as nice as that morning when I woke up in his bed — though he picks fights with anybody that comes near me. I’m a little annoyed by his over protectiveness but the music’s too good to really care.

That night, I realize that D.L. won’t be the one to help me forget Adam. Unfortunately, I’m just not attracted to D.L. and while his body language increasingly indicates he wouldn’t mind hooking up with me, I make it very clear that we’re just friends. He seems okay with that and doesn’t make a move. I’m thrilled — I’ve finally made a guy friend at our university.

Don’t Look Back

Over Christmas break, I go back to my, and D.L.’s, hometown. There, D.L. and I grab some Thai food for lunch. We talk about our families, our friends, our past love lives.

After lunch, I write about him in my journal; I don’t understand why I don’t have a crush on him. After all, D.L. treats me well and seems to genuinely care. The same cannot be said about Adam.

Adam didn’t bother to wish me a happy 20th birthday in November. D.L. did. After my tonsillectomy, Adam didn’t ask how I was recovering. D.L. did. When I’m around D.L., I feel important. When I’m around Adam, I feel like a disposable piece of meat.

As soon as I get back to New York after Christmas break, I ask Adam if things will ever change between us. And by change, I really mean evolve. His silence expresses all he’s never willing to say  to me. I decide not to see him anymore, secretly hoping he’ll beg me to stay. He doesn’t. I walk away and try not to look back. I want to cry but I won’t. Not for him.

SAL

I haven’t told you about my two best friends, Lea and Sophie, yet have I?

The three of us lived together our first semester of sophomore year, in the campus dorms. One room, three beds. During that time, we are together from the break of dawn until bedtime, all day, every day.

That’s when we start calling ourselves SAL — I don’t think I need to explain the abbreviation.

Lea is the beautifully mysterious wolf dancer — she literally dances like a wolf would dance if wolves could dance. She has chin-length dark brown hair and angular bangs. Her eyes are the color of grass and when she cries, they glow and become a hypnotic indiscernible color between light green and turquoise blue. We met on our first day of freshman year during orientation. A common passion for good cheese and fine wine propelled what was to become a deep friendship that I treasure until this day.

Sophie is the voluptuous splendor — she gets a lot more attention from boys than Lea or myself. I’ve known her since sophomore year in high school. Back then, we always respected each other but never spent much time together. Different social circles don’t mix well in pubescent minds. But in college, we quickly became inseparable.

And I’m the small brunette Frenchy — though born and raised in the United States, my mother’s french genes transpire. Some might say I’m cute in a baguette and cigarettes kind of way.

The semester goes by quickly. We enjoy living together but we also have very different schedules. Sophie studies late into the night, Lea is not a morning person, and I’m usually in bed by 9pm during the week. We soon decide that for the sake of our friendship, we really need individual bedrooms. The university housing services take our request seriously.

By January 2008, just in time for second semester to start, Sophie, Alex, and I each get individual rooms on the same floor. That’s also when we start hanging out with D.L. and his buddies frequently. Looking back, I realize that what D.L. took from me sophomore year gave SAL’s friendship natural growth a boost. That boost has been in effect ever since.

An Another Friendship is Born — Or So We Hoped

We — and by “we” I mean SAL— frequently run into D.L. and his friends at the hipster college bar nearby where we spend most weekend nights. Every time we venture to that bar, I not so secretly hope I’ll run into Adam. But I run into D.L. instead. And when he’s around, I don’t think about Adam anymore — or not as much.

D.L. takes my mind off of things. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel comfortable and above all, important. It’s like I never have to pretend. After breaking things off with Adam, I thirsted anything — and anyone — that would help boost my confidence. D.L. did just that. Not to mention that girls gave him a lot of attention. When I am around, he ignores their looks and seems completely consumed by my presence.

I love feeling their jealous glares.

Sophie and Lea like him and his buddies too. We feel like we’ve finally met a group of boys we can call friends. In fact, Sophie starts dating one of them— until he tells her she’ll never have to work a day in her life if she sticks with him. Lea knows another one of D.L.’s best friends from back home. It feels like it’s meant to be.

Some of the people D.L. hangs out with tell me to watch out for him. Apparently, there’s a dark side to him. I don’t see it — or I chose to ignore it. Because after all, we’ve finally found some cool — and by cool I mean not completely socially inept — guy friends. This is how college is supposed to be.

There’s Something Sad About Her

I end up sleeping at D.L.’s place a few times — fully clothed. Since high school, I’ve always had sleepovers with my male friends. This is nothing new. But, when I sleep at D.L.’s I usually wake up with a huge headache and have to ask him what happened the night before.

I’ve been blacking out a lot recently — even when I don’t feel like I’ve had too much alcohol.

My memory loss every time I’m with him becomes a joke between us. I blame it on my recently diagnosed sleep apnea — what else could be causing it?

We hook up once — very PG-13 — but I’m uncomfortable and know for certain that’s not what I want. I figure he understands when he doesn’t make any other moves. So we continue hanging out, kind of flirting but mostly just having a good time.

“She has something really sad about her.” I looked at D.L. in awe. A college boy who sees beyond the smile? If you pay attention, even when Lea blinds us with her glorious full-teethed smile, an intangible hint of sadness always emanates from her. A look that D.L. noticed right away. Most people, especially the college boys I’d met thus far, didn’t take the time to notice those types of details — or they just weren’t sharp enough to pin point what those details could reveal.

I think that’s the type of detail I loved most about Adam. There was always that something I couldn’t quite grasp about him. Mystery. Or sadness? Maybe a mix of the two.

Anyhow, during that time, I longed to also find that one person who would want to see beyond my smile. Though Sophie’s exotic beauty was every college boy’s fantasy, D.L. took more interest in Lea and myself. D.L. saw something in Lea that I didn’t think most people had ever taken the time to notice. I adored him for it.

“I like crazy. Let’s say I meet a pair of identical twins, I’ll go for the one who is the craziest. Not fun crazy. I mean crazy crazy,” he explained.

So not only was this guy perfect in most ways, he also saw beyond what most boys look for in a girl: boobs, butt, and a kissable face.

The silent question still lingered: why oh why didn’t I want to be with him? Why didn’t I kiss him right then and there? Why was I still hoping to run into Adam at every street corner?

Looking back, I think an unconscious part of me knew that underneath D.L.’s perfection lay a dangerous person. I wish I’d listened to that little voice that told me something wasn’t right. I wish I’d also taken his friends’ warnings about him seriously. Every day I wish I’d listened.

Water?

On Monday February 9th, around 12pm, I slowly stroll into the dining hall, my stomach growling. The thought of our usual flat crust pizza for lunch makes me salivate. I haven’t eaten anything since 7pm last night. Lea and Sophie are already sitting at our customary lunch table in the far corner of the dining hall.

“You look exhausted,” Sophie remarks as I put my bag down by the yellow plastic table. I’m not surprised; the dark circles under my eyes make me look like a heroine fiend when I don’t get my usual eight hours of sleep. And last night, I definitely did not.

“Why didn’t you come to class this morning? Professor Mendel gave an awesome lecture on Yates — some of the stuff will probably be on the final. I’ll give you my notes,” adds Lea.

“I didn’t go to bed until 3am last night,” I explain. “And it was impossible for me to get up for class this morning. Literally impossible to get out of bed. My body couldn’t.”

The night before, a few days before Valentine’s day, around ten o’clock, I stopped by D.L.’s place to pick up a sweater I’d forgotten there during the weekend. I’d planned on saying hi, grabbing my sweater, and leaving. It was a Sunday night and I had a 9am class the next morning — a class I loved and one I absolutely never skipped.

But that Sunday night did not go as planned.

Upon my arrival, D.L. gave me some water in a personalized plastic cup, a goodie from his frat. From then on, I’d gradually grown weak until the point where I was literally incapable of getting up from the black chair set in the corner of his room.

We talked for what seemed to be hours. As time went on, my eyes become heavy and my body weak. I felt stoned but hadn’t smoked. I felt drunk but hadn’t consumed any alcohol. I remember feeling more tired than I’d ever felt before — as if my body and mind were being smothered by some heavy fog of fatigue, pushing me ever deeper into my seat.

“I hope I didn’t make a fool out of myself last night,” I tell the girls after explaining how exhausted I’d been the previous night. “I just couldn’t leave. Physically couldn’t. My body weighed tons and my vision was blurry. I’m sure I must have sounded like a dumbass. I couldn’t even talk right — all my words came out as confused mumbles! D.L. must think I was on something.”

I blamed last night’s unusual attitude on a tiring weekend of sorority recruiting. A weekend full of superficial conversations and false smiles.

After lunch, we all go on with our activities like any other day. I never bring up that evening again. Not until months later, when I start to reassemble the pieces.

Bloody Valentine

Friday, February the 13th. The day before Valentine’s day. Friday the thirteenth. If I’d been just a little more superstitious perhaps I wouldn’t have gone to KAT’s Crush Party — the Valentine’s day party my sorority held every year.

That night, Lea and I went to one of my sorority sister’s apartment to pregame: wine and cheese. Now that’s a classy pregame if you ask me. And how appropriate for the day before lovers around the world would exchange Valentine’s chocolate hearts and fresh rosebuds.

During the pregame, we drink a lot. We eat a lot. We laugh a lot. And then we go to Camp’s, the restaurant/bar on Broadway where all the under aged and underdressed freshmen go for a night of debauchery on weekends. That’s where KAT is having our Crush Party.

I am drunk by the time we get there. The bar is already packed with girls in cute red dresses and frat boys with popped collars. It is hard to picture that just a few hours before, this swarming bar seated families with children for a candle lit Italian dinner of gnocchi and minestrone.

We walk in feeling good and beautiful, laughing at whatever we hear, pink lips stretching from ear to ear. Small talk with familiar faces, hugs here and there, more drinks, more fun. A good old night in a typical college bar.

Through the crowd I spot D.L. He is wearing a black and white checkered scarf. I walk towards him with a drink in my hand and pinch his waist. He turns around with a neat smirk.

Until a few months later, that moment will be my last memory from that night.

Good, Because I Didn’t Want To

On the morning of February 14th, I wake up in D.L.’s bed. He’s sleeping next to me, wearing his boxers. I have no recollection of anything that happened after — or even during — our time at Campos the previous night.

As I realize that I’m wearing nothing but a bra, I nudge D.L. in the back. He turns over, horizontally facing me. I look him in the eyes and say, “D.L., we didn’t have sex last night, right?” “No, we didn’t,” he groggily responds. “Good, because I didn’t want to.” My vagina is burning and my neck is, once again, plastered with dark purple hikkies.

As I walk back to my dorm room in a haze, I desperately attempt to remember the events of the previous night. Though February in New York City is freezing, I’m wearing nothing but the little red dress I’d worn the previous night — I had to throw away the tights. When I found them on the floor next to D.L.’s bed this morning, they were in shreds. But I’m not cold. In fact, I can’t feel anything besides a warm gooey liquid in my underwear. It can’t be my period — it’s not that time of month.

When I sit on the toilet to empty my bladder, everything hurts. My inner thighs match my neck — purple black bruises painted onto pale skin. When I wipe, the toilet paper is covered with a mixture of blood and viscous translucent liquid. It burns. More blood in the toilet bowl, more white guck oozes out of my vagina as I painfully get up, and slip my underwear back on.

I take a long scalding shower and spend the rest of the day doing homework, just like any other normal Saturday.

The Dinner

The previous week, D.L. and I had decided we’d hang out and get a bite to eat on the 14th. We were both single and it would be fun. I thought we’d grab a slice of pizza and watch a movie. Nothing special, just two platonic friends hanging out on Valentine’s day while our non-single friends were out on romantic dates.

That night, I meet him a little after 8pm on the corner of my dorm building. I’m late. I’ve been chatting with Lea and dreading the idea of having to leave my dorm room. But the plans are made and I feel compelled to meet him.

When I see his black suit I realize that my jeans and sweatshirt are obviously much more casual than he’d planned on. He hails a taxi and we jump in, apparently in a hurry.

We eat dinner in the back room of a fancy Italian restaurant where every entrée is over 25 dollars. I did not expect this at all.

During the dinner, I feel particularly uncomfortable. D.L. isn’t being his usual self. Something — though I can’t pinpoint what it is — has changed. The whole time he apologizes to me. I don’t understand why.

“I’ve never been that drunk. I don’t even remember last night,” he keeps repeating. But D.L. drinks all the time and according to Lea, who was with us for most of the previous night, he wasn’t more drunk than usual. Which is also why she’d left me with him when, as he carried my semi-unconscious body up the street towards our dorms, he’d said, “I’ll take care of her,” and taken me to his room.

That evening was the first time things were awkward between us. I don’t remember what we ordered; I don’t remember what we talked about. All I remember is wanting to get back to the safety of my dorm room, as quickly as possible.

During the cab ride back to campus, D.L. and I talk about Lea again and why he finds her so intriguing. “You and Lea are intriguing,” he corrects. I ask him why me, to which he raises his eyebrows, smirks, and answers, “that would be long. We’ll talk about it next time.”

The rest of the cab ride goes by in a blur. That’s the last time I see D.L. for many weeks. That night he texts me several times. The next day he apologizes for texting me at all.

Attending that dinner might seem strange to anyone reading this — it still seems strange to me. After all, I’d woken up bloody and bruised that very morning in his bed. But I think I so badly wanted to believe nothing had actually happened that not showing up for our dinner plans would have made things… suspicious. Especially to me.

That day, and the many days and weeks that would follow, the thought of having been violated in any way didn’t even cross my conscious mind.

The Clarity of Dying

On February 16th, a few days after the KAT Crush Party and that bizarre dinner with D.L., while my history Professor lectures us on greek coins, I experience the first of many panic attacks to come.

It is suddenly crystal clear to me: I am going to die.

During that class, as my mind starts to race, as my chest implodes, and as the professor’s voice becomes a distant echo, I take out my journal. Writing tends to calm me. With a quivering hand, I write:

“I just got hit with an intense fear of dying. I feel like I am dying. My body, not my mind. I don’t want to die. From now on I’m going to take care of my body and self. Am I a hypochondriac or am I actually dying? I sound like a crazy depressed person but I’m actually worried.
I’ve been feeling really nauseous recently and getting this feeling of disconnectedness with my body. It’s like I’m dizzy or extremely light-headed and just not right. It worries me. […] Life holds on to a string and I haven’t been taking care of that string. I’m afraid… definitely being hit by a case of the mean reds.”

As soon as class ends, I schedule an appointment with Health Services — can they diagnose me with death? Also, can they help explain why I’m getting these dizzy spells where I feel I’m not in my own body? I share this with my mother. She tells me to see a doctor — its probably due to an inner ear infection. Maybe that’s all it is.

A few weeks later, I’m standing in line at one of the many campus coffee shops when my phone vibrates. It’s Health Services. “We’ll only call you if results come in abnormal,” the campus gynecologist had explained after my pap smear a few days prior. “No news is good news.”

Apparently, there is news. I’ve got an STD. Nothing serious, but an STD nonetheless.

I don’t understand. I haven’t had sex since Adam… and Adam and I always used protection.

Suddenly, I’m angry. Angry at D.L. But I can’t explain why. After all, according to me, to us, we haven’t had any sexual encounters since October of last year — the tampon incident. And I’d been tested since, with negative results.

Just a Spoonful

One evening in March, Sophie and I walk to the grocery store to buy a late night snack. We run into D.L. and his Beta friends on our way. For reasons I couldn’t explain at the time, I’d avoided him entirely since Valentine’s day. As we stand there face to face on the windy sidewalk, I am unable to look him in the eye. I stand there, frozen, unable to speak or look away from the tips of my shoes. I hardly say hi. My heart is racing.

As an outgoing person who stops at nothing — including incessant blabbering about absolutely nothing at all to sharing personal and usually embarrassing information about myself — to avoid uncomfortable situations, this attitude is completely out of character for me.

Sophie tries to cover up the apparent awkwardness with small talk. After the boys finally walk away, I am mortified by my own attitude. I apologize to Sophie and text D.L. a simple “um awkward?” to which he later responds “Just a spoonful.”

The Mean Reds

Micky has blue eyes and blond hair. I’ve been babysitting him since beginning of sophomore year. While Micky naps I enjoy the apartment’s quiet to get through homework.

But recently, I regularly break down and cry. I can’t explain why.

I just want to go home, to the haven of undeniable love my parents have always given me. I don’t feel safe anymore. I am sad and afraid.

In Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the main character Holly Golightly explains that feeling just right: “The blues are when you’re getting fat and old. You’re sad that’s all. The mean reds are awful. Suddenly, you’re afraid and you don’t know why.” I cry. And when I realize that I don’t know why I’m feeling so angry and so profoundly terrified, I cry even more. The mean reds. I write it all down in my journal.

On one of those occasions, while I fill my paper companion with black inky words, another panic attack strikes. They’ve recently increased in both frequency and intensity.

My heart races, thudding against my chest. I can’t catch my breath. My lungs want more air than I can possibly inhale. My vision goes blurry. My body goes tense. Thousands of thoughts are racing in my head:

“I haven’t blacked out in over a month. I haven’t seen D.L. since, well, over a month. Actually the last time I blacked out was on February 13th, the KAT Crush Party. Come to think of it, while I was seeing D.L. practically every weekend, I blacked out all the time. But I wasn’t drinking more than I am now,” I write.
“Wait, every time I was with D.L. I blacked out. Including that one evening at the hipster college bar when I’d only had two glasses of white wine and water for the rest of the night. I woke up, fully clothed, at his place the next morning, but couldn’t remember the previous evening.”

My mind goes wild as I recall that particular night and Sophie’s words the next day: “He was holding onto you the entire night because you couldn’t stand up on your own. I thought you were going to hook up.”

I tell her I’m pretty sure we didn’t even kiss. It was all so hazy. But as she continued to describe that particular evening, memories came back. D.L. holding on to me. Me holding on to the bar, drinking the glasses of water he kept ordering for me when I said I didn’t want more wine.

I press my pen down hard onto the pages of my journal and print:

“Could he have been roofying me that whole time?”

Though my heart continues to race, my rational mind tells me I’m being crazy. No way. That doesn’t happen to real people — to me. And D.L. would never do that… would he?

“Cheeewwwssss!” Micky’s call for apple juice takes me out of my panicky wide-eyed state. I wipe my tears and make sure I look happy. Bringing him a full baby bottle of apple juice, I scoop him out of his bed and kiss him on the forehead. My heart is still pounding and my breathing hasn’t completely returned to its normal rhythm but I smile just the same.

“Let’s take a walk,” I put Micky down and grab his tiny tennis shoes. I talk to him about whatever I can think of — the books we will read, the places we will walk to, the Starbucks cookie I will get him for his snack. The usual.

As I lean down to put his left shoe on, he reaches out his cherubic chubby hand and gently strokes my head.

I’ll never know if this small two-year old boy who couldn’t yet correctly pronounce the word “juice” somehow sensed that his twenty year old babysitter was crumbling or if he just thought my hair looked particularly soft that day.

All I do know is that the touch of his tiny hand on the top of my head that afternoon made a world’s difference. I’ll be ok. It’ll all be ok, I mused.

The Ovary Infection — Or Lack Thereof

Weeks after the KAT Crush Party, I elect to confront D.L. about this angst — which has intensified since the STD diagnosis — that’s been growing in me ever since Valentine’s Day. I do not comprehend this anger and I don’t actually associate D.L. himself with it. But somehow I feel like talking to him about why I’ve been avoiding him since February 14th might relieve at least a fraction of these uncontrollable feelings.

Though I’ve been dodging all events in which I could possibly run into him, Lea and I decide to attend a frat party where he’ll undoubtedly be at so that I can talk to him:

“Those hickies after the KAT Valentine’s Party… I think you hooked up with me? I wish you hadn’t. I mean, I was black out drunk. And you knew it. Plus, we’re friends. Friends don’t hook up. You shouldn’t have.”

“We didn’t hook up.”

“Then why was I only wearing a bra when I woke up? And where did those hickeys come from?”

“I don’t know. I carried you back to my place. You took off your clothes and went to sleep.”

“D.L., I had blood between my legs the next day — it wasn’t my period. And believe me, I felt it. Something happened.”

“You probably have an ovary infection.”

The conversation does not go as planned. As I try to get answers regarding the dreadful morning of February 14th, D.L. diagnoses me with some sort of ovary infection.

To this, I am left speechless.

I slowly get up from where we are sitting and without another word, I walk away. Lea and I leave the frat party and join our friends at the hipster bar. I feel like I’m in a bad dream — as though this encounter, his denial, is all part of something I’ll wake up from. Pinch me, please pinch me.

Later that night, D.L. strolls into the bar. Alone. I ignore him. He spends the rest of the evening sitting at a nearby booth chatting with Lea.

After D.L. finally leaves the bar, Lea walks over to me and discretely asks me why I nonchalantly accused D.L. of rape that evening. Rape. Something in me broke when that word left Lea’s lips. Or something that was already broken, precipitously crumbled.

“What the fuck Lea!? I never said that,” I shriek as the tears start poring down my cheeks. “How dare you insinuate that I’ve accused someone of something so fucking serious?” I storm off, sobbing and livid. Lea follows me back to our dorms.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, my cheeks streaked with rivers of black mascara. My eyes puffy and red. I’m brushing my teeth, watching the frothy white toothpaste run out of my mouth as I gasp for air between two sobs.

“He’s such a fucking liar, Lea. I never implied that, I swear,” I plead. “Rape!? Why would he even go there?” To this, Lea simply replies “When he got to 1020 tonight, he came to me and said, half snickering, ‘So what, now I’m D.L. the rapist?’”

I lose it. I throw my wet toothbrush at Lea, hitting her chest, and start howling hysterically. Alarmed by the screeching, our floor’s Resident Assistant rushes into the bathroom. “What the hell is going on here?” I’m crying so hard I can’t even answer. Lea tells her she’s got it under control. She helps me get back to my dorm room and into bed.

I cry myself to sleep that night, convinced I’m going crazy.

The next morning, I head over to Health Services and ask to see a psychiatrist. I need help. Immediately.

Pleading for Insanity

I sit there, my heart pounding, feeling like the beige walls are closing in on me. “She will see you in five minutes,” a soft voice says from behind the yellow counter top. Her light skin glows green as she stares into her computer screen. I take a seat and stare at the floor, my throat quickly closing up and my breathing quickening. Those few minutes of waiting feel like years.

Why am I so nervous? I know what she will say. This is obviously a serious call for attention. This is nothing more than a fabrication of my own imagination. I’m a spoiled brat who needs attention. That’s all.

She — the campus psychiatrist who is about to see me three times a week for the next few months — walks down the hallway and nods at me to follow her. I get up, feeling sicker by the minute, almost dizzy.

Her name is Chris. She has dark brown shoulder length hair and a yielding smile. She’s going to think I’m insane. I am insane. I probably just need attention but Oh my God I really need help. The very second her office door closes behind us I start to bawl uncontrollably.

A few months ago, I often complained that I couldn’t cry — even when I really felt like I should. It was nearly impossible for me. This sudden crying in front of a total stranger is definitely out of character.

Just tell me I’m crazy, that you’ll help me, that I’ll be my old self again soon. Just tell me what’s wrong with me. And if need be, give me drugs or anything else that will make whatever this is go away.

Chris’ office is tiny but it feels safe. During that first meeting, she sits across from me and lets me talk. She never interrupts the flow of hiccuped words that run at her from my mouth.

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t know. I can’t remember anything at all. It’s all black. Nothing,” I explain. “I think he hooked up with me — I mean those hickeys, the bruises, and the blood. Something did all that, right? But he says nothing happened. He says I must have an ovary infection.”

Every now and then I pause and look at her face wondering if she’s diagnosed me with insanity yet? “I’m also angry all the time. And scared. And I have nightmares. I think I’m going crazy.”

The more I told her, the more worried she looked. I assumed she’d finally made up her mind about me: this girl is breaking down. She needs attention so she’s invented some awful story about possible sexual abuse. She’s seriously twisted and possibly completely crazy. But I continued nonetheless. I had so many unanswered questions, so much to say. And hell, might as well get it all out before being locked away in some insane asylum far away.

“I wish he hadn’t said that nothing happened… I wish he’d just told me that on February 13th I wanted sex. I know I can get horny when I’m drunk. The first time I met him back in October, we had sex and that time I know I wanted it. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I was horny and wanted to piss Adam off. So I had sex with him. But this time… I don’t know, it’s different and I can’t let it go.
Why did he say nothing happened when something clearly did? I didn’t get undressed on my own — heck, I couldn’t even stand up on my own!

I didn’t bruise my left arm, thighs, and pelvis on my own. I didn’t give myself hickies. And I definitely didn’t rip my own vagina. And what about the weird discharge you usually get after unprotected sex? Can vaginas who haven’t had sex suddenly decide to create strange translucent discharge over night?
But I don’t think he had sex with me. He wouldn’t because he knew I didn’t want to — plus I was unconscious. And the next morning when I explicitly asked him if we had, he said we didn’t. He wouldn’t lie about that. No one would lie about that. And if he did, that means he… No. He didn’t. That didn’t happen.”

In my banter, I tell Chris about my first encounter with D.L. in October — including the tampon detail. Her eyebrows don’t even flinch. She isn’t judging, she is just listening, and I love her for it.

But when she says “Audrey, I think something happened. Something serious,” I suddenly hate her. All I want is for her to tell me I am crazy.

I’d rather be losing my mind, fabricating what is making me crazy, rather than have to handle a “something happened.” After all, insanity is a disease that can be numbed if not cured. Rape, a word I didn’t pronounce until months after I began therapy, was not something I could cure.

If rape had indeed become a part of who I was, it would be there forever — no matter the drugs I could take, no matter how far I could run, no matter how hard I could try to ignore it, rape would be a part of me.

Chris immediately scheduled a second appointment the next day with another woman — some sort of sexual trauma counselor. After that second appointment, I felt dirtier than I’d ever felt before. No, not dirty. Filthy.

I went back to my dorm building and took a long shower. Little did I know, the nightmare was only just beginning.

FIRST FLASHBACKS

That post appointment shower marks the moment when my first memory from the night of Friday the 13th came back. I bang my head against the white tile so the images leave me alone. I turn the water’s temperature as low as it can get just to feel something on my skin.

But the memory is stronger than the banging, stronger than the cold. He didn’t. But he did. He couldn’t have. But he did. And now, I can’t ignore it because I’m seeing it. And feeling it. And every time those images come back to break my body, it’s like I’m feeling them for the first time.

“Sophie, I can’t! Sophie,” barely standing up, a white towel rapped around my naked body, wet hair sticking to my forehead, tears streaming down my cheeks, I bang at her door. When she lets me into her little bedroom, number 527, her brown computer bag hanging from her shoulder, her concerned eyes become my only remaining link to sanity.

She stands there, confused and alarmed. “My tights, Sophie. My tights, he pulled them off,” I attempted to articulate between loud sobs.

“I remember. I saw him, sitting there, between my legs. He was pulling them off. After that I can’t remember, Sophie. I can’t remember.”

That afternoon, Sophie skips her class and sits with me on her bedroom floor and listens to me sob. I spend that afternoon wearing nothing but a damp towel, literally pulling hair from my scalp, going back in forth between memory and present reality.

The memories thunder upon me, out of my control. They strike me, blinding me with spurt seconds of flash, whipping my mind and body with violent lashes of excruciating images. It feels like I’m in a game of hide and seek, one in which loosing my mind is the price to pay.

If it weren’t for my diary, I couldn’t say how long that dreadful period lasted in which the pendulum swung between denial, depression, and fear. The period is hazy, as if all those endless days, minutes, and seconds had melted into one blurry fuzz.

My weeks began revolving around my appointments with Chris.

There would be days when I felt the nightmare was over. I was going to be okay. And then others, dreadful days, when I felt my mind sink, my world literally fall apart.

On those days, I was afraid when I woke up and afraid when I went to sleep. I was afraid to be around people and even more afraid to be alone. Nothing and no one could reassure me when that fear tapped on my shoulder and didn’t leave my side.

Friends and family couldn’t help because the fear came from within. I wasn’t scared of someone harming me. No, I wasn’t scared of that because in that state of denial, no one ever had. I felt that everything I was feeling was a fabrication of my own imagination. And what scared me most was that I might be harming myself. I was terrified of having invented such an awful scenario, of inflicting this pain upon myself. And worst of all, being unaware of fabricating it.

If Chris hadn’t reminded me that feeling like I’d made it all up was only part of coping, I am positive I would have actually lost my mind.

During those long months, the memories from that dreadful night slowly came out of hiding. Sometimes, for days on end, they would remain dormant. And then suddenly, when least expected, they’d lurk out at me from the shadows. I could be waiting for my flat crust pizza in the lunch line or getting drinks at a bar with friends when a gruesome element from that night would brutally punch me in the stomach.

At first, there was no chronological order in which they’d assault me. It wasn’t until a few months into therapy that I was capable of placing them all into one sequential panorama.

After that first memory of D.L. pulling my tights off, the memories accumulated. I soon vividly recalled lying on my back, my body in a state of paralyzed lifelessness, my head flopped to the right side, blankly starring out his dorm room window at the gleam from the street lights outside.

Then came the flashback of his heavy breathing into my left ear as his body shoved itself inside of mine.

Later, I remembered the look of those empty sidewalks and of that street below while, to bare the pain, my teeth dug down into my bottom lip as he pounded against my limp body and ripped in and out of the dry cavity between my legs.

That night, February 13th, D.L. fucked, ripped, and ejaculated into a lifeless doll. That lifeless doll happened to be me.

PTSD

“The other night as I was looking for an outfit in my closet, I found myself simultaneously sobbing and frantically grasping for air,” I told Chris during one of our sessions. Two days prior, Sophie and I had planned to get dressed up and have a girls’ night out on the town.

As I rummaged through my closet for an outfit, I fell upon the red dress I had been wearing on February 13th. Suddenly, my heart raced, my vision blurred, and I collapsed. A few minutes later, Sophie came to my room, all dressed up and ready to head out. She found me curled up on the cold tile of my bedroom floor, wearing nothing but my underwear, digging my fingernails into my bare legs as if to rip off my skin, snot and tears coating my face.

“Audrey, that red dress is what we call a trigger,” Chris gently explained. “Like many survivors, you have what is called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD. Triggers can come in many forms — smells, sights, sounds, or even feelings.” Listening to her talk, I began to live the situation as if I wasn’t there — as if I was watching this scene from very far away. I was there and not there all at once.

“Triggers can cause very intense — and often frightening — physical and emotional responses,” she continued. “In fact, these are reactions you might encounter in future sexual situations.”

Indeed, a few weeks later, I’d have my first of many unexpected reactions when it came to sex.

A few days before we’d all be leaving campus for the summer, Adam, whom I hadn’t seen in months, invited me over for lunch. In the fall, he would be heading off to begin a doctoral program at Harvard and I would temporarily be moving — or fleeing — to Paris for two semesters abroad. We hadn’t seen each other in months but it felt only natural to catch up — and why not fool around one last time — before we went our separate ways.

After a home cooked lunch in the apartment I’d come to know during our “dinner and sex” weekly reunions months prior, Adam sunk into his snug beige couch: “Sit with me.” The budding warmth in my lower stomach indicated that a part of me wanted him. But something much stronger, much deeper, also despised him for wanting me back.

Adam put his arm around me. Almost immediately tears blurred my vision. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t afraid. In fact, I remember not feeling anything besides the lukewarm streams that rolled down my cheeks — that and the humiliation of crying without a clue in the world as to why. I tried stopping but I couldn’t. I tried explaining but I couldn’t either. My mind no longer seemed to control my body or my actions.

In an attempt to sooth me, Adam took his free hand and placed it on my stomach. “Adam, don’t touch me!” I shrieked. Startled and puzzled, Adam nervously got up, walked over to his piano, and began playing — something I’d seen him do many times in the past when he was upset, stressed, or simply in a bad mood.

Whether it was the melodic tunes emanating from his fingers or the fact that he now sat across the room from me on the wooden piano bench, my body soon began to relax.

As Adam continued to play, my breathing stabilized and my moist cheeks dried off. Shortly thereafter, I left his apartment feeling embarrassed, sick, and overwhelmingly irritated by my senseless reaction.

Fuck you, Audrey

On at least two separate occasions in the months that followed Friday, February 13th, D.L. physically assaulted me in public places.

The first time, as I stood with a cocktail in hand at a bar near campus, I felt a sharp elbow impale my back. My drink spilled. As I turned around, my eyes fell upon D.L.’s checkered scarf and angry glare as he hastily faded into the crowd.

A few weeks later, this time at that hipster bar we always went to, Lea, Sophie, Charles (Sophie’s older brother), and I were sitting at a booth when D.L. walked into the bar. Our looks crossed. My limbs tensed and my body went cold.

The conversation I was actively involved in seconds beforehand instantly became nothing more than muddled background noise. He strode to the bar, ordered a drink, and situated himself so that he was directly in my line of sight, and me in his. He spent the rest of the evening staring me down, clearly more focused on slaying me with his eyes than on conversing with his friends.

About an hour later, as I timidly got up to use the bathroom, D.L. followed. Lea noticed, dashed ahead of him, and came with me to the restroom. As we walked back to take our seats, D.L. gridlocked the entrance to our booth. I was terrified. Abruptly, he shoved me hard with both hands. I fell to the ground.

Lea grabbed my shaky body, lifted me up, propelled me into the booth, and prevented him from touching me any further.

Leaving the bar that night, D.L. yelled, “Fuck you, Audrey.” Those are the ironically fitting last three words I ever heard from D.L.’s mouth.

Leaving Campus

In May 2009, as I emptied my drawers, throwing out the junk I’d accumulated over the year, and more than ready to turn in my keys and never have to see my dorm room again, my phone rings. I immediately recognize the 10 digits I’d erased months ago. It’s D.L.

The previous week, I’d written him a letter — a letter that Sophie slipped under his door for me. Black ink on white pages begging him to tell me I was crazy, that everything I’d remembered in the past few months were fragments of my own imagination. Even after months of therapy, all I wanted was for him to blame me for making it all up — I wanted to hear him say that it had never happened. Any of it.

Though I’d written him two or three such letters over the semester, he’d never acknowledged them. But that day, one day before I’d turn in my dorm room keys and leave campus for the summer, he called.

Those 10 digits make my blood run cold. My mind shuts off. I can’t think. I can’t breath. Leaving my vibrating phone behind and the door to my room wide open, I leap down the hallway, fly down the stairs, race out through the courtyard, and barge into Chris’ office. “He just called,” I cry.

The rest of our conversation is a blur. All I remember is fleeing campus that afternoon and leaving a lot of my things behind. That night — the last I’d spend in NYC until September of the following year — I sleep restlessly on a good friend’s couch downtown. To this day, I have no idea why D.L. called and what he would have said had I picked up.

Taming the Beast

Three years later, on August 7th, 2012, I opened my laptop and decided it was time to continue telling my story. This is what I wrote that day:

“Today marks exactly 3 years and 6 months since it happened, and exactly 3 years since the last time I wrote about it. Since then, I’ve been in love, I’ve been heart broken, I’ve laughed, and I’ve cried. I’ve written a thesis, graduated from university, and moved to Paris.
All in all, I’m a happy 23-year-old living in the city of lights and studying communications at a prestigious French graduate school. In appearance, life couldn’t be any better. So why have I reopened the pages of this story? Simply because I don’t have a choice.
I need to finish what I couldn’t help but start at the end of my sophomore year of college. It’s as though I’d started a painful sentence, taken a break in parentheses, but hadn’t managed to place the period.
So here I am, sitting at le Bucci, a little French coffee shop near the Odeon metro stop, choosing to close a parenthesis; choosing to finish a sentence that continues to stall my story.
I am aware that closing this parenthesis is a risk — I could sink, go down as low as the winter and summer of 2009, relive what I’ve tried so hard to forget, rewind to a place I managed to survive but not erase.
But I’ve come to a realization I can’t ignore. One option is to continue to live as though it hadn’t happened. I can continue to deal with the minor inconveniences that color my days. Those nightmares that leave me wide eyed and out of breath, the uncontrollable disgust I develop for those men who treat me like anything more than a piece of fuckable meat, the embarrassing panic attacks that come uninvited when I least expect, the fear that has increasingly tightened its grasp as time goes by.
I can deal with them. I can continue to punish boys who dare to treat me well. I can deal with the fear that makes sleeping alone an all too frightening reality. I can keep smiling, even when shit’s gone wrong.
But one day, when I’m too exhausted to ignore it any longer, I’ll crack and loose it for good.
The other option, the one I’m choosing today, is to deal with my reality. To dig it up before it’s buried, aged, stiff, and impossible to mold. Dig it up and look at it straight ahead, without flinching, until it shrivels up and bows down. I’m going to train it. Show it who’s boss. I’m going to control it before it takes up too much power, too much room, and becomes bigger and stronger than I’ll ever be.
3 years ago I had a dream. Today, it makes more sense than ever.
I dreamt about a dog. A terrifying dog. The beast stood in the familiar living room of my childhood. It was huge and kept jumping out at me. My father stood by without flinching as he saw the dog’s giant body leap out on top of mine. Terrified, I stood helpless, expecting my dad to help.
Though my eyes screamed for his help, my father wouldn’t move. “Tell him you’re the boss, Audrey. Don’t give him the choice,” he said, watching the scene a few feet away from where I stood frozen in fear.
Unexpectedly, and because I didn’t have any other way out, I stood up straight, eyes wide open, and calmly growled at the dog to leave me alone. I can’t remember my exact words but I recall the calm force that came over me. The strength I felt grow, starting in my stomach and reaching out to my shoulders and neck, hips and thighs, and from there out to my toes, fingers, and to the tip top of my head.
The dog immediately backed down. And suddenly, as I continued to stare straight into its now terrified eyes, it shrunk and its body became that of a puppy’s. Before curling up on the floor and hiding its puppy face under its chubby paws, it timidly stared up at me with eyeballs overflowing with guilt and silent apologies.
Alone, I’d managed to take control over the lurking beast.”
The Aftermath

As I look back on such events today, I still don’t fully comprehend my actions… and even less so my reactions. I don’t know why I had dinner with D.L. on February 14th, just hours after he looked into my eyes and promised he hadn’t touched me as my ripped vagina and bruised thighs clearly indicated otherwise. I don’t know why I begged him in writing to tell me I was crazy and then felt absolutely helpless when it came to picking up his call.

The one thing I do know is that our bodies and our minds always find a way to express what our consciousness cannot face.

I also know that telling girls “Never walk home alone. Don’t talk to strangers. If you think you’re in danger, scream. Consent is sexy. No means No” or giving them a rape whistle when they begin college is useless. Actually, more than useless, it is counterproductive.

Giving girls rape whistles spreads the notion that rapists pop out of the shadows in dark alleyways and attack. It’s like saying “as long as you avoid walking home alone at night and as long as you have that whistle by your side, you’ll be safe.” What rape whistles don’t say is that approximately 66% of rape victims actually know their assailant. In fact, 48% of victims are raped by a friend or an acquaintance and 16% by an intimate.

What we need to teach girls and women is to listen to that voice within.

That voice that tells us something is off. That voice to which most of us silently respond: “oh shut up. You’re being silly. You’re being paranoid.” Because deep down, we often know.

Had I listened to that voice, had I taken the time to notice the little red flags, had I let myself recognize the predator in D.L., I would not have woken up a victim of rape on February 14, 2009.

Finally, 2 out of 3 rape survivors remain silent. I’ve remained silent for nearly 7 years.

Breaking the silence with this story, one that is all too common, is my way of attempting to blow the rape whistle for others.

I hope that those who will read this will remember that rapists can be anywhere and anyone. I hope they realize that rapists don’t only roam dark tunnels or live in sketchy neighborhoods. I hope they will be more attentive to that feeling in the pit of their stomach — that feeling that says something isn’t right. More often than not, our bodies speak louder than our minds.

“You don’t set out to build a wall. You don’t say ‘I’m going to build the biggest, baddest, greatest wall that’s ever been built.’ You don’t start there. You say, ‘I’m going to lay this brick as perfectly as a brick can be laid. You do that every single day. And soon you have a wall.” — Will Smith

Setting the Stage

January 1, 2017 will mark the two-year anniversary of Wish Dish. It is hard to imagine waking up the last 730 days in a row constantly discovering, learning, hitting roadblocks, and doing it the next day with the same vigor and passion. Great visions and companies take many years to create and I have been truly eased by the notion of not trying to have a “quick win.” As I have started to think about the impact we can have on the world, I see this vision taking at least ten years to come close to what we have in mind. And I know if we truly keep pushing the envelope, we will continue to find the right crevices to walk through and the necessary doors will continue to open.

In mid-August, I published a piece titled “If I Were Going to Walk Away from Wish Dish ”, after I found myself focusing on the wrong things in order to move the platform forward. In all honesty, the more I thought about letting go, the more I was pulled back into the fire. The pull led me to take a visit to New York City where I met with one of the early founders of Elite Day, a publishing platform with the same heart in their mission and content that Wish Dish shares. And thanks to Serge Efap, one of their early founders, we have truly worked hard to establish a plan for the future, to put a vision to paper, and work steadily on the execution in 3 month chunks.  While July and August truly left me in doubt, September was inspiring and extremely promising. The fire came back, and we started digging further.

I am proud to say the past six weeks working on Wish Dish we have had our best six weeks since we first started. As Serge once told me, “you know you are on the right track, once you know what it feels like to be on the wrong track.”

“It’s what you do in the dark that brings you into the light” – Michael Phelps

@Forbes30under30 conference in Boston

Incredible Research Causing Positive Change

In April and May of 2016, we conducted over 25 hour long interviews with our incredible community. Imagine taking your baby to twenty counselors and asking how to do a better job parenting. We did the same with our product and heard critical advice.  These interviews were also mind opening, leading to 75 pages of handwritten notes, and a 10 page product plan for further improvements. As an entrepreneur, sometimes you think you know everything, but the truth is, the people you serve have a much better idea of what they want than you do. These interviews taught us a lot, and we had a lot of realizations such as:

A. My life is more than just one big story, I don’t see myself sharing on WD again
B. I have no way of connecting to the authors on Wish Dish
C. Once I get to the platform, I have nothing to do after I read the article I planned on reading
D. The site is poorly categorized, and it’s hard for me to find what I want
E. I only visit and interact with Wish Dish a few times per month

These were just five big points out of 15-20 other consistent remarks. But as you can see, we had some problems to tackle.

“So we questioned, why keep adding people to share on Wish Dish, if there was no support or structure in place for them once they shared their big story?”

We did not just interview our own community either. We spoke to writers on Medium, multiple people who run the Odyssey chapters on a few different campuses, the founder of The Mighty & PostSecret, Co-Founder of Blavity, founding members at Elite Daily, the founder of PRSuit, among many other publications and platforms in a similar space. We truly had to do our homework, understand the ins and outs of our industry and the users on each platform. We also had to understand how to run our operation internally, so we could make larger steps forward and build a platform that was differentiated.

Lastly, our vision from the beginning was never to be solely a media / storytelling /  publishing platform. We wanted to create a community, a real community that cared where people could feel acceptance and belonging. A community where people engaged with each other on a daily or weekly basis.

So we did these interviews, so what? A Rebrand in the Making

So after five months of research, planning, and assembling the pieces we have begun to take strides to work the plan we created. A plan that has enormous potential to create global change, amazing personal relationships, and grow to a level where our tribe can make a tremendous difference in conversations that matter.

First and foremost, after the research interviews, I was able to look at our platform from a different lens and realized we were not setup for long term success. And this is where it became difficult, because we had already put so much time building it the way we had.  I looked further and further at what we needed to do to make the necessary changes and knew it was not going to be easy, but also knew we could make the necessary changes as we had the tribe who believed in us enough to see it through.

Because of this, we are midway through a full rebrand (except the name). The logo, color scheme, and site functionality. Simply, we want to make the best product possible for our users and if we want to retain our users long term, we need to keep evolving and improving.

How does the rebrand benefit our users?

In our last blog update, we gave you an idea of some of some of the pieces we were putting in place. Since then, we have worked relentlessly to see it to fruition. We asked 100 of our contributors who we truly felt represented Wish Dish core values to take a greater role in our platform. 65/100 immediately said yes. While they have committed to monthly or bimonthly contributions, they have also committed to helping be part of a community that is going to serve them. Great perks such as having questionnaire forms setup so we can connect them in a meaningful way to our users, a podcast to further dive into their stories, partnerships with various organizations and brands that will directly benefit them, an internal newsletter to keep abreast on what people are doing within the community, and personal + professional  opportunities we will bring their way. Additionally, something special and unique about what we are doing is letting the community grow itself. Every two months, we will double the community where each member nominates one person they know who fits the Wish Dish mold, to join us and contribute. It is not our aim to create exclusiveness, but to build this platform around the right people and give our members ownership in our vision to build it how they would like to see it built.

Simply, Simon Sinek once said:

How are we going to support these changes? Acquiring Necessary Infrastructure

Since September, we have taken enormous steps to put the right pieces in place to support all the changes on the outside. The hardest part about working behind the scenes though is not seeing the immediate success on the surface. Instead of racing to put the pieces we wanted on the chessboard and figure out how to navigate it, we had to first clear the board and truly look at what was going to make us win as a community.

Here is the infrastructure we have put in place to successfully see our vision through:

Head of Operations: Lexi Nickens

First, and most importantly, we hired our Head of Operations, Lexi Nickens. Lexi is a UGA student who has previously worked for multiple publications and media companies. She has been a shining light on our vision building out an operations manual for our editing team, which she has also recruited. She has also worked with me to build our Community Builder Handbook, which over 60 people have committed to serving. Additionally, she has streamlined team communications. Simply, some of our changes would not be possible without her.

Managing Editor: Rishi Banerjee

Rishi has been promoted internally as our Managing Editor. Rishi was first a contributor who speak about his mental health state, and then later started working as an editor. Now, five months later, he leads a team of four editors in which he directs the output of quality work. This editing team will be able to handle an abundance of content from our contributors who will be posting monthly or bimonthly. This team will allow for us to put this content out in a quality fashion.

Editors:
Alexis Gavrelis

Emily Claus

Jamari Jordan

Meagan Collins

Editor at Large / Chief of Content: Matt Gillick

Matt Gillick has been with us from Day 1, coming all the way from the New York to our event in Athens, GA where he thanked the entire Wish Dish community for the valuable opportunity of serving them. Now, Matt has been been given his biggest role yet as the Editor at Large. Matt is responsible for shaping the voice of our platform and coming up with prompts and topics of conversation that truly drive engagement where our community can talk amongst each other and glean value and meaningful insights. Additionally, Matt will be sending out newsletters with stories to our subscriber base, and internal newsletters to our community builders.

Head of Marketing: Dan Mule

All marketing responsibilities are in the hands of Dan Mule, whom we feel very lucky to have on our team. He has been handling story titles, social media posts, and has begun the process of putting together growth strategies. These strategies include repurposing content onto new platforms or creating micro videos that will have an emotional pull on our audience.  Simply, Dan has dove in order to begin to appeal to the Wish Dish community.

Head of Branding & Design: Christopher Travers

We have tasked Christopher Travers, UGA Student, with our full-rebrand. This ranges from logo, colors, to site feel and functionality, and page/design mockups. Christopher built our current site, and went through a full rebrand for his startup two years ago. He has a belief in our vision and is off to a great start.

Last but not least, we would like to give a special thank you to two individuals who have played a tremendous part in helping us grow our community around the right people. Those people are Dana Sauro and Mia King. These are two people who truly believe in our mission and have worked tirelessly with us so we can succeed.

We are excited to share further updates into the New Year. Onward we go!

I think every girl at one point in their life comes to the realization that they’ve become like their mother. Most people meet this realization, however, with much hesitation and anguish. Many resent the idea of becoming like their mothers. While I’m only 18, I realize I have become my mother and wish I was even more so. This is for you, Mom. Thank you for all the things you passed to me, but especially for all the things you didn’t.

I’ve become my mother and I am so thankful. Thank you for teaching me, especially how to be humble.

Thank you for teaching me to take everything with a grain of salt, and not to read into the situation too much (even when you really want to). I’ll always be grateful that you made me a fighter instead of a follower. Thank you for teaching me to go after my dreams, and for never questioning your daughter’s future plans, especially as a broadcast major. Thank you for letting me know that if these plans don’t end up working out, you’ll support me every step of the way.

Me, my brother, and my mom

Thank you for being my friend when I need it, but always being my mom (you know what I mean). Thank you for proofreading every paper, for making me work hard, and telling me to stop worrying about my grades so much.

Mom, I wish I could have your sense of humor. I strive every single day to carry myself with the confidence that you do. I love that you’re always the life of the party, and I love that you know how to have fun.

I wish I could have your knack for reading people, and wish I could cook like you. You’ll never understand how highly I think of you, and how much I wish to be just like you, even though I already am somewhat.

I am so incredibly grateful to have had such an amazing mother, friend, therapist, and confidant in my life, and I owe it all to her.

While this entire post may seem cliché, and everyone may swear their mom is the best, I know that my mom and I have something uniquely special that absolutely cannot be replaced.

So, Mom, I’m sorry I’m so messy. I’m sorry that I can be a little too feisty, and that I am incredibly stubborn. You always know when I’m hungry, and thanks for always having snacks ready when I am. I may be an adult know, but I for sure don’t know what I’m doing, and will forever need you around. Thank you for these things, and for everything else that I could not even manage to write into this post.

They always say “try to give your kids more than your parents gave to you.” Every time me and my brother hear this, we laugh because we know that will never be possible for us when we have children someday. I only hope one day when I become a mother I can be half the person that you are, and I am proud to say that I’ve become anything like my mom.

Thanks for being my person, Mom. Like you always told us when we were little, “I love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, your mom I will be.”

I’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble with two unassuming words I use all the time: I’ll never. I never intended to do a lot of things. I never intended to go to UGA. I never intended to fall in love with Jesus. I never intended to even major in what I studied in school. In fact, I said no to all of these things that have ultimately shaped me into the person I am right now. But I’ve since learned to never say never.

I had a tendency to not only shut the door, but also to lock it and then attempt to lose the key.I grew up with a very set, rigid idea of what my life would look like. To stray from the course would risk disaster, and I decided at a very young age that I could not afford any upset. I would have bought insurance for my future if I could have.

My old plan actually makes me laugh out loud now because I have no idea where I conjured it up actually, probably from a “best college rankings” list and whatever was cool in the New York Times in 2006.

My parents gave me a lot of freedom growing up to explore who I wanted to be and what I wanted to do, so I threw myself into studying and saying “no” to all of the things that would lead me astray from a path of academia and sweater vest wearing.

I was stubborn and, although I wanted to be “open” to new ideas and culture, I was afraid of the filth in the world because I could see it.

I could see it in the way that poverty littered the outskirts of my county and I could see it even in the way my parents would fight, so I burrowed into a little hole of Tolstoy and Austen afraid of the grime all around me.

In that little den of literature and math homework, I gritted my teeth and hoped and wished for security. I strained and I strained, and although my GPA throughout high school was pretty stellar, I felt alone and isolated and as if the weight of the world sat on my shoulders.

I made plans to attend Emory University in the fall of 2011. My parents even bought “Emory Mom and Dad” bumper stickers for their cars. I had always said, “I’ll never go to UGA.”

Me on the far right after me high school graduation

But May of my senior year rolled around and I had a very weird change of heart that led me to consider a visit to UGA that then led me to sending in that college deposit to Athens rather than to Atlanta.

That same summer, I told my cousin I would go to the beach with her on a mission trip, an act that prompted my friend to ask me, “Lauren, don’t only religious people go on mission trips?”

People were very shaken up about my change in plans. I, of course, was oblivious to all of these openings of opportunities and closing of my “no’s.” I quickly learned to never say never.

I went on that mission trip during the week of the 4th of July. I helped paint a brick house and patched a roof. I ate too many Swedish Fish candies on the floor with my cousin and her friends and sang Katy Perry in the bunk rooms before we went to bed.

At night, we worshiped on the beach, and I became fearful of looking like I didn’t know the songs (because truthfully I didn’t). I committed to learning the melodies because I was shocked that a group of kids my age could really care for Jesus in the way that they did.

I don’t know what my moral code really was. I did know that I had done some terrible things in life, and so the concept of grace that this “guy Jesus” offered (I was still a little skeptical) was attractive to me. So, when I got home from the trip in July, I started reading the new study bible my cousin had given me before the trip.

I would go into my room and lock the door, afraid that someone would find me googling King David or something. I started journaling which was mainly a bunch of “I love you, Jesus. I love you, Jesus. I love you, Jesus.” and “How Lord? How Lord? How Father, could you love someone like me?”

It was what the other kids were doing, and I didn’t know why really, but I needed desperately to know what they knew. I wanted what they had, that peace and light that I hadn’t known existed before.

I accepted Jesus into my heart and became a new creation. I was full of gratitude and a peace that I knew were not my own doing.

I showed up to UGA in August with big plans. I thought I’d meet 30,000 new friends. I thought I’d end up as the president of the sorority. I thought I’d study abroad for a semester in Australia. If all of my plans would have been fulfilled, I probably would be planning my wedding right now.

What actually happened that August day I arrived with my twin, extra-large sheet set was the opposite: my roommate did not like me at all. Rush was long and hot and I lost my voice by the third day. I was a smiling mime. My hair got stuck in my best friend’s portable fan, which left me with fresh, new “side bangs.” I would get on the bus and cry to my mom because I thought I would never make it around campus in 15 minutes.

I hated it. I had never felt more alone or broken in my entire life. My life up until last August had been shaped by my own control. Here, I felt like I had that control snatched right from my hand.

Me, in the middle

What did I do when my roommate put a curtain up under her bed and refused to talk to me? I turned to Jesus and, though my roommate still didn’t want to talk to me, I discovered a still, small voice that encouraged me, stayed with me, and offered me peace and a new perspective.

I learned to pray, and so I prayed hard, desperate prayers. “God, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I need you. I need something. I need something to change and I want you. I’d give it all for you.”

He gave me a little peace and a heaping portion of faith that felt something like, “you don’t know what I’m doing, but I love you and I am here for you. I have a plan.”

I believed Him and, sure enough, my cards seemed to get shuffled and I got dealt a much more pleasant hand.

I started going to Freshley, the freshman student ministry of the UGA Wesley Foundation, and started walking with the Lord. Seriously. I would walk to class and talk to Him, and in a small group we would talk and pray together. Standing there, crammed into Wesley’s main chapel like a little sardine, I listened to the same songs I had learned on the beach the summer before,

I felt a new beginning and the “I’ll never” that I used to cling to was exchanged for a big “yes” to the unknown, knowing full well that I was following a plan much larger than my own.

I found life at UGA. I found family. I found hope and I found deep, satisfying love that makes the unknown and the filth all beautiful and exciting. Instead of saying “I’ll never,” I’m now saying a big “yes” to whatever door Jesus wants to walk me through. From what I’ve found over the last four years, they are doors that lead to the best, most exciting and fulfilling places.