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Kavitha Davidson, a writer for espnW, became a victim of rape 10 years ago. Today she shares her story with the hope that it reaches other victims of sexual assault.Warning: This essay contains graphic content.His image has been forever imprinted on my brain, yet its distorted through the mix of alcohol and drugs that he fed me, and those that I fed myself. I have one memory that slowly but quickly spins into another -- of him on top of me, his face framed by nothing but the darkness of the shadows against the ceiling, the black of the night, the uncertainty of everything around me as I laid there.Its the visage of a man Id like to forget -- that I need to forget, but somehow can still picture in the unreliable space between recollection and nightmare.I probably wanted this man at some point in the night. I probably wanted any man to want me at this point in my 17 years. Id later tell myself I was too old not to have experienced it, that I was probably lucky that somebody chose me. But I was too young to experience it from the much older men who had always paid me unwanted attention, when I had to refuse but didnt know how.Maybe I should have known better. Yes, I probably should have known better. But he should have known better, too.And she was there. And what the f--- was she doing there -- from the beginning, just watching my lifeless body entered, repeatedly, time and again? Was that sexy for her?When I finally regained a semblance of consciousness, when I finally awakened from watching my starring role in my own nightmare, I managed to make out one faint, but decisive word:Stop. And he doesnt Stop. He doesnt Stop. More blood Stop. More tears Stop. More tearing. More blood Riiiiip Stop. Stop. Stop. Please, stop. Please Please Stop. Plea.Ill never know how he explained that away, what he said to convince them that I didnt really mean it. But Ill always know that she told them I said stop in a teasing way. She actually told them that as I bled and cried and wailed for it to end -- that it was all part of some game I wasnt ready to be a part of.She said I was the one -- in the middle of the rug, unable to see or move, yet able to make out the ceiling spinning above me and finally regaining consciousness -- who had wanted this all along. Who had wanted this state of numbness that supposedly precedes euphoria, but in reality is pain apparent before pleasure, none of it intersecting, none of the promises fulfilled, only the solitude of violation setting in.I will always wonder at what point it became too much.At what point did my cries for help echo? At what point did my tears fail to dry? At what point did he finally think Id had enough? At what point did she finally think Id had enough?Was it when the rug was saturated with my blood?She sat at her lofty perch on the couch above me, watching this scene unfold before her.I remember her later dropping me off at my dorm, in front of a security guard who saw my swollen face, my bloody eye, my pupils in the far back end of my head.And I wonder what everyone who saw us thought had happened. And what they thought would happen next.In my dorm room, I remember flashes of falling asleep and, minutes later, flashes of awakening, amid flashes of everything I wasnt sure had happened in the preceding hours. But there were the blood stains and the searing pain -- that pain, shooting up through my thighs to my abdomen, bypassing entirely my stomach and heart, all the way to my throat, where it choked me of every last breath.I remember making my way downstairs, battered and alone, to the security guard with the friendliest face Id seen all night, and asking him to please, please call me an ambulance. I knew something was wrong, he said, as soon as I got downstairs.I remember the most incredible life force I had needed at the time: the rape counselor who held me as I wept uncontrollably and asked me important questions and told me it was OK that I couldnt remember the answers and sat with me in the ambulance as I rambled about how Id let down my family, my mother, my father, my sister, everyone -- everyone I could think of, but myself.I dont remember arriving at the hospital. I remember asking not to call my parents but also a disingenuous plea to call my godmother, knowing full well that, of course she would call them, and of course they would call my sister.I remember the rape kit and being on that bed with that curtain for privacy, as a nurse probed my most sensitive areas, as carefully as she could, through the cuts and scrapes and wounds that were freshly laid there. I remember her trying to do an anal test, and the tissue still being raw from just hours before, and me crying in pain and not knowing what would come next and needing it to stop and feeling utterly stupid for the involuntary screaming that came out of me every time she inserted a swab, even though in the hospital, a swab was really the least of my worries.I still felt as if I was lying helplessly on that carpeted floor, except now I was helpless to rape kits and pregnancy tests and HIV screens.Ill always remember my sister telling me years later that she was right outside that curtain when they did my rape kit. That she thought, rightfully, it would be too much for my parents to handle, and that it might be too much for me knowing forever that they had been there for that. Instead I live with the knowledge that she will always have the sound of my most guttural, instinctual, immediate reaction to pain -- emotional, physical, rote -- in her mind. Those are truly the ties that bind.The years that followed were trying ... to say the least. Thats another chapter in this essay, in this life of trauma and recovery. But this self-indulgent screed isnt just for me, isnt just for my pain and isnt just for my struggle, with which I live each and every day, in ways small and large, and over which I triumph with every additional breath that I take. Its hopefully for all of you, too.I survived. I survive every day. It has been 10 long, hard-fought years, and it hasnt been easy. It probably never will be. And yes, maybe sometimes I have irrational reactions to the most mundane interactions with men, and sometimes women. But Ive earned that, by virtue of simply still being here, still being alive, still somehow being able to trust people and somehow being able to let people in.Thats also a testament to the amazing people around me. Im incredibly lucky that, for the last 10 years, Ive been surrounded by friends who might or might not have known what happened to me, but whove always made me feel loved and welcomed and, most of all, human.When youre raped, its not just your entire humanity thats stripped from you. Its the entire idea of humanity that your rapist tries to strip away. The best revenge is regaining and having that faith in humanity, in empathy, in love, in friendship, in catharsis, in simply feeling, feeling anything -- love, hate, pain, sadness, anger, confusion, dilemma, resolution, and finally, hopefully, peace. Having, in some way, through other people, all of those feelings restored.Thank you to all who continue to contribute to my restoration, a decade later and beyond. To those who have led me not just to recover and survive, but to thrive once more. One day Ill be fully built up on the backs of the great men and women whove supported me along the way.My hope is that my body of work will reach fellow survivors who have experienced similar trauma and doubts and those whose stories differ so greatly from mine. I wasnt raped on campus, and I wasnt raped by a peer or someone I knew, as the vast majority of cases go. But the institutions designed to protect us still end up failing us just the same.My hope is that my writing can also reach those who have neither experienced assault nor known someone who has so that they might more intimately learn these topics we tend to debate in such sterile, public forums.I always say that I write about sports mostly because I love sports so deeply, yet they provide a pure lens through which we can examine the broader issues that touch our society. When an athlete receives favorable treatment in the justice system, its not just because hes famous or talented, though that certainly plays a part. The cases involving star players are exaggerated examples of what happens every day to the everyman and everywoman who dont have heightened profiles and voices. Its you and me times a thousand; its happening everywhere in the exact same way, with fewer cameras and reporters. It still matters. You still matter.Its impossible for me to stick to sports, just as it would be for any industry in which I see harmful patterns repeating themselves, especially when Ive experienced those patterns first-hand. But countless survivors and parents and teachers and, yes, even athletes, have told me that being confronted with these truths does have an impact, however small. Ive had friends and relative strangers alike approach me after reading my accounts of my assault to express shock and indignation (and at times defensiveness), but ultimately, altered thought.And thats really the goal: If I can get just one person to change the way they think about sexual violence, in sports or otherwise, then Ive done my job.But mostly, I write for survivors. A good friend and great writer Jessica Luther, who gives a powerful voice to the cause, often says the most meaningful thing we journalists can do for survivors is simply to listen, to let them tell their stories. Thank you for letting me tell mine.My message to fellow survivors is this: I love you. I see you. I hear you. You are not going anywhere. You will endure longer than the scars you think define you. You will eventually come to a point where you, too, can love, see, hear others again. And you are the reason the rest of us continue to survive. Wholesale Custom Soccer Jerseys . 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He sustained a minor injury on international duty with Armenia in early October but hasnt even been in Uniteds 18-man squad for recent games.Thats some fall in status for a playmaker who had 23 goals and 32 assists for Dortmund last season, was the German leagues player of the year, and was widely touted as one of the shrewdest Premier League signings of the offseason.Mourinho said Friday that Mkhitaryan is not injured, and was just struggling to adjust to the English game.Some players find it very easy, whereas others need more time. They need time to feel the intensity, the aggression, the game without the ball and the competitiveness, Mourinho said.The realities are often diffferent, particularly in terms of the competitiveness.dddddddddddd It doesnt matter who you are against, you have to play at the highest level otherwise you will not be able to do it. Micki needs time to become the top player he knows he can be.That is nothing new to Mourinho.He said the same happened with Willian at Chelsea and Angel Di Maria at Real Madrid, in Mourinhos two previous coaching jobs.It happens with defenders, but it is often easier for them to adapt than attackers, Mourinho said. In Mickis case, the process was interrupted by injury, which does not help ... Being out for a month meant he has had to go through the process of getting match-fit, then once he has that he needs the competitive level to do it. We believe him and, sooner or later, there will be no problem.Before that first start for United in the derby, Mkhitaryan appeared three times as a second-half substitute. ' ' '