My name is Jane. Actually it isn’t, but my name doesn’t matter. I am invisible. I have been erased.

I’m fifteen. I just graduated high school early with a 4.0. My dad is a police officer and my mom has served the church for almost two decades as women’s ministry director and children’s minister. I’ve had a great childhood with loving parents and a nurturing church. Famous people like Billy Graham and Luis Palau are friends with my pastor. They come around here often. Everyone takes care of each other.

I’m seventeen. I am taking classes at a junior college. My dream is to be a pastor but women can’t do that, so I’ll go with my second choice. I’ll become a Biblical counselor, and maybe marry a pastor. I apply to all the Bible colleges in the area and am accepted (with full ride scholarships to many of them), but all along I really want to go to The Masters College. It’s the only one with a true Biblical counseling degree. They have just started letting women into the program. I am one of two women in a room full of men.

I’m twenty-one. It’s 2006 and I’ve spent almost three glorious years at The Master’s College. I still have good grades and only one year to go. My professors treat me like family—two of them in particular. One of them rushed me to the hospital last year when I was sick and sat by my bed throughout the night. I have learned so much from them. I want to be a crisis counselor someday and help rape victims. I have been trained to do all the right things like call the police within 24 hours, remove battered spouses from domestically violent situations, and discern the telltale signs and behaviors of someone who has been raped. Some of my professors say they don’t agree with John MacArthur on everything. They want us to learn to think for ourselves. This is scandalous news.

Spring break starts tomorrow. I was going to go home today but last night I hit my head and suffered a concussion. The doctor said I need to take it easy so I decide to stay on campus and catch up on rest and homework. Not to brag or anything but I hang out with the smart crowd, and the smart crowd hangs out with the seminary students from The Master’s Seminary. They invite me to go to a play in town and then to dinner. I probably shouldn’t but it’s an approved outing as some of the seminary guys are bringing their girlfriends, and of course there will be no drinking, drugs, or dancing. We all had to sign a contract that we would not do those three things while attending Masters. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t drink or do drugs anyway.

Four of the seminary students live together and I know three of them. The fourth, a stranger who I have met maybe once, sits by me at dinner and asks if he can get me a soda. I thank him and say yes, but about a half an hour later I start to feel foggy. Everyone begins to discuss going ballroom dancing after dinner. I want to weigh in but my words are slurring and I can’t move my legs. The rest of my friends start laughing because I’m acting funny. They remember I suffered a concussion yesterday and think I need to go to bed. They urge the stranger to take me to my dorm room so I can rest. By this time he has to carry me out of the restaurant. No one thinks this is strange or seems at all concerned. I black out.

I am drifting in and out of consciousness. I do not know where I am. The stranger is on top of me but I can’t move. I am telling him to stop and get off of me. I hear him grinding and mixing some concoction. He is forcing me to swallow more alcohol. It tastes like it has sand in it. He insists I drink more. I wake up choking and coughing. Everything goes dark.

I am awake again and it’s morning, or early afternoon. I can’t tell. I’m still in this strange bed. The stranger is carrying me to the living room where the same friends and seminary students are drinking beer and watching a movie. The stranger spills a beer on me because I can’t hold it right. I don’t want beer. I have not had food or water in some time but I cannot articulate this. Everyone is still laughing at me.

Now I’m in a strange bar. I can’t see clearly but it seems the same group of people are here along with the stranger. I look down and wonder where this dress that I’m wearing and these shoes came from. I wear a size ten and a half shoe—it’s not like I can borrow shoes from just anyone. I find out the stranger bought them and put them on me. All I can think about is that the school would not approve of these clothes or being in a bar. I’m not a rule breaker. I don’t want to get in trouble. The stranger puts a straw up to my mouth and insists that I drink. I do but it is alcohol and again, I just want some water. He is still trying to get me to drink, but I refuse. I am sliding out of the booth and onto the dirty floor but I can’t stop myself. The stranger and everyone else is still laughing. The bartender tells us to leave and take me home.

My faculties are starting to come back and I begin to understand that I have spent several days and nights in this fog. I am angry that I have been left in the care of a stranger, and am starting to think my friends don’t care about me at all. I demand to go back to my dorm but I must sound funny because they are still laughing at me. Somehow, someone took me home, or maybe I drove myself. I wake up a day and a half later.

My head is starting to clear now. I know I’ve been raped, and fondled and used as a propped up blow-up doll date for the stranger. Good thing I know what to do! I have been trained by the best, godliest people on the planet. I will be supported and cared for, and I can get Biblical counseling right here at school. I will make it through this.

I go to the police. They do a rape kit and then stick me in a room where alternating good cop and bad cop question me and accuse me of lying. I confront them and say: “This is not how you treat a rape victim. I am studying to become a rape counselor and this is the opposite of what you should do.” They apologize and mumble something about protocol. They promise to help. It doesn’t matter. I have the church and my Bible college. Furthermore, my perpetrator is in the seminary. He will be held accountable for his actions.

I’m back on campus thank God! I find my RD (resident director) and pour out all the details of what has transpired. She tells me I have broken the rules, that I signed a contract promising not to do drugs or drink and that even ballroom dancing is prohibited.

“You need to talk to Rick Holland.” She says.

Her reaction surprises me. I am horrified. Maybe I asked for this. Maybe I did come on to the stranger. Maybe this is all my fault. Maybe I have to marry him since he is the only person I have ever had sex with. I have never even kissed a boy before, but maybe that is the only way to make this right.

These thoughts are confirmed by the female Biblical counselor named Sandra that has been assigned to meet with me. “You know, marrying him will fix this whole thing,” she says to me.

She tells me all the good that will come from this rape and speaks of God’s will and joyful suffering and not putting myself in situations like this again.

I am meeting with Rick Holland—the college pastor for the church that is affiliated with the college. We are alone in his office. I think it is strange that there is not a third person present. I learned in my classes that a male and female should never be left alone in a counseling situation. He insists I tell him everything. He asks me questions like: Where did he touch you? Where else did he touch you? What exactly did he do? How long did he do that? What were you wearing? Are you dating him? Did he turn you on?

I tell him every excruciating detail I can remember…

Rick leaves the room several times to go talk to John MacArthur. He comes back with John’s ruling on the matter. Rick tells me that I need to be disciplined for doing drugs, drinking alcohol and almost dancing. He said the consequence for breaking the rules is that I will be kicked out of the college. He is angry at me for going to the police and the doctor. I should have let the church handle this without outside interference. He tells me not to tell anyone else, not my fellow classmates, not my teachers, not anyone at church.

“You are ruining that young man’s life!” He says.

He tells me I have to go to the police and drop the charges or I will be brought in front of the church to be disciplined. I don’t drop the charges. Not that it matters. The police interviewed my rapist and all the “friends” who were there and ruled it a “he-said, she-said” incident that can’t be proven either way.

I don’t keep quiet either. I reach out to the professors who “disagree with John MacArthur on a few things.” They won’t see me. People are avoiding me. I feel their whispers. Even close friends are acting weird.

I am trying to defend myself to Rick Holland, but he is angry and dismissive. He is openly offended that I would speak to him so frankly, and I am accused of being hard headed. I understand there’s a narrative being created about me but I don’t know what it is. I only know I’m completely alone.

My parents are coming to get me. I need to get out of here anyway. They are angry not only for what has happened to me, but how it is being handled. I want to have victory over this and get my degree from Masters still. My dad has a man-to-man talk with Joe Keller, the Assistant Dean of The Master’s College. Nothing comes of it. I am still being sent home to think through the list they have given me of things I need to repent of. I am comforted by my parents’ anger, but I hold them back from their need to bring about justice. To me it feels like a David and Goliath situation, only this time Goliath wins. I just want to forget all this and go back to a week ago when I was happy and safe and optimistic.

I’m home with my parents now. I receive a call from Rick Holland. There are a few stipulations that I must agree to if I want to finish my senior year at The Master’s College. I plan to do whatever they tell me to do so I can get my degree and get out of there. He asks me to come in and meet with him.

I am standing outside the door to Rick’s office. I take a deep breath and feel confident that I am strong enough to do whatever it is that he asks me to do. I open the door and am shocked to see the stranger sitting there. I am starting to shake and sweat. Rick asks me to sit down by my rapist. Rick speaks for the rapist.

“He has admitted to everything he has done. He has acknowledged his sin and that this relationship was not consensual and he has repented. Look at him, he is crying.”

I don’t want to look at him but I do. I feel panicked sitting this close to him. I am wondering why I have to be present if it has become clear that I am innocent. Why wasn’t I immediately reinstated in school?

“Now it is your turn to apologize.”

I am not hearing right. I think that Rick Holland has just asked me to apologize to my rapist.

“Apologize for what?” I ask.

Rick says something about apologizing for the dress I was wearing at the bar and for drinking alcohol. He says I caused this young man to stumble, and he is incensed that I have not dropped the charges with the police. He says he has been talking to Joe and Sandra and my RD and they all say that my story keeps changing. I wonder why they are all allowed to talk about it but I am not. If I am to be reinstated in the school I must agree to weekly counseling with Rick and the stranger. I am told that the stranger and I have committed this sin together and therefore we must work through it together. I must agree to sit next to the stranger in church every week.

I don’t know where to begin. Do I start with the fact that I didn’t put that dress on or how my story isn’t changing, I am just remembering more things? I feel confused and angry. I am yelling. I hear more accusations coming out of Rick’s mouth. I am not submissive. I don’t trust the men that God has put over me. I am rebellious. He is angry and I cannot keep up with all of the attacks on my character that are flying out of his mouth. I am kicked out of school. I have less than twenty-four hours to get my things out of my room and get out. If I show up on campus, I will be arrested. They are changing my three years of earned college credits from A’s to F’s. I have flunked out of college.

It is 2008. I am still getting Facebook messages and emails from people I know at Master’s College calling me to repentance. They are rebuking me and quoting Scriptures about immorality and fornication. I know the narrative now. They have been told that I was sleeping around and was kicked out for drinking and carousing. They know my character and yet still assume it is true. Only one person from that whole community believes me—my roommate from Junior year.

It is 2017. I have told a few people over the years about what happened to me, but mostly I want to move on and live my life and forget. I can’t forget. I am trying to get my graduate degree, but on paper I failed three years of college and flunked out. I had to relive this nightmare trying to get my undergraduate Psychology degree, and now again applying for graduate school. Every time I work with rape victims, I relive my own trauma. I realize that I cannot move on until I bring this darkness into the light—even if it helps just one person—even if that person is me.

I am 32 years old and I am taking my life back. My name is Jane. Do you see me?

*Writer’s note: This is an eye-witness testimony of something that really happened. Anyone who accuses me or Jane of lying may want to reconsider as we have police reports (the police believe the stranger has done this before and will do it again) printed emails, and plenty of evidence. Somehow, Jane had the presence of mind to print and keep all of these papers all of these years.

Furthermore, if you are more appalled at me for writing this story, or Jane for telling it, than you are at the stranger and those religious leaders who handled it so abominably, perhaps you should evaluate your “Christian values and theology.”