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At a St. Patrick’s Day party in 2014, University of Colorado-Boulder student Austin Wilkerson promised to take care of another student who’d had too much to drink. In front of her roommate, he checked the half-conscious woman’s pulse and gave her water. Then, when they were alone, he raped her.

A jury convicted Wilkerson of sexual assault of a helpless victim and sexual contact without consent in March. On Wednesday, Boulder County District Court Judge Patrick Butler disregarded the prosecutors’ request for prison time, instead sentencing Wilkerson to two years of work-release, which will allow him to work and attend school while spending nights in jail, and 20 years of probation.

After the rape, the victim experienced anxiety, depression, and social isolation. She attempted suicide. “My life has been ruined,” she wrote to court before Wilkerson was sentenced. “Everything is a reminder. I can’t escape.”

The case—and the outcry over the judge’s light treatment of a white male college student convicted of sexual assault—closely parallels the outrage that followed the six-month sentence for convicted Stanford rapist Brock Turner.

Here, in her own words, is the full statement the victim read out loud in court.

“His life is ruined.” Oh yeah and it’s not like my life isn’t ruined or anything. It’s always been about the rapist since the assault. As the victim of this sexual assault, my life has been ruined socially, psychologically, academically, and financially. To begin with, this sexual assault has ruined me socially. I don’t go to CU football games anymore. I don’t drink at parties anymore. I don’t even go out anymore. This is partially because I’m too scared to be in situations that remind me of the sexual assault. But it’s also in part because of all the victim blaming that I have internalized. Instead of having the typical fun 21st birthday celebration, I was saying that I couldn’t go to the bars with everyone because I had too much homework. In reality, I was too scared of my friends’ friends because the rapist was a friend of a friend. Another instance of being afraid of my friends’ friends was my living situation for the 2015-2016 school year. My friend and I were going to live with our group of friends. However, during the contract negotiation, my supposed friends sprung a new roommate on us. I was fine with this for the most part, until my “friends” had the new roommate share a bathroom and floor with us girls. These were not the terms I consented to. Everyone thought I was being irrational for not wanting to share a bathroom and be on the same floor level as their friend, who was a guy I had met only twice. I feel like those dogs who become afraid or don’t like being around certain people. In my case, I’m afraid of acquaintances, since this sexual assault was an acquaintance rape. Safety is my #1 priority, even if it means jeopardizing relationships.

“On campus I was on high alert constantly…The flight part of my fight-or-flight instincts kicked into overdrive.”

“Oh boo hoo,” you might say. “She doesn’t get to go out and party and have fun. Big deal.” But it’s not just socially, it’s psychologically. It’s the anxiety. When I started filing this sexual assault case with CU back in the fall of 2014, I had a horrible nightmare that the rapist was going to retaliate against me. He was going to kill me with a bomb. I tried to tell the authorities, but they wouldn’t listen. I woke up from this nightmare crying. I immediately called my mom and told her I couldn’t go to class because the rapist was on campus. She reassured me that he wouldn’t retaliate against me because there would be consequences. I reluctantly agreed to go to class, but in the back of my mind I thought about how the rapist had committed this horrific crime knowing that there would be consequences. So what would stop him from retaliating? On campus I was on high alert constantly checking over my shoulder. Keep in mind that CU didn’t have a Criminal Protection Order. All CU said was that if we crossed paths, he would have to turn and go the other way. However, this didn’t happen. After the trial conviction, the rapist was in the waiting area. Instead of him turning around and going the other way—like everyone had reassured me he would do—the rapist stayed there. I was the one who was going the other way. The flight part of my fight-or-flight instincts kicked into overdrive. I practically ran the other way so I wouldn’t have to be anywhere near him. Even with the Criminal Protection Order and the court not allowing weapons, I did not feel safe around the rapist. And I never will.

“About a month after the assault, I tried to kill myself…Some days I can’t even get out of bed, let alone do four readings, projects, and study for tests.”

When I’m not having nightmares of rape, retaliation, or retrial that goes awry, I’m having panic attacks. Like the nightmares, these started after the sexual assault. Prior to the assault, I never had a panic attack in my life. At first, I thought these panic attacks were random, but the more of them I had, the more a pattern emerged that aligned with the sexual assault: I would be peacefully sleeping when all of the sudden I would be jolted awake by this horrible thing happening to me. There wasn’t much I could do except try to breathe through it—just try to survive—and wait for the horrible thing to be over with. Just. Like. The assault. One of the most vivid panic attacks I remember was again when I was filing this sexual assault case with CU in the fall of 2014. I was peacefully sleeping. Then I woke up to the horrible feeling that I was dying. I was so scared and confused that it felt like I was going crazy; it didn’t feel real. When I could actually sit up and move—not frozen lying down—I asked my roommate to take me to the hospital. Of course once I got to the hospital they told me everything was fine. After going to the hospital another time, my parents told me that I had to stop going to the hospital. If something was wrong, I was to call my mom because she is a medical doctor and would be able to help. In the spring of 2015 I had yet another panic attack. I was peacefully sleeping when I was jolted awake. This time it felt like I was having a heart attack. It was a sharp, jabbing attack on my heart. About half an hour later it passed but I was still shaken. Instead of going to the hospital, I called my mom at four or five in the morning crying. Between uncontrollable sobs I told her that I had just had a heart attack. I told her my symptoms and she told me that the symptoms were not that of a heart attack. Even after her reassurance, I couldn’t fall back asleep; I was too afraid to wake up to the horrible thing again. It’s the depression. About a month after the assault, I tried to kill myself because of the impact of the sexual assault. Some days I can’t even get out of bed, let alone do four readings, projects, and study for tests. And no wonder. The rapist made pleasurable things of sex, sleep, and going out traumatic. So it’s no surprise that less pleasurable things like studying are 100 times more difficult.

“Even my own mother was victim blaming. She told me that if I hadn’t been drunk, this wouldn’t have happened.”

It really was a snowball effect: the rape affected me socially and psychologically, which in turn affected me academically. Every time I would try to put this trauma out of my mind, I would be reminded of it again and again with new updates, hearing dates, and trial dates. Like, “Hey, remember that traumatic thing that happened to you? Yeah you’re gonna have to relive that in your retelling to CU-Boulder investigators; the DA’s office; a detective; your therapist; your psychologist; your psychiatrist; your Office of Victim Assistance counselor; a judge; a jury; the rapist’s family, affiliates, and legal team; your loved ones; and many others! Hope that doesn’t put a damper on your school thing!” Everything is a reminder. I can’t escape the rapist figuratively or literally. For example, earlier this year my team and I went to New Mexico for a tournament. Back in Colorado, I returned to the unsettling news that the rapist was going to New Mexico the weekend after I went. What if he was there when I was? Would he supposedly turn around and go the other way? We’ve seen how well that has worked… Finally, financially. $250,000. $127,582 lost of future wages because I’ll still be in school instead of working. Lower starting income because I’ll only have an undergraduate degree instead of a master’s degree: $14,698. Hospital bills from panic attacks: $5,000. Bills for antidepressants: $100. MESA trauma class: $90. Money spent on textbooks and material for failed and withdrawn classes: $10,000. Money lost on failed and withdrawn classes: $15,000. Money lost on having to do extra undergraduate years (which includes housing and living expenses): $20,000. Bills from suicide attempt resulting in MIP, hospitalization, and BASICS classes: $4,000. $52,900 for my parents’ time, my time, and gas spent for meetings and trial. The $250,000 doesn’t even include a lifetime of future expenses of therapy, antidepressants, etc. as a result of this sexual assault. But it’s only the rapist’s life that has been ruined, right? It’s not like I had hopes and dreams or academic and career goals.

“My life has been ruined without my consent.”