We feel that because these barriers are rarely identified, much pain and confusion ensues for survivors. It is important to women that barriers to learning caused by violence be identified, legitimized and understood. It is also important to know that these barriers can be overcome.

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Seventeen years old and just beginning therapy, I sit in my law class trying to read a case study. Smith vs. Anderson. The plaintiff charges that the defendant's behavior on the night... The plaintiff charges that the defendant's behavior on the night...
The plaintiff charges-this is ridiculous, Nicki, focus. The plaintiff charges...

The plaintiff charges Oh my god. I stare at the page emptily, tears welling in my eyes, until my wonderful teacher leans over my desk, whispers Are you okay? I can't read it, I tell him. He nods in sympathy, and I tell him again, on the edge of panic now, No, I really can't read it. It doesn't make any sense. He frowns his concern and tells me I can leave if I want to. The rest of the class shifts uneasily and watches as I shove my books into my bag, crying. Later that night, the other women will stop by my room and knock softly, bring me a gentle smile and some tentative words of comfort. I feel unworthy of their support. Maybe I should just drop out again.

Three years later, in my first year of university, I am trying to research a paper. It's already late, and getting later by the minute. I sigh, and my friend looks up. "What is it?" he asks. "Nothing, it's just that I can't read this." He winces sympathetically. "Can't focus, eh?" "No," I reply, dull but calm. "I really can't read it. It doesn't make any sense. I'm gonna go make some tea, okay?" He nods, understanding me. I am not the only survivor in his life. His understanding makes it both easier and harder,' when I am not trying to explain or justify, I have the space to feel how exhausted I am. I come back upstairs and sit on the bed, and he wordlessly leaves his own work, sits beside me. "Can I touch you?" he asks, and I nod my assent, beginning to cry as he holds me. These are different tears than they were, no longer panicky but sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. Another cup of tea gets cold sitting on the desk. I've thrown out a lot of tea in the last few months.

****

I wrote my exams that year, my first year in university, about 3 weeks after a man I was dating raped me in my residence room and fell asleep beside me mumbling "Sorry. Go back to sleep. " I didn't feel I could tell my profs-what if they didn't believe me, what if they didn't care, what if they looked at me funny or sympathetically or disgustedly for the rest of the year, reminding me each time I entered a lecture that I was the girl-who-got-out-of- exams-' cuz-she-got-raped. I didn't want that; I couldn't handle that. I felt I was close to the edge as it was and I couldn't risk any other upset. I wrote exams but missed a lot of classes. I stared at the same page for hours and learned nothing. I distracted myself any way I could often in a self-destructive way but to others it looked like partying." I guess I really can't handle university level work, " I thought. "I guess I don't really belong here or I'm not working hard enough or I'm stupid. " My rapist continued to work on his degree, apparently his marks didn't suffer, apparently he didn't suffer.

This year will be different I thought as I started my second year. He should be gone. I moved into the residence next door. I didn't have to have my nightmares on the rape site any more; I didn't have to call that same site home or sleep on the stains left by his pleasure. I felt safe. Well, safer than last year, as safe as I can expect to feel as a woman in this society. Then I found out he was living in the residence across the road and taking classes in the same building as I was, at the same time. Attendance was painful, concentration was exhausting, my behavior seemed odd to those around me ... his behavior, though, is socially accepted." Just keep quiet and work harder; don't let him win, " I told myself .