When Sarah is triggered, her stomach drops. And then it keeps dropping.

Her pulse races; her heart hammers in her chest. She starts to sweat, but grows cold at the same time.

Then she can’t see. Her mind goes blank — she dissociates from reality. In that moment, the senior can’t even remember where she is.

“I feel my clothing, and sometimes I feel my hair,” said Sarah, weaving her fingers through a few strands to demonstrate. “And I realize that I’m a living person, and I’m here, and the sexual assault isn’t happening right now.”

Sarah and seven other sexual assault survivors at the University of Maryland interviewed by The Diamondback for this story detailed the way their trauma lingers as they continue their studies. From taking classes with triggering material to sharing the campus with their attackers, many of the survivors said campus life can intensify the post-traumatic stress and anxiety they are already struggling to overcome.

On college campuses, one in five women and one in 20 men report being sexually assaulted either by physical force or while incapacitated, according to a 2015 Washington Post poll.

National statistics show that these assaults are severely underreported. None of the eight survivors reported to University of Maryland Police or the Office of Civil Rights and Sexual Misconduct, with most turning to student advocacy groups, confidential resources on the campus and friends and family during their recovery process.

The Diamondback typically does not name victims of sexual violence. Most survivors quoted in this story are identified either by their first name or a pseudonym to protect their identity.

“Every time someone speaks out about it, it gets a little easier for everyone else,” Sarah said. “Every little voice just chips away at it.”

Antithesis of a safe space

Jessica stopped going to her gender communication course last year after swallowing statistic after statistic; hypothetical after hypothetical.

Her class frequently mentioned that about “1 in [5]” women are sexually assaulted during college, she said, but the teacher never “looks around and says, ‘OK, so somebody in this classroom has had that experience.’”

“It’s real; we’re talking about people who are here,” the senior communication major said. “… I’m 100 percent of a person. And it’s 100 percent happened to me.”

For those affected by sexual assault, classes can serve as the antithesis of a safe space, with course content triggering flashbacks of assault and discussions magnifying others’ misconceptions of rape culture.

Under federal and state law, this university’s Title IX office requires a 45-minute online training every other year that covers topics such as faculty members’ obligation to report sexual misconduct claims, what to do if someone “experience[s] or learn[s] of sexual assault” and available resources on the campus, according to the office’s website. Individual departments can also request further sexual misconduct in-person training through the office, along with bystander intervention training that CARE to Stop Violence conducts.

The Joint President/Senate Sexual Assault Prevention Task Force’s sexual assault prevention plan, which university President Wallace Loh approved in late April, also encouraged additional training through the Title IX office to outline more “strategies for supporting students affected by sexual misconduct.” But it did not address faculty use of trigger warnings, which preempt a possibly traumatizing scene or topic in an effort to reduce the risk of distressing survivors of assault or any trauma.

Enforcing a universal trigger warning standard would be “a mistake,” as students and teachers’ expectations “vary widely among disciplines, institutions, and levels of study” and survivor experiences are so diverse, Alexis Lothian, a women’s studies professor at this university, wrote in an email. But it doesn’t mean teachers “shouldn’t make an effort” to better understand and appreciate students’ experiences, she added.

For Stephanie Madden, a former university professor and alumna, her personal research and dissertation on sexual assault have made her acutely aware of triggers. She also watched a student have a panic attack in the middle of class in fall 2015 when she taught at this university.

“I had a student give a persuasive speech in COMM107 about sexual assault on college campuses, and she did not include a trigger warning, and I actually had a student triggered,” Madden said, recalling how the student had to leave the room. “So that just sort of solidified to me the importance [of trigger warnings].”

Madden noted that some professors can often be out of touch with the extent of how trauma can psychologically affect survivors. Communication department chairwoman Shawn Parry-Giles wrote in an email that she’d be interested in implementing additional training for faculty that broaches trigger warnings as early as next fall.

“Part of it I think is generational in some ways for faculty … the comment [one university professor told] me was, ‘Well we’re all adults here, we can talk about this,’” Madden said. “But it’s not just sort of adult level of conversation, it is the actual psychological trigger and not being able to control a reaction.”

Turned upside down

Alex’s attacker was a friend. They’d gone on a university ski trip together, and shared a couple of friends in common. But as Alex opened up to mutual friends about her assault, she noticed something: Nothing changed.

Her friends’ continued contact with her assailant added more confusion and hurt to a situation that had already turned everything “upside down,” Alex said. The junior neurobiology and physiology major thought she was prepared to ward off such an attack in the first place, she said, noting how she keeps a small knife attached to her keychain, owns a whistle and has taken self-defense classes. But none of that mattered when her assailant wasn’t a stranger.

“I was attacked by someone I trusted,” Alex said. “… I thought I knew that guy, but as soon as he had half a chance, he just took advantage of me.”

About 80 percent of college-aged women who have been victims of rape and other sexual assault knew their attacker, according to the U.S. Justice Department. Knowing the perpetrator can often leave victims susceptible to re-traumatization through seeing the assailant on the campus or frequenting the same social circles.

Claire’s attacker has a job at a central location on the campus. Sometimes it’s unavoidable for the graduate student, who identifies by they/them pronouns, to see him, leaving them dissociative, scared and feeling like they’re going to die.

Kate, a senior community health major, avoids fraternity parties and the College Park bars because they remind her of the environment where she was assaulted. She tried to go out for her 21st birthday but had to leave R.J. Bentley’s after about 30 minutes, angering friends who didn’t understand why she couldn’t have fun.

And Sarah Stephens, who escaped a sexually violent relationship with her boyfriend more than 20 years ago, still can’t have someone walking behind her on her way to classes. She often has to step to the side of sidewalks to let others — even children — pass.

“I knew school would be hard, I knew school work would be hard … but for me I have this extra added layer of self doubt [following my abuse] that pops up periodically,” the 41-year-old sociology major said.

On top of experiencing stress and anxiety on the campus, knowing the assailant can also lead a survivor to question his or her world view and the validity of their experience, said Andrea Chisolm, an assistant clinical professor in the psychology department.

“If they’re raped by somebody they know, they have to make sense of that,” she said. “Sometimes they can start to question what they did, even though they are not to blame at all.”

The Title IX office, the Office of Student Conduct and Resident Life work together to offer interim protective measures such as no-contact orders and housing and academic accommodations — which can include class changes — to sexual assault survivors. There were five housing accommodations, 24 no-contact orders and 26 academic accommodations for 66 complainants during the 2015-16 year, according to the Title IX office.

Students who find themselves unable to attend class or are falling behind on their workload can also ask the CARE to Stop Violence office to send teachers a letter that discloses generally that they’re dealing with a traumatic experience.

LaVonne Whitehead, CARE’s lead educator, noted that these types of letters mention the University Health Center but not CARE explicitly, in order to protect the privacy of survivors.

“The student is then empowered to have a conversation with as much detail or as little detail as they want with their instructor,” she said.

Into their own hands

In November, protesters marched from McKeldin Mall to the Administration Building, scattering articles of clothing on the grass and sticking notes to office doors. In February, students crowded into the second floor of Cornerstone Loft & Grill for an intimate discussion on rape culture. And in April, others congregated on the mall by the hundreds to listen to survivors’ stories.

Each action was a call for solidarity and increased visibility of sexual assault on this campus, oftentimes gaining momentum with help from Preventing Sexual Assault, a student advocacy group that started in 2015.

“There were so many survivors on this campus who didn’t have anybody to go to, and now it’s kind of like we’re opening up these conversations,” said Alanna DeLeon, PSA’s president and a senior community health major. “… You can’t force people to want to educate themselves until they know the severity of the issue and what’s at stake.”

On a campus of about 38,000 students, Title IX received 21 complaints of Sexual Assault I, or non-consensual penetration, from July 1, 2015 to June 30, 2016, while University of Maryland Police received nine reports of rape during 2015 and 2016, according to uniform crime statistics reported to the FBI. None of the sexual assault survivors interviewed reported their assault to either entity, choosing instead to lean on each other, campus resources or friends and family members following their attack.

DeLeon said PSA has played a pivotal role in her own recovery, as members are well-educated on the topic of sexual assault and “have been nothing but great” on days when she has difficulty functioning.

“I can text the PSA GroupMe and ask them to do what I need to do that day, and I let them know I’ll do the same,” she said. “We’re all here for each other because we know how hard it is to talk about this stuff all the time. Even not being a survivor and talking about this all the time is draining. We’re not all superheroes.”

The Student Government Association has also been an active voice in pushing for increased funding for campus resources related to sexual misconduct issues.

In September, the organization proposed a $34 annual student fee for the Title IX office, which Title IX Officer Catherine Carroll described that month as “under-resourced” and “under-staffed.” The charge gained national attention and ended with this university announcing the addition of six new positions between the Title IX office and the CARE office.

For assault survivors seeking campus resources, CARE provides a confidential safe space where survivors of assault and sexual violence can walk in during business hours and talk with a trained advocate. This office provided first-time consultations to 117 new clients and scheduled about 650 CARE therapy visits during the 2015-16 year, a university spokeswoman wrote in an email.

Whenever Claire sees their attacker on the campus and starts having flashbacks, they can count on the people within CARE to “do whatever they can to support me,” they said.

“They just do grounding work with me or talk me through it,” they said. “Even though it sucks that I see him, I’m really grateful and blessed to know that CARE exists.”

Sexual assault survivors seeking group therapy can also attend the Counseling Center’s “Hope and Healing” support group, which served 17 students during the 2015-16 year — up from eight during the 2014-15 school year when the sessions began, a university spokeswoman wrote in an email. For communities such as minority and LGBT populations, there are also tailored group sessions, including “Circle of Sisters” and “Rainbow Walk-In Hour.”

Special services like these can be crucial, especially for those who fear judgment or a lack of understanding, said LGBT Equity Center Director Luke Jensen. Oftentimes, LGBT sexual assault survivors face “double exposure” to shame from being discriminated against as an LGBT person and being a target of assault, he noted.

“Hopefully [these resources] convey that whether you’re accessing that particular resource or any other resource in the Counseling Center, there’s going to be some understanding; there’s going to be some knowledge,” he said. “… Sometimes someone can have all the good will in the world, but if you’re going to them for help, you don’t want to have to be the teacher.”

For men — one in six who enter college as survivors of sexual abuse — assault can also be difficult to address because of pre-existing stigmas and the pervading “female victim-male perpetrator” narrative. Whitehead said the proportion of men who seek CARE’s services is significantly lower than that of women, and the Counseling Center’s Hope and Healing group is only open to female-identifying members, a university spokeswoman wrote in an email. Most other group therapy sessions listed on the center’s website are open to men.

Male sexual assault survivors are often left questioning their identity and their masculinity, said Cory George, a male childhood sexual assault victims advocate who was sexually abused by family members as a child. Society raises them to not talk about their feelings, he said, and to view sexual interactions — with women in particular — as “scoring,” and something to be proud of.

If Sarah is having a rough day or is triggered by a class, she’ll call her mom, Nora. Both of her parents have joined her at some point during her therapy, Sarah said, and know what to say to validate her feelings and make her “feel that I’m worthy, human, even though I just bolted out of a class because I got a glimpse of a four-letter word on a page.”

Although Nora has tried to do everything she can to support Sarah, she said she still often finds herself plagued with questions.

“You don’t know how much to press her, how much to let her have her space,” Nora said. “[You ask yourself:] How can I help you best? How can I make you stronger?”

Yet even with help from campus resources and friends, many sexual assault survivors said the residual trauma continues to crop up in their day-to-day lives.

A few weeks after her attack in early 2016, Kate couldn’t go to sleep without checking under her bed or in her closet. She knew her attacker wasn’t hiding there, she said. But until last November, she couldn’t stop.

“It made me feel really uncomfortable and out of control,” she said. “It was this compulsive urge to make sure that I felt safe. … I hated knowing that I had to do this in my own room.”

Trauma can even follow survivors after they fall asleep.

Since she was raped in November, senior finance major Simone has had dreams of being trapped in a house, sometimes with other girls. All of the exits are blocked by brick walls, or by men who bring her back inside.

“I can never escape,” she said. “I try, and I can’t.”