Survivor Testimony: The Statistics Miss So Much

The Statistics Miss So Much

By: K

I live in a world of statistics sometimes. It’s a byproduct of conducting research. You look at a person’s answer and you lump them into the other people in that category. By gender, age, race/ethnicity, or by whatever other characteristic you’re looking at. That person’s lived experiences get expressed by choosing one of the pre-set options I give them. We know the 1 in 4 statistic for women who will be the target of a sexual assault or rape. If I were conducting a study on it, there would be several questions to assess whether or not a person had been subjected to that horror, and it would all boil down to a few marks on a sheet of paper or clicks of the mouse. All that pain and anguish and those personal feelings get cut out in that moment, only to be brought up if I ask about them, or if they leave comments in the “anything else to add” space.

Two years ago, on paper, I would have looked like a “no” for sexual assault survivor. I would look like a “yes” now. So much has changed for me that will never be captured in those statistics. But I was not sexually assaulted two years ago, no. That is when I remembered it, that is when I realized what had truly happened to me. For four years, four years I repressed, ignored, wrote off my own sexual assault. Four years of feminism and standing up for myself, and I couldn’t recognize sexual assault when it happened. I am ashamed. I am sick.

I was so helpless. Fifteen, so young, strong-willed for a fifteen-year-old, but still fifteen. He was already emotionally abusive, but I didn’t recognize that then either. I broke up with him earlier that day. In retrospect, that conversation…I think he was trying to guilt me into staying with him, was trying to manipulating me into something, because he took what wasn’t even a slight as some sign that I wanted to break up with him. But I decided that I actually did want to break up, so we did. Of course, we decided to remain friends, and proceeded to walk to a mutual friend’s house, minutes after breaking up. So stupid, so willing to be nice, to give others what they want.

He must have been mad at me for dumping him and wanted to exert control over me again; that’s the only explanation I have. Of course, why should I have to explain his actions? They don’t make them less hurtful, they don’t make them less real.

He was standing behind me as we looked at something on the computer, and tried to touch my vulva. I said No. I said NO and pushed is hand away. He could have overpowered me. My No’s meant nothing to him. The creeping, horrible, this-can’t-be feeling that someone was going to touch that most private of places against my directly expressed will would not have made him stop. I think the only reason he stopped was because our friend was still in the room. Of course, he didn’t step in, didn’t say anything, may not even remember this incident that I can never forget.

My ex-boyfriend claimed he was joking and I…didn’t entirely believe him, but let it pass. Fifteen. Too young to know what to do. Too young to realize that I should cut ties with this person immediately. And I tried to never think of it again. For four years, I would never have applied the term “sexual assault survivor” to myself, because I never thought about that incident, I never considered it sexual assault. It makes me so angry. I want to go back in time to yell and scream. There are so many things I would say to this boy if I could go back in time, if my twenty-one year old self could briefly inhabit my fifteen year old self’s body. I would scream and rage and I don’t even know if I would care if he would understand my rage.

But if I ran into him today? I would turn and walk away, avoid, ignore, don’t make contact. He still scares me on a visceral, gut reaction level. He still has that power over me. I flinch when I see a person or actor that looks too much like him. But that has more to do with the enormous levels of emotional, verbal, and eventually physical abuse. According to mutual acquaintances, he has gotten nastier, more abusive over the years, a man I do not want to draw the attention of.

But time travel is not possible, and I am an adult now, one that has to live with her past. I’ve had two years to process something that happened to me six years ago with a heaping pile of shame and anger for not recognizing sexual assault for what it is. I mean, honestly, how unambiguous is that? How could I have let it pass? But I did, and here I am, and now I am me, the me who repressed and ignored it when a trusted person attempted to violate me. I am an adult me, an adult who can articulate No’s and call things like this fast and more surely, but part of me still fears that child-me will rise up and ignore huge violations to…to what? To “be nice”? To “not cause a fuss”? No. It cannot happen.

I am ashamed of those four years of ignorance, but in a way they were a gift. I had four years to grow into a woman and a feminist and learn the language of how to deal with sexual assault as an outsider, how to spot victim blaming and label it fucked up, and how to relate to men as friends and lovers without the spectre of a sexual assault hanging over me. But it’s here now and it will never go away. I have to learn to deal with this huge chasm of time and experiences. I’m still not really ready to talk about it with others. I’ve told two people, and not in any depth. Just the simple fact: my ex-boyfriend attempted to sexually assault me.

These experiences can never be boiled down to numbers, yet they are, frequently. And there are more statistics. I don’t get to be free from fear of sexual assault because I’ve already “had mine”. I’m still at risk. In fact, I’m disabled, which puts me at twice the risk of the average woman for sexual assault and rape (over the course of my lifetime…so what are the chances it will happen again? They don’t have reports on repeated assaults/rapes). What are the chances that after moving on, after successfully pursing healthy sexual relationships, after having control over my life and my body, that I will be made helpless again? I want to say it cannot happen, but then I am reminded that the very nature of sexual assault and rape means that I don’t get a say in whether it can happen or not. That’s up to rapists.

Survivor Testimony: I Can Not Wait

I Can Not Wait

By: Anonymous, Austin, TX

Tomorrow I am checking myself into a mental hospital. Having been raped two months ago, it has destroyed my life and sense of self and safety. Even the way I view humanity as a whole has changed. I used to have complete faith in the outside world.

I can feel her in me somewhere, just waiting to come back out and shine. I can not wait to go to the hospital to work on this. I am ready to start feeling better because I know how absolutely beautifully souled I was.

My best friend’s view on humanity hinges on the sense that I can not let you win and destroy my thoughts and self. When I come out of that hospital, he will be so proud that instead of shattering, i grew from this. That I still won. That I am still here.

Survivor Testimony: Gory Chapters of Life

Gory Chapters of Life

By: Alfreta Casey, Akron

I have debated whether this chapter should exist, and I have decided it would be best not to put this experience on paper. Yet here I am, writing about things I wish were forgotten. For a longtime I have ignored this incident, stuffing it into my subconscious. To me, the matter was too threatening and shameful to confront directly. I am writing this chapter now because I cannot sleep. When I dream, I think about it. I relive it.

I would like to close my eyes nightly to peaceful dreams. One nights rest does not seem much to ask, but I am restless. The sun refuses to set in my mind, the moon is missing, and the stars have fallen. I cannot shake loose of associations of one specific day as it transforms itself into nightmares, denying me sleep. In my dreams I see visions I cannot bare to look at. Who is this man I discover in the hours before dawn? The ghost who haunts me ruthlessly? All this pain comes out in bad dreams that I try to forget as soon as I remember what I have lost.

In one night I lost my self esteem, my self respect, myself. I lost my virginity, which should have been lost with compassion and sensitivity, rather than force and aggression. I was raped at a party.

There are many nights I lie awake thinking about it. I told him to stop, but maybe not loud enough. I tried to push him off, but maybe not hard enough. I just keep thinking I should have been more forceful, made a bigger commotion, and because I did not it is my fault. It is like I let it happen. I must have really hated myself to allow such a thing. Looking back I think I thought I was too worthless to make a stand. I did not fight for myself the way I should have. Even now, I do not want to make a commotion. I do not want to be, and will not be a spokesperson speaking out against rape. I don’t ever want to have to mention it out loud, which is why I am writing it. It seems I am forever in harms way. Something bad is always happening. I try to figure out my biggest mistakes before they happen again. I always ask myself if I would be happy if I could turn back the hands of time and change one thing. Maybe the day my innocence was broken. I am so young, and I already wish my life was mine to do over.

I think I have learned to be helpless over the years. It annoys me when I catch my self wallowing in self-pity. I never want to be a sad girl, but some things I do not know how to get past. A lot of times I pretend I am fine, but then I cannot sleep, and I know I am not.

After I was raped, I was paralyzed with not caring very much about anything. I fell off the face of the earth for awhile. I did not go to class or back to my dorm. I went home and I showered for an eternity because I felt unnaturally dirty. It was an emotional filth carrying a stench that will always linger in the air. But at the time, I honestly believed a bar of soap, and some shampoo, would rid me of the shame and guilt I felt. I know now, I will always be soiled from the experience.

The weird part about going home is that I wanted to. It was the first time I ever walked through those door ways without feeling inconvenienced, or like it was an unfortunate outcome of being too young or poor, or not having somewhere better to go. I remember wanting my mom in a way I have never wanted her before. When I saw her the next morning I hugged her longer then I have ever hugged anybody. I think I shocked her because showing physical affection is something my family never does. It’s abnormal, and for me to have been so vulnerable in front of her was a rarity. I did not tell her what happened. After a minute or two I broke my embrace and left with this guy named Ryan in a car.

God what a bad influence he was. I can not help but think of all the bad things stirring in the short time I knew him, or about the scum bag person he helped me become. Anyway, we went to his house and he kept trying to get me to do drugs with him, but I would not because I kept thinking, though it would be nice to have something to numb the pain I was feeling, if I took anything he would try and take advantage of me, like the guy a few nights before. He got annoyed because he thought I was being a prick. He decided to drive me home, but instead I convinced him to drive fifty extra miles back to my dorm. During the car ride he kept pawing at me like a dog in heat or something. Every attempt he made at fondling me was swatted away. After awhile I got annoyed and yelled at him with a voice so strong it could move mountains. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you keep trying to touch me when I told you to stop?” I will never forget his answer. His words burned a whole through me and triggered a rage.

He said, “Because when you say no, it’s in a cute way, and I think you want me to touch you. You’re just playing hard to get.” And then it hit me, what if the other guy thought like Ryan? What if he honestly thought I was being playful when I was saying no? But I was crying. There is nothing playful about tears. Still, I do not think he thought he was doing anything wrong. Maybe he was just too wasted to care. When everything was said and done, he seemed proud of himself, not remorseful. I remember him asking me if I was a virgin because there was blood on his boxers. I didn’t answer, I didn’t react at all. He laughed. I hoped to relieve tension.

Anyways, I didn’t run from him when he let me up, there was nowhere to run. I couldn’t go anywhere until Ryan got back from his fucking beer run with the car. So I just sat there in the dark, watching this kid with no name, but a face I will always remember until he finally left.

Latent memory over, it’s time to fast-forward back to the ride home with Ryan and what a train wreck it was. He must have though I was the biggest freak ever. I climbed into the back seat of his car and pulled his sleeping bag over my face because I did not want him to see I was crying, and I did not want him to ask me what was wrong. He asked though, and I answered with the most common lie ever known to man, “nothing.”

When I finally arrived to my dorm, Heidi and Carrie were gone. But both Val and Nicole were at their computers in the common room. I wanted to walk in my dorm and make a good show forgetting all that happened. I wanted to make forgetting mandatory because I did not need another reason to be more sharp tongued and cynical. But then the sadness came over me again. A silence fell and I stated to cry as I left the common room for my room, where I curled up into a ball on my bed. With in seconds Nicole followed in after me. A little stab of panic paralyzed me upon her emergence. Do I tell her? At first I resented her for entering the room. I wanted her to go away. She felt like an intruder on my private thoughts. I felt no anger towards her, only the honest wish to have my thoughts unread and my emotions left alone. When she first started talking to me, I did not react to her voice. But then she wanted to play the guessing game, and after a few guesses, she guessed correctly. She arrived to a very accurate conclusion on her own, and afterwards, I asked her to get Heidi for me; my safety blanket. Unfortunately, Heidi was in class.

Nicole was the only person who heard the story, and though her presence was a discomfort at first, she ended up comforting me. Talking to her helped. She was the first, and last person, I really talked about it with. I left out some minor details, diluted the retrieved memory, but the overview was basically this; I was depressed. I did drugs for the first time to take the edge off. I went to a party, and I went up stairs with a random guy. The whole thing was a mistake. I screwed up. I know this. I should have stayed home and looked at the inside of my eyelids, slept. I just felt so alone, like nobody could relate to what I was feeling. There was nothing anybody could do to snap me out of it either, so I did stupid things. I dealt with things on my own, though I dealt with them in the wrong way.

After my talk with Nicole, I was soon reminded by a phone call that I had a date with Ana. Yes, a girl. Stop shaking your head in disapproval, or better yet, stop fantasizing. I liked her, though in the end, I broke things off with her. The relationship, not the date, Nicole convinced me to hop in the shower and keep the date, though we did not go to the movies as planned. Instead we lied in my bed and talked about stupid things for hours. She was actually the reason I never talked to Heidi about that unfortunate day. I remember, Heidi came rushing through the bedroom door fully willing to hear the story, but saw Ana, and realized it was not the time. And it’s never been the time. It’s not something you have a casual conversation about.

I believe we are designers of our own existence. And for awhile after I was violated, I designed a life meant to be lived by a whore. God, what I would give to not have those regrets. I stopped going to class. I used very bad things to avert my attention and manage my life. I turned to drugs and promiscuity, things I should have been running from, but for some twisted reason, I was embracing them. I acted on dangerous impulses because I honestly did not give a shit about myself. I thought by doing those things, by biting the snake that bit me, I would gain relief. It did not. I do not know what I was thinking. I was in a dark place.

I was miserable. I kept replaying what happened in my head, and it made every day a fresh bout of torture. The whole experience just made me feel cheap and dirty, and I think it was twice as hard on me because I was a virgin. For a few weeks, everything just reminded me of a place I hated. I spent a lot of time in my bed crying because everything was hard, and bright, and violent. Everything I felt, everything I touched, was hell. Just getting through the moment and the one after that, knowing what I had lost. It was like if I did not move, if I did not think, if I did not listen to the voices, then none of it happened and everything was okay.

I was at a point in my life where I was ready to give up on everything: the past, the future, the present. None of it meant anything to me. It was like he took my ambitions away when he broke my body in half. As a child, he was probably the boy who took nice paintings and light them on fire.

In two weeks, I went from a girl who had never done drugs, or had sex, to a girl who snorted coke, smoked marijuana, swallowed ecstasy and valium pills. In a matter of days, I went from barely kissing guys to fucking them in the back seat of cars, bathrooms, (men’s and women’s) and libraries. That whole section of my life was out of character for me. This ridiculous behavior stopped when I thought I was pregnant. It forced me to ask myself what I was doing to myself. And because when attempting to answer it, all I could see was a fall from grace, it forced me into submission. I was not acting like the young lady I hoped to become. I still have a long way to go before I will be satisfied with my persona.

If I had one wish, I would wish I could time travel, set the present on a loop and go back and fix things. I want to find the thirteen year old version of myself and just grab that little kid and say, “You stop, just stop, or look at what you’ll become!” And of course standing before her will be me, a worthless human being with no morals. I will let her know about her future if she does not change things. I will tell her about how she will have an endless list of things to do, but she won’t do them. I will tell her about her optimistic philosophy that applies to everyone but her. And then I would start to shake her harder and say, “Listen!

You listen to me because you can’t be this, you can’t be what I am! I hate everything about me! Understand? My insecurities cripple me! My fears of opening up to people because I am afraid they will grow annoyed and reject me. I can handle not being here anymore, but I can’t handle being here if it means being alone. You change who you are, kid, or else we will be a fucking worthless pile of shit. You can fix this, you find someone to love us. You become someone. Don’t be this, please. Be better. We need that awful person inside us to die, because for as long as she is here, we are not.”

Survivor Testimony: Untitled

Untitled

By: Anonymous

Sometimes it takes awhile until you process it all.

…..Until you not only claim that you have survived, but that you have healed…or atleast feel yourself healing. Its beautiful. Its scary and most of all it feel like giving birth…
Giving birth to yourself. Your new self that has been able to believe in the self love and self forgiving enough to figure out what led me to not telling my story..to not fighting…screaming..and shouting “Pay attention to me!” “These are nasty kids doing nasty things.”

….I realized kids are so damn smart, they repeat only what they see around them. These kids saw hurt, violence,…and in my parents I saw something frightening…confusing…

I saw in my father an incredible strong person who loves his family so much that he sacrificed a part of him that is so important to remember and never forget…the self-love and self-protection that should reach beyond anyone else.

In him I saw an incredible love. I also saw his stress, his disappointment with his marriage, his frustration with a mother I knew could be so much stronger…

I was a smart child, but it wasn’t until my adulthood that I could process how smart children really are; to the point that they repeat their parents or guardians or teachers mistakes until they realize.

Until they realize that the most important thing is to love yourself and protect yourself from the hurt of others, because you have to believe in yourself and your self-love to the point where you can listen and not let peoples hurts affect your own well being.

That is something I was struggling with all along. I cared for my mother as much as my father. I still do. I cant wait for her growth anymore – as much as I cant wait for the growth in those I love…in other words Im able to wait unless I learn to protect myself from the hurt and problems of others and not let it take away to much of my own space. Its this space that every survivor needs to create for themselves; the space for true self-love and forgiveness and self-understanding. I was so damn understanding all my life, to the point where I forgot what it means to stand up for my rights.

The way to build healthy relationships is thus learning from your mistakes and those of your parents. The more I talked to myself, the more I understood….the answer is always the self; focus on the self and then you can take on other peoples shit. Just be careful and invest in those friendships that help you grow without sacrificing your own growth and self-love journey…

Like most things in life. It’s a process called…life.

For my mother.
As soon as she’s ready, we can cry together…But she has to be ready to forgive herself for only her self-protection will allow herself to listen without hurting herself the way that she has been.

Good friends and good therapists know when to distance themselves from a relationship that is challenging their own tools for self-protection. Through this acknowledgment, you gain a kind of self that is self-driven and self-rewarding…you get a kind of satisfaction and self-pride that no one can ever take away from you, but the tricky part is getting there.

Believe in your friends as much as you believe in yourself.

Love. Forgive. And most of all forgive yourself for your weaknesses – we are all fucking human.

And remember not to worry toooo much…its easy to get lost, but you have to work on your self…and keep working on yourself.
Believe in yourself and you’ll never be lost. Love yourself and you can be loved.

Survivor Testimony: Untitled

Untitled

By: kt

I was 5
Footie pajamas-the kind my son wears now
soft feet, zipped up, all snuggled in
except mine wasn’t zipped that day.
He unzipped the footie pajamas
the soft pink innocent pajamas.
He, my mom’s boyfriend, pushed his hand
in my pajamas and under my
underwear as if I was a piece of ass
for his taking. He took me.
In me his fingers went.
What? Why? How?
My now never innocent again brain raced….
so scared yet as if my mouth cannot work
my mouth stopped working.
This wasn’t right it didn’t hurt but it wasnt right
….or was it?
this rape of innocence actually felt good.
i pressed his hand down, on me
in me
oh what have i done?
did i violate myself? am i weird? i must be wrong.
confusion welled in my head
but no tears came to my eyes.
was my sister okay?
what was this?
am i in trouble?
am i sick?
do not tell mommy i thought.
no one would understand the good and bad,
the twisted feelings i had in my footie pajamas.

22 years passed
deny deny deny never acknoledge
never admit i’m one of them
those that carry sad stories as if they were gifts
no that’s not me, plus my story isn’t THAT BAD
or so i told myself.

but mine was just as bad.
it was the worst kind of innocence stealing.
someone unzipped my footie pajamas
and
touched me down there
in the place i hadn’t the word to name.
i was 5.

Survivor Testimony: Consent Through Deceit

Consent Through Deceit

By: Keller

My hands are shaking.  This story isn’t easy to share, though I’ve told it before, with different language, and lighter implications.  I’ve spent nearly a year negating my experience, and avoiding a word on the outside, that will not stop raging its way through my insides.  I have been cautious not to give this word space because my story falls into the grey area of how we define consent.

A year ago I met a man.  A man I was inclined to trust as he was introduced to me by my friends as a gentle and trustworthy person.  We laughed easily, enjoyed one another’s company, and as we talked and shared and spent time together, we had more and more in common.  He taught me football, so I wouldn’t feel left out, invited my father to his BBQs, and wanted me to read him books he’d missed out on growing up (I had confessed that reading out loud was one of my favorite ways to spend time with other people).  We made plans around ridiculous themes, like throwing a costume party simply so we could dress up as characters from Alice in Wonderland.  He was attentive, fun, and charming.  I was smitten.  Eventually we went to bed together.  And everything changed.  He stopped calling me.  Stopped speaking to me.  Stopped acknowledging me in our social circle.

I called him out on his behavior.  His response was that he never liked me, never wanted to know me, or be my friend.  He said we had nothing in common and that he had lied so I would go to bed with him.  I was shocked, and hurt, and so offended, and I told him that.  He said I was pretty and friendly and clearly wanted him and that a woman as attractive as I was should be used to this by now.  I deserved to be lied to because men wanted to sleep with me.  I was expected to reciprocate the sexual desire I brought out in men.  I should know better.  I’m aware enough to recognize this as twisted victim blaming logic, but the damage was still done.

He changed the way I live in the world, how I feel safe in my surroundings.  He changed the way I relate to touch and how I relate to male friends.  I second guess their intentions.  I am sometimes afraid of their hugs, of their interest, while at the same time desperately wanting them to be someone worthy of trust, to prove that men are not these monsters that haunt my nightmares.  I am afraid that even the kindest of them are just biding their time, that I am no more than an interchangeable image in their predatory male fantasy.  The slightest manipulation, or “white” lie, triggers a flood of this experience.  I am seen as irrational and overreacting.  I should just let it go, I’m told, it happens all the time.  Guys will say anything to get in your pants.  That old cliche saying has taken on a new violating tint.  I can’t stop thinking can consent contrived through carefully constructed lies be considered consent?  I feel like the authenticity of my consent was eradicated by his deception.  In the end, I had no choice, because he engineered and exploit my choice.

I share all this now because the limitations of how and when, and who the word can be applied to inflicts more shame, and blame on survivors, and allows predators more space to groom.  I share because the grey area needs to be talked about, so survivors know they aren’t crazy, so they can name their experience, and start healing, because I need to name my experience to keep healing.  I share because culturally we make excuses, when we need to stand up for accountability.

I share because it feels like rape, and it is time I said so.

Survivor Testimony: Affected

Affected

By: Lacie, Everett

In my college abnormal psychology class I learned that what you did to me was a power play. You felt weak in your everyday life, so you chose to prey on me. It made you feel powerful to violate a child, to touch me in ways you should have only touched someone your own age. I felt sick to my stomach as we studied these. It still makes me sick to think that people like you feel the need to hurt children in the pursuit of feeling powerful.
You told me you loved me, told me not to tell anyone. And I didn’t tell anyone. As a result of this I had horrible anxiety. I would lay in my room and cry, trying to read my favorite books to get rid of the memories. I hid it from everyone until I had so much anxiety and fear that I finally broke down and told my mom. These are things that a child should never have to deal with.
I was nine when I told someone. For a year I had kept my painful secret, crying in my room and then running cold water over my face to make it look like I hadn’t been crying so I could continue to keep it hidden. Nine. Do you know what most people are worrying about at the age of nine?
Their best friend fighting with them.
Whether or not pink should be their favorite color.
What color they should ask their parents to paint their walls.
What their favorite characters on tv are dealing with this week.
Homework.
What they should eat for lunch.
What toy they will get at the restaurant in their kids meal.
You took away part of my childhood. In your selfish, self serving, weak self, you couldn’t find your power somewhere else, so you took it from me. A nine year old.
I don’t know if you hoped I would grow up to always remember you, but I don’t think you will be satisfied with the answer. No, I will never forget you. But. But is such a powerful word for me in this situation and I sincerely hope this pierces you like a knife. But, you are not a part of my everyday life. You have not affected me permanently in any way that hinders my life or my success. You no longer affect my relationships, my trust, my confidence. I survived you. I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.
You were released 5 months ago. You weren’t supposed to get out for another year. “Good Behavior” or some idiotic reason like that. As if anyone who has molested a child can have good behavior.
Someday, I will have a child. You will never meet her, and I’m not sorry for that. I may have moved on, but I’m not stupid enough to think the same thing could not happen to my child. I will do everything in my power to keep you away from my kids.
The most satisfying part about all of this, though, is that I am positive you will never forget me. I hope I weigh on your conscience every day. I hope I am the elephant in the room every day for you. I hope you think about what you did to me everyday and you feel awful about it. That’s what everyone who has done what you have done deserves.
You may have ruined part of my childhood, but you will not ruin my life. I don’t have that much respect for you. You have no power over me anymore.
I survived you.

Survivor Testimony: When I Sleep..

When I Sleep..

By: L

I think it might be like Stockholm syndrome. He consumes my thoughts like a lover might—creeping into my head and night and breathing on the pillow next to me.. I wake up nauseous, disoriented. He’s still here, next to me coughing. I worry to myself. I spend the day looking over my shoulder waiting for the moment the green Honda Element that I have radar for pulls up next to me and he says, “get in”.

That night I had said, “don’t, don’t. I’m sleeping, please just let me sleep” he had come up from behind with a condom already on.

After he pulled out, he laid next to me, and asked,

“How much do you love me? Scale of 1 to 10”

“1,” I said. I was thinking negative 4.

He scoffed.

“How could you sleep with someone you don’t even love?”

He stayed next to me all night. Hacking and hacking. Though he was beautiful, all he was to me in that sleepless night was the putrid sound of brown mucus churning up in his smoker’s lung.

How much do you love me?

How could you sleep with me if you didn’t love me?

That question haunts me. How could I? Maybe I do love him. If I said it out loud maybe it would be as though none of this ever happened, maybe conceding to his truth might eliminate some of the hurt that comes from resisting.

I am, after all, a people pleaser.

He haunts me. I haunt him. I can’t seem to shake him, out of this perverse feeling of connection. He took a piece of me that he called love, and is holding it hostage. I don’t know what to call it. All I know is that it feels like he’s still raping me every night when I lay down to sleep.

“Please just let me sleep.”

Survivor Testimony: I do not discuss my sexual assault very often

I do not discuss my sexual assault very often

By: Erica

I do not discuss my sexual assault very often. The only people who know about it are my closest friends. After the assault happened, I was not even sure it was assault. It was not until I was talking with a therapist a little while after that she confirmed that what my ex-boyfriend did was, in fact, sexual assault. The therapist thinks that there are a few possible reasons I did not grant myself the right to formally consider it “sexual assault” and recover appropriately. Firstly, I did not realize that romantic partners (like a boyfriend) were often perpetrators of sexual assault. I was under the impression that men who sexually assaulted women were evil rapists hiding in the bushes of a city park. Sadly, I found out the hard way that a person you care about can violate your trust. Also, another reason for my denial could be that I know of a few women who I believe experienced worse sexual assault. The therapist worked with me to help me understand that it does no one any good to compare the level of depravity of other women’s sexual assaults versus my own. She encouraged me to allow myself to discuss the hurt and dismiss the voice inside my head telling me I am “selfish” for experiencing a valid reaction to the sexual assault. Lastly, the therapist helped me get rid of the notion that I could not feel hurt and anger about the assault, since “it’s not the worst thing that has happened to me.” She persuaded me to talk about the other times in my life when I had been mistreated or when my trust had been broken. She then encouraged me to understand that, yes, some experiences in my life have been worse than others. Nonetheless, I still have the right to posess strong emotions about anything that happened to me that I feel was unfair, unjustified, or malintentioned. It took me a while to realize that the feelings I was experiencing after the sexual assault were totally valid and appropriate. Now that I realize this, I believe I am on the path to better healing.