It’s like having a piece of shrapnel buried inside, touching a vital artery. The wound is healed; there is no visible evidence. But every so often if you move the wrong way, or someone touches a certain spot you feel the twinge and remember that you have a foreign object imbedded inside. You feel like if you reopened the wound to remove the object, you would probably bleed to death. Instead you choose to let the metal slowly leech into your blood stream, hardly noticing the affects as it poisons you every day of your life.
This is what sexual assault has felt like for me.
I was 19. The details are unimportant. My story is not special. It involved drinking. Something was slipped in my drink. I don’t remember 8 hours of my life. I do remember coming back into consciousness. I remember what he was doing to me. I remember the physical pain and I remember scrubbing myself raw in the shower trying to wash off the shame.
And then I put on a smile, sunscreen, a bathing suit and joined all my friends by the pool for another day of drinking to celebrate the end of the school year. I didn’t tell anyone. It never even crossed my mind to report it. Report what? I didn’t remember anything. I was 19; I shouldn’t have been drinking. Why would I go to a room with 5 senior boys when I was a just sophomore? Only wearing a bathing suit? I was definitely asking for it. Or I was just stupid.
It was easier to pretend it never happened. Humans have an amazing capacity for self-deception. I just tried to forget. Slowly the poison worked it’s way into my blood stream. I’d never experienced depression before. A year and a half later, I was cutting myself. I realized something was very wrong so I sought help from a counselor. She didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. I’m not sure I would have told even if she had asked; I’d convinced myself so thoroughly that nothing had happened.
Years passed. I battled depression. I saw more counselors. They never asked. I never told. I had problems in romantic relationships. Every so often, someone would get too close to the shrapnel and I would pull away in alarm.
Three years ago, ten years afterwards, I told for the first time. My boyfriend at the time was very deep; he hated small talk and never settled for a surface relationship. It’s why I liked him so much. He was kind and gentle. He innately knew I was holding back a part of myself and he gently coaxed me into a confession and then held me as I cried, while I felt like I would bleed out. The wound was open. I didn’t bleed out though. In fact, I felt a little lighter. One person knew my long held secret shame. Maybe some of the shrapnel had been removed?
Over the next three years I told a few very close friends. Each time it felt like a weight was lifted. I no longer had to bear this burden alone. I still kept it from most people. Most didn’t need to know and some I protected. I knew that learning of my pain would only hurt them.
When #metoo began, I had no desire to share my story with the broader world. I empathized with all the women that came forward but I did not see myself fitting into this social wave.
This last week something inside me has changed. Emotionally, I knew I could not handle the Christine Blasey Ford hearings live. But since then, I have gone back and watched them piecemeal. I couldn’t have done what she did. Her composure with only a slight quiver in her voice was awe-inspiring. I heard my story within hers. The way that trauma hyper focuses your attention on certain details. Telling the story of one of the worst moments of her life has led to death threats, having her email hacked, having to move, fearing for her family’s safety. My heart breaks for her.
I watched Judge Kavanaugh. I saw his defensiveness. I saw his discomposure and rudeness to Senators, his entitlement, his lying. Brett Kavanaugh probably doesn’t remember what happened. I believe him when he says that. After years of hard partying, I’ve talked to too many of my male friends the day after to discover they have no memory or what they said or did the night before. Boys will be boys, right?
Following the hearings I was surprised with how Ms. Ford’s testimony was received. Senators and even the President said she seemed a credible witness. For a short while, it looked like America might believe the survivor. But then at a rally in Mississippi, President Trump chose to mock Christine Blasey Ford. When I heard the clip something within me broke. It seemed as though the leader of our country had reached in, grabbed the shrapnel and twisted it. His supporters laughed at her! Just like the laughter she heard during her assault, laughter at her expense. I am sick recalling the cruelty of the crowd. Disheartened. Disgusted. Hopeless.
Today I openly join the statistics. I embrace the sisterhood of the 1 in 6 women in America who have been raped or had an attempted rape. I was a victim. I was broken. I am still broken to an extent. Please do not pity me. Be sad and cry with me, but only for a moment. This experience may have shaped me but it does not define me. See me, not my trauma. I am a survivor and stronger for it. #believewomen
This tattoo was created by Jacqueline Lin, a California-based illustrator. She described it in this way:
“It is a unity symbol inspired by the loops of our DNA structure and our universal infinity sign. It combines inspiration from Lady Gaga’s favorite flower – the white rose – to breathe life into an organic and growing symbol.
The final image embraces a fiery shape to give us power and strength everywhere we go.” Click here for the full story.
I added a cross to mine as I believe true healing comes through Christ alone. This is my hope and my prayer, not only for me but for every woman and man who has experienced the trauma of sexual assault.
my footprints in the sand 