The Shrapnel of Sexual Assault

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.

I Know How You Feel

I think I’m ready now to write this. It’s difficult to describe. I would liken it to living in a constant haze. An all-encompassing fog that surrounds heart, soul and mind. It deadens the senses. Colors become muted, voices and music are blocked out, laughter is forgotten, memory quickly fades and concentration is a thing of the past. Emotions are stifled, apart, perhaps, from an overwhelming sense of self-pity and guilt. Habit is the only reason to get out of bed in the morning. The motions of life continue: eating, sleeping, work, meetings, obligatory greetings but there’s no enthusiasm. The joie de vie has fled. The mind is a funny thing.

I have no idea if I’ve adequately described it or if these feelings are unique to me. But this is my experience with depression.

It’s why I haven’t written in the last month. I’ve had plenty going on, many stories that I would have enjoyed sharing but I could never gather the necessary je ne sais quoi to sit and write. My stories would have been tinged with a lie if I had not expressed my inner emotionlessness.

I felt the first signs of oncoming depression during my training. I communicated what I was feeling somewhat in my last post. I was able to distract myself during my vacation to Mombasa with constant activities and good food. But returning to Clove Island the haze settled on me deeply and firmly.

Circumstances certainly didn’t help. I arrived on my island thoroughly seasick only to discover that five weeks had accomplished none of the promises our landlady had made and we still had no water. After a discussion with her, it seemed she had given up and there was no hope of getting water running to our house…ever. Without water, the house stayed covered in its filth. The dust made me physically ill and the mess drove my OCD, Type-A personality to the brink. The next three days were spent searching for someone who could deliver water to our cistern. After hours in the baking sun, on the third day, I finally had success. Three thousand liters and $50 later, I lay on my bed exhausted and spent but proud that I had accomplished something. With my last reserve of energy I bought some bleach and climbed the stairs to the cistern on the roof in order to sanitize the water that was pulled from a river used for laundry, watering animals and trash disposal. As I came around the corner and caught a glimpse of the cistern, my shoulders dropped and my head fell as I watched my hard work pouring out of the seam of the cistern onto the hot roof in two steady streams. I “Charlie-Brown” walked back down the stairs, put in a call to my leader, curled up on the floor in the fetal position and cried. Though I’d been on the verge of tears for days, especially when talking with others, I’d held back, swallowed the lump and starred ahead resolutely. This last thing broke through and ripped out the pent up emotions and I cried softly until one of my teammates arrived with various rubber object (including a flip-flop) to try and stem the flow of precious water.

From that day things didn’t really get better. I had about 50lbs of laundry that needed to be washed including all the curtains and couch covers that were covered in dust. The power situation has returned to pre-World Cup state, meaning very little of it. We went 36+ hours without this week, allowing the food in the refrigerator and freezer to thaw and rot. There are problems with the English classes that are supposed to start next week. The stress and water hauling has caused my back to feel like it did after my accident last February-in other words, bad. Etc. Etc.

But life is always hard on Clove Island. Things are constantly going wrong. If circumstances were all it took, I would have lived in a constant state of depression since arriving. So what makes it different now?

This is where the guilt comes in. I’m not dying. No one close to me is dying. I didn’t just break up with the love of my life or get fired from a job. I have friends and family who love me and pray for me. They encourage me as best they can. When an encouraging phone call, email or hug brings no emotion, or worse yet, annoyance, I am soon overcome with guilt. I try to avoid being around anyone because I am afraid my seeming indifference will hurt them. I am disappointed in myself and I can’t help but think I’m letting down all those who love and care for me.

Christians shouldn’t be depressed, right? “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!” We learn that from childhood. I just need to pray a little harder. If I just cast my cares on him, I will experience a peace that passes all understanding. I know. I’ve thrown these same platitudes at my friends. But it hasn’t been that easy. So what is the answer?

This morning I was doing my normal devotional, another daily habit that continues whether I draw anything from it or not. I do it because I know I should. And I read and underlined this partial sentence, “…every steep circumstantial hill that has zapped our spiritual and emotional strength, and every deep valley of depression that has left us gasping for hope.” Whoa, hello. Are you talking to me? The next line read, “Consider Jesus[i]”.

I decided to take that as a challenge. Jesus suffered during his life, not only at the cross. Jesus wept when he heard of Lazarus’ death (John 11:35). He sought solitude when news of his cousin, John the Baptist’s beheading reached him (Matthew 14:13). And I read an interesting blog that argued Christ was depressed on the night of his betrayal.

Never tell someone, “I know how you feel.” I’ve heard this many times in my sensitivity trainings. It’s well meaning but false. You don’t know how I’m feeling. I don’t know how you’re feeling.

But as I considered Jesus, I came to the conclusion that he actually does know how I feel. Intimately and lovingly. And he doesn’t have his arms crossed, looking down on me from heaven with disappointment, waiting for me to pull myself together so I can get back to the work of loving him and loving others. No, he’s right here with me. Even when I don’t feel it, when I don’t feel anything. My feelings don’t change the fact that he is walking beside me. When I don’t have the strength to lift my eyes to see where I’m walking but can only watch my feet as I shuffle through life, he is beside me with his hands on my shoulders, gently leading. He is my shelter; my strong tower and I will hide under his wings until my bruised soul heals.

[i] Harper, Lisa. Hebrews: The Nearness of King Jesus. Pg. 47

An Unfinished Story

It’s nice to have a conclusion at the end of a story. I’ve been putting off writing this post because this story hasn’t reached its conclusion, but then I thought, maybe that’s the point?

So it begins one week ago. I noticed the toilet wasn’t flushing well. Not that we ever actually flush our toilet because that would take way too much water But when I would pour a cup of water into the bowl, it would drain away leaving everything else just sitting there. So I thought, gross, it’s clogged. I’ll flush it for real and maybe that will push the clog down. So I let the back of the toilet fill with precious water and then flushed. Ha! Bad idea. Water came flowing over the top of the toilet and all over the floor. I don’t have a plunger but I texted our team leader, Tom, to bring one to our Sunday service. That night I start plunging away and not only did I not fix the clog, but I broke the seal with my frantic attempts and water started leaking from the bottom of the toilet!

As a rather delicate woman, I am over my head at this point. At 10pm last Monday, I once again text my team leader indicating that I probably need professional help of the plumbing persuasion. He had plans the next morning but he took pity on me, canceled his plans and came over to help early Tuesday morning. I will not nauseate you with the details. Suffice to say, Tom is a saint. He worked for three hours, barefoot in a room that I could not pass without gagging…literally, gagging. Three hours later, nothing. He went back to the capital city to get liquid plumber and used an entire bottle. Still nothing.

It was time to call the plumber. All day Wednesday I waited for him. At 5pm he showed up. He came, he saw, he left. Another day with no toilet. I should also mention that the shower drain is connected to the toilet drain so no shower either.

Teammates have been more than kind in offering their homes to us when we wish to shower or use the toilet. Of course our closest teammates are a 15-minute walk and the farthest are a 30-minute drive. So we have become dependent upon our downstairs neighbors. And while I am eternally grateful for their willingness to share, their toilet does not have a seat and my thigh muscles are just not up to snuff when it comes to long-term high squats.

Thursday rolls around. We generally spend every Thursday in the capital city and this past week was no different. We came home to a toilet that had been ripped out of the floor. I asked the neighbors what was going on. They told me that materials needed to be purchased from the capital and then it could be fixed.

The following day, some friends came over and I told them the situation and asked if they thought the plumber would come that day. No, they said, I think not. Today is a short day- I think he will not come. Of course, Friday is a special day in their religious traditions so most shops close and workers stop their work around 11am. Their words were prophetic as we saw not hide or hair of the plumber that day, nor the following day.

As you may understand, this situation has proved more than a little stressful. My emotions have yo-yoed. I have felt depressed and discouraged more often than not. I’ve placed blame; I’ve asked for prayer; I’ve prayed repeatedly; I’ve cried; I’ve felt sorry for myself; I’ve sighed; I’ve thrown my hands up in exasperation. And yesterday I developed a head cold. Finally the constant stress of the week has sufficiently lowered my immune system, and I am now a walking snot bomb. Sorry for the graphic detail.   I’ve already gone through three packets of tissues…today. No medicine has had an effect.  As I’ve taken to telling my neighbors, “Je suffre” or “I’m suffering.”

The piping torn out.

Today, after a wonderful Sunday service and a birthday celebration, I returned home with Tom. My landlord needed to show us something. We go into the downstairs bathroom and low and behold, there’s about a foot of piping that has been cut out. He explains that that is where they thought the clog was. But no, it is actually closer to the septic tank, behind some tiles and cement. So we can either tear out the cement today, then replace the entire pipe tomorrow or we can wait 3-4 days for some stronger liquid plumber to come from the big island and maybe that will work. Tear it out, we decide.

And that’s where we are. The story is not finished. I do not have a toilet or shower. I have a sinus headache; my throat is sore from the nasal drip; I’m running out of tissues and I can’t stop sneezing.

Wow. What a bummer story, right? I started off this week thinking it was a real bummer too. But I’ve been studying James lately and I was reminded of James 1:2 which says, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trails of many kinds […]”. So I started trying to feel joy. I worked really hard at it. Feel joy. Feel joy. Feel joy. It wasn’t working! I was still depressed; I still dreaded coming home each night.

But then I remembered James doesn’t say, “feel joy”. He says, “consider”. It’s a mental exercise, not an emotion.

Remember the lesson from my last post? I’d already forgotten it. I worked and worked all week, just trying to keep my head above the waters of depression. But I was sinking fast. God began prodding me, through his Word to let go and consider it pure joy.  What do I have to be joyful about? When I began to consider I was overwhelmed. I have neighbors who let me use their bathroom and their water. I have teammates who love and pray for me and open their homes to me. I have friends and family at home who pray and encourage. I have a strong roommate to suffer alongside and laugh about our problems when we can. I have a kitchen sink that still works. This lets us use way less water and we haven’t had to buy any in almost two weeks! And I have a King who loves me and works all things for good for those who love him and have been called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28).

I can’t say that I’ve arrived. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy about this. I still struggle with self-pity at times. I still wish things worked a little bit faster here. But I can see some good. And that is a start.