A letter to my former self
Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault.
While I don’t want to speak for other survivors, my healing process was rife with loneliness and isolation and so many things I wish I would have known. If I could, these are the things I would tell myself.
You will feel alone.
You are dating a guy you think you could one day love. A week after your assault—in which you spent every day crying, drinking or both—you tell him what happened. He freaks: calls you liar, tells you its your fault, demands to know why you didn’t fight harder to stop it. He breaks up with you, but his words play on repeat a hundred times over. You consider telling your parents, but it turns out your brother isn’t doing too well and your sister’s having anxiety attacks again. It’s just not a good time. Maybe it’s best to not tell anyone.
You will relapse.
Weeks pass. You spend evenings on the floor sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, and mornings lying in bed wishing you could stay there forever. Bad habits start up again and new ones form, a desperate grasp for some—any—inkling of control. All you want is to feel in control, but it never comes.
That happy and outgoing girl you were before seems like a faded memory. You’re good at pretending though, and so you say the right things and put on the façade you need to even when all you feel is empty. It works for the most part but there are signs—Your best friend wonders why you drink so much and another asks why the sparkle in your eye has vanished.
You will blame yourself.
You hate yourself for it, you really do. You’re a junior, you tell yourself, you should know better at this point. You know what it’s like to be violated and harassed, by boys who thought it made them men to touch you without your consent. This one took it further though. You're disgusted he used your body, ashamed you couldn't stop him, and angry that you said no so many times before but not when it really mattered. The strange thing is, if it had been anyone else you wouldn’t even think to say all those awful things you tell yourself. But it’s different when it happens to you.
You will try to get better.
Months pass. More loneliness, more denial, more pain. After a particularly bad night, your friend makes you seek help. You go to CAPS and you hate it but you also realize it’s probably good for you. You go on medication. You stop drinking so much. And after all this time, you confront what happened to you.
To be sure, it is an agonizing and painful process. But there will come a day when you realize you are starting to feel happy again. It’s been so long since you felt that way, you almost forgot what it was like.
You will struggle to have sex.
After the initial stages of recovery, this part will be the hardest part for you. You listen to friends rant about cute boys and crazy hook-ups and it makes you feel so disconnected. That used to be you, and now you can’t even think about having sex without wanting to vomit. While you don’t necessarily want to have sex, you would at least like the choice. Right now it doesn’t seem like you have one—add that to the list of things he took from you.
But then you meet a guy and find yourself falling. The relationship progresses, but the sex issue looms overhead. You feel like a freak, like something is wrong you because of this thing that comes so normally to everyone else. You panic, afraid he will leave you as soon as he realizes something is wrong. So despite everything telling you not to, you do it, you have sex.
And you cry afterwards. You hate yourself all over again.
I wish you had opened up to him, but I understand why you didn’t. And eventually, sex does become a safe place again. You think maybe you’re finally over it.
Then that first relationship ends and you find yourself on your own again. Senior year triggers a relapse and you return the same habits you are always trying to leave behind. But you are determined to ignore it and focus on living a “normal” life doing normal college things.
You even try hooking up with guys, promising you will never force yourself into it like you did the first time. You do your best, but the flashbacks, the shaking, the sheer panic when you feel their body on yours—it’s too much. You tell them no, and each one listens without hesitation. How sad it is that their acceptance catches you by such surprise.
You will learn that healing is a process.
A year passes. You are constantly trying to “get over it.” You want so badly to put it behind you, over and done with. But it doesn’t work that way. The truth is, I don’t know if you are ever going to be completely over it.
So find people, people who understand what you’re going through, and talk to them. I'm sorry you spent so much time feeling like you had no one to go to. Have patience with yourself. It can be so frustrating, and sometimes all you are is angry. You will wonder if your friends have moved on and worry that the world continues without you. They have and it does, but it’s okay if you’re not there yet. Healing is not a linear process, and while you are moving forward, you are also going to move backwards sometimes. So it is okay if sometimes the night panics return or if you still have urges to throw up after eating. It’s okay to struggle. Even now, even a year and half later, it is okay to not be okay. I just thought you should know that.
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