The Aftermath of Sexual Assault.

For the last few months I have spent ages staring at my reflection and I just can’t seem to understand that this person is me. It’s like staring at a stranger and this upsets me and makes me very confused. It’s like a part of me expects me to look like a child and another part expects something completely different. I have spoken to staff members on the unit here about this but no one has really concluded the reason for this or how to connect and accept this is me. This makes no sense I know, but it’s really starting to get to me to the point that urges to self harm are increasing so that I can see that I am hurting the person in the mirror. I remember mentioning a lot about my dissociation prior to my admission here but I feel like not much empathises has been placed on this and it’s starting to spiral. Until a week or so ago I found myself waking underneath my desk huddled in a ball clutching my teddy that’s shaped like a moon - that significant teddy the police wanted. Then I finally handed it in with huge reluctance.

Since a recent assault during an episode of absconding, I have been looking at my face a lot more. I can tell with one glance. It’s in my eyes which happen to be permanently dark-rimmed, haunted, and very sad. The trauma from the past and the present and the possible future stares back at me. It’s so incredible that it takes my breath away in short painful gasps. I feel like for the last few weeks I have been going through the motions of everyday life in this zombified state. Then suddenly I have outbursts of rage at the smallest of things. Panic drowns me and that fight or flight instinct kicks into overdrive and I need to run. When the calm follows after a dosage of diazepam or a use of a behaviour, the sadness begins to consume me. Tears silently trickle down my cheeks until I feel numb. Numbness comes last and sticks for much longer. That staring into space and apathy just weighs heavily on my chest. That’s the worst.

I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it is to make it go away. But deep down I know it won’t. I wish so badly to erase every forced act upon my body by men who have taught me that abuse equates to love and love is something humans need to survive. I am still struck by the fact that I didn’t know I was sexually abused until I was old enough to find out what it was. By that time it was far too late because the little girl I was had already become accustomed to this kind of love. And even if for some reason I had been aware I really had no one to tell or anywhere to hide.

I feel like I should be over it by now especially the recent assault. I should be used to this and there shouldn’t be an aftermath like there is now. It’s the norm and the way my life is. At the SARC it was all photographs and measuring tapes to document every single infliction of pain and terror left on my body. The scars on my legs from the knife he used. The bruise on my neck where he kissed me a little too hard. Then the violating examination where I had to wear a transparent gown to magnify every area of my body of which I am ashamed and disgusted by. Then the reliving of the attack through gritted teeth because the examination is not only emotionally painful but physically excruciating too.

“If you tell anyone you will die”.

That’s what he told me as he used that knife. The problem is that the reason I told someone about what happened was because I wanted that to come true. He said it so calmly and so clear as if he was talking about a fond memory or the weather for the next day. The scars on my legs were bleeding and all I could think was of the man who taught me to how to cut and how that was on my legs too. And now I scratch a little at the cuts because it reminds me of him.

Every morning I wake up and sometimes for a brief few minutes I forget about the loss and the trauma and the regret. It’s my favourite part of the day, you know? For a little while I am not that scared little girl who was abused over and over. I feel safe. But then. Suddenly. It hits me with that hard cold evidence like a slap from his hand stinging against my cheek. I feel him on my arms and his cold fingers strangling my neck. Then they go to dance along my ribs while I feel the heat of his tongue against my cheek gliding to my left ear. His voice tickles me as he whispers words I still can’t get out of my head. 

My body has never felt like my own. It has always felt like a belonging to someone like a rag doll to be played with. I’ve been picked up, undressed, exposed, and used for their enjoyment until they got bored and then I was thrown back down again. Broken. Which in that moment feels much worse so I try my best to wear the prettiest clothes and make up and be the shiny Barbie doll in the box. My smile never faltering in their presence and my body frozen until one of them wants me again. Please pick me and love me? Abuse me.

The worst part about being sexually assaulted is that I can’t seem to hate any of them. I hate myself for letting it happen and for giving into their threats. For allowing all of them to manipulate me and rip my mind and body apart so that I can’t put all the pieces back exactly where they were. I was too scared to leave because they all reinforced that I deserved it. They made me far too terrified to leave because what if they could find another Barbie who was better and kinder and didn’t deserve it when I clearly did and still do? I’d feel far more guilty if they moved to someone who didn’t deserve it.

There’s this saying, “The axe forgets but the tree remembers”. I feel this reflects the aftermath of rape. Because in reality the victim is destroyed almost to the root. Their ability for growth is paused. I feel I’ve regressed almost to childhood and I need time to grow again. Time to adjust and heal from the trauma of the axe. Yet the axe, although initially exhausted with small visible marks from the tree, is still whole. It can move on and it can destroy more trees almost instantly. Once a tree is cut the damage from more axes is felt so raw because the more times it is cut the closer the blade gets to the root. Once the root is damaged usually the tree dies. 

I feel close to this right now.

It’s not fair. But I know I can’t alter the past or change their actions. No amount of words or behaviours can or will destroy what they did. Maybe for now I need to feel detached and dissociated. Maybe I need to block this out. It’s easier. I feel that if I break down this wall I might reach the roots and find it’s too late and I can no longer grow. I can only take so many hits until I’m too far under the ground for anyone to see me. But then again I could just let the waves swirl around me and sink me into this unbearable depression. Under the ground where my shame and guilt can’t be seen by anyone else. Where it’s dirty and dark and the anxiety is choking me with soil filling my lungs. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even the people who did this to me. No one should have to experience a day like mine.