When seeing my rapist released a torrent of memories into my life, I did not expect it to permeate so deep as having an actual physical effect. When sex became painful for me, I refused to believe it was attributed to my past. Greg urged me to call the doctor, just because I did have a c-section with a stitch abscess, and who knows what scarring may have gotten in the way.
Now, I have had a child, so you would think there is no shame with me sticking my legs in stirrups for a nurse practitioner; I had only done it about 30 times in 9 months. Yet, something felt different and threatening. Panic trickled down my spine sending my entire body into a cold sweat accompanied by irrepressible shivering. I kept saying to myself, Seriously..stop...you have spread your legs a million times in this office. Calm the eff down.
By the time the nurse strolled into the exam room, I was a mess. She asked what brought me in and I nonchalantly explained to her the pain and of course my own theories of cysts, scarring, and anything in between because I had no desire to humor a psychological explanation.
"Well let's take a look..."
As soon as she put that annoying metal clamp inside me, I winced. She realized I was uncomfortable and promised me she would be swift. After she was done swabbing, she grew sympathetic as she also had to complete a manual exam. Once again, I flinched, and she became immediately concerned.
"Honey, what's going on? I'm not feeling anything abnormal? You alright?"
"It just hurts..."
"Okay, well, we'll run some tests and schedule you an ultrasound..."
"Fine."
She left me to dress and check on some of the cultures. When she returned, she informed me that so far everything looked negative, but she wanted to run some blood-work as well just in case. She kept eying me as if she knew I was hiding something.
"Sweetie, you look worried. You alright? Look...we're gonna figure this thing out okay?"
I nodded and left.
As the week went on, negative test results and labs reinforced my inner realization that I was working so ferociously to suppress my past, that it was affecting my body. A few days after my appointment, the nurse practitioner who helped me called. She just wanted to check in and see how I was doing.
"Umm...I'm okay."
"I just wanted to let you know that the test results came back negative. Everything looks clean."
"Yea..I know...I don't think you'll find anything on that ultrasound either...I should have never come in to the office.
"Don't say that...Honey...are you okay?"
"I..think...umm..I think...its psychological..."
"Oh...sweetie...how long ago was it? Can you talk right now? Just say yes or no.."
"It's okay, it was a long time ago...I was young...but I saw him recently...and...and..." I started to choke back the familiar shame.
"Everything you blocked came back when you saw him?"
"Yes..."
For a moment, I felt relieved. Someone understood what I was going through. She gave me a number to call and told me she would be checking in.
The next time I spoke to her, she was not surprised that I had refused her advice to call. She urged me again to follow through, but also offered that she would be more than willing to help me find some help if I couldn't get it from the outlet she provided. That was on a Friday.
Something over the weekend morphed my ability to stand strong against the torment of his voice repeatedly telling me, "You liked it. I told you your family wouldn't love you. I'm the only one that loves you."
I had already resorted to my old habits of heavy drinking and cutting, but they just weren't muting the memories enough for me to function. I was losing control. By the time Monday arrived, there was not even an ounce of will left.
Persistently, the nurse checked in on me again. She asked if I made the call.
"Can you just help me find someone?"
"Sweetie, are you okay? What is going on? Are you sure you don't want to call them?"
"I did...they...didn't help. They don't care."
"Dana...they really are the best."
"Please. Don't make me call them."
"Okay, I'll find someone, just hang tight...I'll get back to you."
That night, I went out drinking and did something regrettably reckless.
The next day, one of my best friends showed up at my door with a six-pack of light beer and a mission to get me to talk. If anyone can diffuse my tough exterior, it is her. After hours of asking probing questions and watching me drink myself into a carelessly honest demeanor, she finally got me to break.
I do not like to let people see my vulnerable side and neither does this friend of mine. When she asked me why the hell I would do something so stupid as I had done the previous evening all I could say was, "Because...I had no intention of making it past this week."
That was the first time I had ever seen her cry and it saved me. My conscience was struck with such force, I began weeping to the point of not being able to stand.
"Dana, just don't kill yourself. I don't know what I'd do without you. Don't let him win." She brought me to go look in on my son, who was peacefully sleeping. I was once again overwhelmed with guilt, picked him up, and began sobbing against his soft cheeks.
The next day, I confessed to Greg about everything I had hidden from him. He admitted he had sent my friend over because he had lost hope in being able to reach me. After hours of talking and crying, he pushed me to get help. So I called the only person I felt I could trust in this matter; the nurse.
She listened to me describe my initial suicide intentions and asked me if I still felt that way.
"No, I can't let him win. He already stole my childhood, I'm not going to let him take anything else. I can't leave my son motherless."
"Good girl, okay. I am going to find you somebody."
The therapist I am now seeing is the one she referred me too.
For the first time in years, I have been placed in the care of someone who not only understands my trauma to the point of forcing me to continuously validate it every week, but also holds me accountable for resorting to self-harming behaviors.
While writing this post, I began to wonder if it was even necessary to share, considering I didn't really dive into my past as I have been. Also, I am ashamed to admit becoming so weak and selfish, that I would consider ending my life. The truth is, rape victims are 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide. I felt it was my duty to share how close I got, in order to express the importance of working through trauma with a professional. The more you repress, the more likely you will be inclined to feel the same way I did, if you haven't already yet.
Please don't let your abuser win.
If I have tugged the strings of anybody's heart who has been assaulted and hasn't come forward yet, there are hotlines you can call anonymously. Do not fall prey to the silence and shame.
www.rainn.org (Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network)
1-800-656-HOPE
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