He Was Right, No One Loves Me: Part Three (TRIGGER WARNING! Descriptive and Sensitive Material)

Loved ones surrounding a rape victim create the environment that can either sustain or diminish her will to fight. The way these loved ones react to the trauma will determine how this is established. Unfortunately, because of the lack of education, and stigma surrounding Sexual Assault, most loved ones fail the victim. This results in a victim closing herself off, never to trust anyone with her story.

What people consistently forget is that Rape, or any other Sexual Assault for that matter, is not just a fender bender one needs to shake off. There is a brutal aftermath that will take a lifetime to control. There is no going away, it will NEVER go away. Taken from After Silence:

"Rape, like other experiences of terrifying too-muchness, is, first and foremost, a crime against memory, a crime against the self. The fact that rape is a sexual violation tends to make it harder for others to understand the crime’s impact on memory and identity"

The bewilderment I experienced was injected with empty advice including religious offerings that just don't make an impact. I'd like to believe that "turning to God" has the ability to wash away my hurt, but that is just not true. I was talking to a fellow believer the other day who is on the same page as me. She grew up in a similar fashion hearing advice such as, "Well, you just have to pray on it! Give it to God!" While she loves her family, she also realizes our brains our complex because God made them that way, and it isn't going to change the fact that we might need medication. Just as it won't change the fact that I'm going to be in therapy for longer than a few months.

I have been "giving it to God" for eighteen years, and regardless of my screw ups or inability to find a church family that I feel isn't hypocritical, it doesn't mean I wasn't constantly praying for the strength to keep me afloat.

So why am I talking about God again? Because, the ones surrounding me as a I grew up, were incapable of humanly understanding or helping me because of their empty advice and as much as I love them, their views on faith failed me. On top of that, because of their silent focus on God and their constant denial, it destroyed my sense of hope, even before my abuse was discovered.

As I pull from my journal, I'd like to remind those reading that I have no ill feelings towards people that surrounded me growing up, but I am angry and that is okay. My emotions are raw in my journal writings, but I will not be ashamed. Taken from my journal on 4/18:

"If I continue to let them invalidate the horror, how is that helping me? If I continue to say "Yes I know," every time I'm told to turn to God because he is the only way, because I can't do it alone! How the hell do you think I've survived this long? I CHOSE to keep fighting! God gave me that strength and I know that! Just because my wound is still bleeding does not mean I am refusing his help. Let me be angry! Let me be sad! Stop trying to fix me with prayer! It can't be fixed! I was raped! Say it! Because it isn't just going to disappear. LISTEN TO ME! Read my words, hear my anguish! Stop burying it with your twisted words of faith. Let me mourn for my childhood. Just let me be! How could you truly understand? You were not there when he held me down! You were not there the night I gave up!"

After reading this, my usual need to apologize in order to "rescue" others kicks in. Every one handles trauma in a different manner, and that is normal. I am not one to judge their strategy to deal with the trauma that was forced upon them; however, that does not mean that tactic is going to work for me. The fact that it was the only advice thrown in my direction just increased the invalidation. I have yet to hear some of the closest people to me say the word "rape," when pertaining to my abuse, as if they say it, it will become real.

There is another element to my anger besides the invalidation I receive, and that is the naivety amongst loved ones that shattered my hope as a little girl. Taken from my journal on 4/22:

"They need to see I tried to cry out! Why were they afraid to ask questions? Did they not want to know the answers? Oh wait no...I was only ever doing it for the attention, right? And what about the ones who were so focused on their own pain, they couldn't see the fear in my eyes? Why did they have to shut the door on it every time it was brought up? Walk away and deal silently as if they had been the one underneath HIS power?"

To think about this is only reminding me of the night I gave up, and gave in. It is what brings me the most shame, and it is when HIS control over me finally reached fruition.

On 4/11, I had a severe dissociative flashback, but managed to reach into my emotions and write something in my journal. When I wrote it, I was still a little girl in my mind, and I was unaware of what I had written until after I returned to reality. For the sake of not implicating anyone I am leaving out portions:

Why didn't you ask me why?
Why didn't you hear me while he held me down?
Why did you look away when I begged you with my eyes and the tears in them to protect me?
Why does your guilt silence me?

I gave up that night.
I let him hurt me again.
He said, "Don't you like it, Dana? Tell me!"
I told him. "I don't even care anymore, just do what you want."
I let him pull me on top of him.
I let him have his way.
I let him make me come.
I let him force me into the bathroom, to wash his stink off.
I LET HIM WIN!
Why did you make me give up?
I am mad at you.

 I'm going to be honest, right now, I just had to hold back vomit. This memory, although there are many other vile ones, is by the far the WORST because it is the root of my anger and shame. It will be the last detailed memory I share in my Never Be Afraid to Tell the Truth series and quite frankly, the only one I probably won't be able share completely because if I do, I am fairly convinced the poison in my gut will sizzle uncontrollably until it seeps out of my pores.