My Body No Longer Belongs to Me.
TW: Themes of sexual assault.
This piece differs from my usual style. In lieu of the hopeful ending I typically favour; I come from a place of vulnerability. This isn’t to say that there isn’t hope in the experiences I am about to recall, however, I know how deeply painful and isolating it is to feel that no one understands the magnitude of feelings that torment you. So, my hope for this piece, is to word the indescribable, and ease that loneliness in you.
In myself.
The journey to recovery from sexual assault is one that taunts and teases you. Just when you think you’ve made progress, a new and unexpected triggering situation arises leaving you dumb-founded and despaired. Adult life becomes a cascading series of unlocked memories glamoured by our brains to protect our sanity. The rose-tinted glasses eventually dull, and you finally see that ‘exciting boyfriend’ you had when you were 16 for the 23-year-old predator he truly was. With every new reality, the chasm of disconnect greatens until even your own touch feels like a foreign violation.
Your body isn’t yours anymore, it belongs to them.
At least, that is what it feels like.
Even at 24 and thriving, each touch, no matter how tender, activates the harrowing memory of another. Pleasure is now laced with despair, intimacy feels a world away, and that woman, no… that girl who suffered at the hands of those who were meant to know better, who should have known better, feels like a stranger to you.
The so-called rules fail you too. Maybe you were ‘too drunk’, or ‘didn’t verbally say no’, or froze. Maybe you eat at yourself wondering what you could have done to make that jury see that you weren’t just a drunk student who had a silly dalliance, but a victim. And now, a walking ball of anxiety, of deep-rooted fear further exacerbated by the lack of protection and justice you received.
If there is any justice to be had for such a crime.
Tenderness sprints across the open plains of your fantasy world, safety alongside it. Guilt and frustration bite at your heels as you seek to heal your wounds with new and safe partners, to no avail.
Fear is the enemy. The fear that keeps you from experiencing the truth of what was done to you, fear of the vicious armada of emotions that threaten to sail through your body, fear of losing the last shred of control you perilously cling to, the fear of breaking and lacking the strength to pick up the pieces.
I can tell you it does get better. But it also gets worse.
And better again.