A Journey of Survivor

I realize now that I was clueless about the time. Three in the morning, maybe four. His bedroom floor was covered in white tiles, and my purple Pensacola Florida tourist shirt and black pajama shorts were strewn around. I tightly closed my eyes, attempting to transport myself to another location. I kept telling myself, "If I don't see it, it didn't happen," as he was on top of me. It won't happen if I don't see it. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to overcome his weight. I couldn't stop wondering what I had done wrong and what had made him want to harm me in this way.

Long story short, I had been sexually assaulted. Whenever the word "rape" is mentioned, remarks like "She was probably begging for it" and "What was she wearing? Had she consumed any alcohol? I was not wearing provocative apparel or under the influence of drugs or alcohol when I was assaulted, but millions of other victims are. My conduct, my demeanor, or my clothes had not resulted in a rape. A nasty man had chosen me to satisfy his fantasies, which led to me being raped and sodomized. Any changes I made to my life would not undo what was done to me; the person who did this to me is broken and at fault, not me.

I started to second-guess every choice I had made that evening afterward. I replayed the whole evening in my head, looking for hints, for indicators that I might have missed and could have warned me. However, none were present. He appeared charming, even compassionate. Nothing pointed to the shadows that hid beneath the surface.

I pulled within, making the outside world seem like a muted echo from a distance. I stopped hanging out with friends and going out. I was consumed by the trauma, and it changed my life. The hardest parts of the nights were the reliving of the same, horrible recollections over and over. I could smell his sweat, feel his weight, and hear his breath. I would be terrified and screaming when I woke up.

While therapy was helpful, it was a laborious, tedious process. I had to face the pain and rage I had hidden deep inside, as well as the truth of what had transpired. My therapist urged me to take back my story and realize that what he had done to me did not define who I was. It was a challenging trip with of disappointments and bad days. However, I felt a little stronger and more in control after every session.

I made the decision to tell my story one day. Not with my therapist, but with everyone on the planet. For something that was never their fault, I wanted to offer a voice to the innumerable others who had been hushed and made to feel guilty. Writing turned into a haven for me, a means of making sense of the trauma and processing it.

I created a blog where I could interact with other survivors and share my experiences. The outpouring of support was tremendous. Globally, women extended their reach and shared their personal accounts of suffering and perseverance. We established a community, a secure environment in which we could encourage and support one another. My long-lasting sense of loneliness started to fade and was replaced by a sense of power and camaraderie.

I started to heal via writing and interacting with people. Though they continued to occur, the dreams lost their ability to immobilize me. I discovered how to accept the memories and allow them to tell my tale without determining who I am. I came to know a resilience I had never known I had.

After that night, I am not the same person. There is a scar from the trauma that will always be a part of me. However, I'm not a victim anymore. I am a warrior and a survivor. Even though the suffering will never totally go away, I have discovered strength and hope in my journey.