Rape is something that is often still seen as a taboo subject, despite it being a very sad common assault for far too many people. But when we do talk about rape, we talk about rape culture, the rape myths, that the blame is always the rapist, about consent, about stories of individuals harrowing experiences, but something we don’t talk about enough is what it feels like to live as a survivor of rape, dealing with the trauma of what happened to you.
We don’t talk about how your life turns upside down from that moment onwards. Or even years later, when you finally unlock that box and accept what happened, and you go from a life led by blocking out the trauma for so long, to it spilling out everywhere and now it’s too late to do anything but pick up the pieces. Everything is different. Even when you deal with the trauma years down the line, it’s like it happened yesterday, and all of a sudden it consumes your life in a way you never imagined it could, changing every view and every perspective within you.
I speak about the years later reference as that situational character is me. It took me 3 years to understand, accept and realise what happened to me, and in those 3 years I kept a tight lid on the locked box of that trauma in the back of my brain, not allowing myself to even peek inside, until a few months ago, when all the media we consume was surrounded in the anguish and sadness of the Sarah Everard case. And before I even knew I’d been looking over at the box, it exploded inside of my brain, smashing every possibility of locking it back away and tainting every corner of my brain with its poison. It’s been around three months since that box exploded, and though the dust has settled and the scene is calm, the walls are stained with the memories and the emotions, the events noted and spread around my brain like a disease developing too fast to even catch up to. And to be honest, it’s really, really hard.
No one told me how much I’d despise to even look at or say the word rape. Even looking at it sat there on my screen I feel dirty. I feel like I’ve used the worst swear word, like I’ve said the most offensive term known to man. But that’s the truth of it, and it might have taken my three years to grasp that, but at the end of the day, rape is rape. Growing up, rape was such a taboo word, it was this serious thing that you whispered when you said it, not daring to say it loud enough to be heard mentioning such a thing. I was taught the many rape myths that hinder my acceptance and recovery to this day, myths like I should have been able to fight them off, that I should have been smarter, known better than to end up in that situation, screamed out, even the myths down to knowing what happened was rape at the time. I grew up hearing the awful stories of other survivors, thinking “that will never be me, I’m a strong woman, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, I’d fight them off and scream for help. I’d report it straight away and get the justice I deserve” and to even remember that that’s how I thought about the possibility of being raped makes me cringe at the naivety. You can’t stop someone and fight someone off you when you’re unconscious. You can’t scream when you’re not awake. You can’t report a crime you didn’t understood had been committed. No one told me how everything I thought I knew and believed was wrong.
No one told me how much I’d resent the fact I’m a survivor. A victim. How id feel ashamed and embarrassed to even utter those words about myself, how can I be a victim of a silent, unseen crime? I can’t be a victim, I wasn’t harmed or injured, I wasn’t violently attacked in the dark by a stranger, I wasn’t put into an unsafe situation against my will, I wasn’t even aware of what happened, so how can that make me a victim, when there are so many others who have it worse? No one told me how I’d feel this sense of gratefulness that my experience wasn’t violent or brutal in comparison with the ones I’ve heard all my life, and how I’d feel almost lucky I got the better of the two bad options.
No one told me that the impostor syndrome I already felt everyday about my mental health would increase and make me feel constantly anxious that someone would catch me out, that I would be unveiled as a liar, that I was someone who misunderstood, that it was just a miscommunication. How everyday I’d think of a new detail and go over and over it in my head like a video stuck on loop, and analyse if I could have made it up, simply just a figment of my imagination that I believed to be true. No one told me I’d constantly re-watch the parts of that night I remember, hoping to see a glimpse of something that would validate my feelings, like the more I watched it the more real it would become and the more other people would be Believe me, that I’d constantly be looking for an out to this feeling of being a fraud.
No one told me that I would come to loathe the pitying and sympathetic remarks that come with the retelling of the story. Practically shouting “but, it’s okay, I’m okay!” At someone before I’ve even finished telling them what happened, purely because I can’t stand to be seen as weak anymore than I already feel for being a victim. How I’d lie and say “oh it’s fine” or “well, these things happen” constantly, as if the more I said the words the more I’d believe in them myself. But then again, no one told me that on some days, I would crave that pity, that attention and validation that I should feel shit, that I should feel sorry for myself and that I’m not a bad person, and feel as though if I tell someone new that it happened, maybe I will finally accept it as the truth and move on in my head. That no matter what someone’s response is, mine will still be to shrug it off, and block out any form of emotion forming in me in order to be seen as strong and coping.
No one told me how when it came to my mental health I always wanted people to know I had a disorder and I almost wanted people to see me upset and feel sorry for me to validate that yeah, I did have it rough and sometimes I need help and that’s okay. But when it came to discussing my rape, I wanted to be so cold and aloof about the situation that people would be impressed by how well I was coping, as if that would earn me the title of a rape survivor, because to survive, surely I need to be strong and unwavering in my response that it really is okay. That I needed to be fine with it straight away because, that’s how recovering and accepting it works right? You just move on?
No one told me the nightmares I’d have every night, waking up screaming and crying after subconsciously watching myself be attacked again by faceless people or even people I knew. That id relive the memories I once suppressed so hard nearly everyday, and that some days would be so hard to deal with that I’d simply break down crying at random intervals, simply because my brain was too sad and too full of the awfulness to not just let it Out.
No one told me how I’d fear every situation I’m in, if a stranger got too close my heart would pound, if it was dark and I was alone I’d be as quick as humanly possible to get out and back to safety. That I’d overthink every possibly outcome for every situation and reason with myself that I took every precaution possible should something awful happen to me. That I’d hold my keys with my car key sticking out like a weapon until my knuckles were white whenever I had to walk to or from my car in the dark.
No one told me how I’d feel embarrassed or ashamed whenever it was brought up. Having to tell those close to me brought on the utmost shame and guilt I’ve ever felt. Because how can I have let this happen to myself and hurt my family? How can I have not told them sooner? All these questions that further the blame and guilt onto me, not even thinking for a second that the only person who should feel guilt and shame was my rapist. That he was the only person to blame for this, for all of this.
No one told me how I’d want to consume all the possible media on the subject of rape and sexual assault, hear other people’s stories, watch tv shows and films with it as the main story-line, as if the more I watched other people go through this and see their reactions, the more mine would be validated. Just to know that I wasn’t alone. That there was someone else feeling the same heartache as me and dealing with it in similar ways. And how sad that would make me too.
No one told me how the city that is the home of my attacker and also the place of the attack, the city I once loved and had so many great memories of would now be an entire red no-go zone, just the thought of walking around having to analyse every face I walked past and imagining scenarios of seeing him once again would fill me with dread and nausea.
Being a rape survivor is one of the hardest and toughest things I’ve ever had to go through with my mental health, and has shown me that despite being locked away for so long, has definitely shaped and influenced my decisions and actions over the last few years. I don’t believe that we all grow from our trauma, or that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But I do believe we are all going through our own healing process in our own ways, and the best thing we can do for each other is empathize, listen and be present for one another. Understand and see the pain behind someone’s eyes no matter how hard they try to hide it, and be there for them anyway.
If you need someone to speak to, please reach out. Here are some helplines available to check out 🖤
SHOUT - free 24/7 confidential text helpline, to access, Text SHOUT to 85258
Samaritans mental health support - 116123
The tomorrow project, suicide prevention sister charity to harmless - tomorrow@harmless.org.uk.
Find your local Sexual Assault Referral Centre online and give them a call, they may have a helpline and have people on the phones to give advice
Rape crisis helpline - 0808 802 9999
Victim support helpline - 08 08 16 89 111
Meg x
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