Confusing Emotions After Assault Pt 1


Warning: Please do not read further if sexual trauma is too much of a trigger. I understand. 


It is not my intention to poke at old wounds, or prompt anxiety and nightmares. I myself have needed a few breaks from writing this as it really messes up my head. 


These words - my small voice - I’ll share primarily for those who believe. You, the strong-willed survivors, ready to discuss, support, spread awareness and address puzzle pieces which are misunderstood. You comprehend that all sex assault cases don't appear in cookie cutter form, recognizable at once. Perhaps your own was unbelievable. It's for the empaths and activists, here with an open heart and mind. For me, unravelling the pain and confusion publicly for the first time. Off my shoulders, and into the big wide world. 


This is not revenge, nor The Dirty. I’m very against online bullying. 


My abusers won’t lose jobs prospects, their family/friendships, have their facial identity revealed or be outwardly affected. Their guilt may resurface, forcing them to face their demons. Do I want that? Yeah, I do, as much as my deserved freedom of expression. Their threats held me captive for years so I refuse now to let them, God help me. 


Hater, Abuser, Judgey Christian: move on. There will be very little in this for you and I'm past the point of exhausting myself, arguing and finger-crossing that a blind person will see what numerous others call reality. Suicide, addiction, abortion, self sabotage, abusive relationships, and sexual promiscuity are side effects of this reality that you also will judge.


Doubter: The statistics for those who lie about rape is far lower than those who live it and even higher I’m told for those who cannot talk, fearing severed ties, loved ones picking sides, job loss, judgement, shame, violence, and-murder! Many cases within families don’t resolve. They harbor inside a victim's subconscious. Months, years, a lifetime. I won't lay a list of vivid details for you to pan through and scratch your head. They are personal, humiliating and traumatizing. I reserve their entirety for my memoir (whenever that happens) where others can view the whole picture and I won't subject it to Internet wolves at this time.




Keeping it together on the surface
 September 2016 


      


Where do I start? It’s just a giant ball of grief, memories seeping in no straight line, and where more hide, repressed. A PTSD whirlwind. I don't know how I'll find the words again on how badly it damaged me. What cuts deepest is the betrayal but not just from the perpetrators. Parents and siblings whom I loved unconditionally discarded me after I confided in them. I had walked away from my family previously and then hobbled back because of hunger, attachment, dependence; in the end it was they who dictated the last move, turning their backs, refusing to hear me.


Out of sight, out of mind. Forgotten. More trouble than I was worth. 


Friends of my abusers have said, “Oh, Becky. Why would anyone listen to Becky?” I was dubbed Pathological Liar. Their pitiful scowls whenever we crossed paths burned a hole in my chest. 


I have witnesses and screen shots. I have confessions. That has not changed a thing. 


Two demented predators walk free. 


One I suspect falls somewhere on the spectrum. Does Austism create an excuse? He is very aware of right and wrong. Sometimes, though, I feel he is easiest to forgive. In a court of law, he’d plead insanity and I wouldn't contest. To his own mother he's cruelly sworn he’d rape her and eat her guts. What sane man says that? 


Below, our private messages via Facebook in 2016, a couple months before I conceived my son and my world changed.
















This is a fraction of it. I was fifteen when this incident happened, he was very much an adult and I was seven when he started. I didn't remember the latter til he mentioned it. Imagine how frightening that memory was, flashing back almost 25 years, one I'd repressed moments after it happened. He said was my fault for not wearing panties, under my long dress, in the scorching heat. To this day I detest underwear in summer. FYI, it doesn't make me deserving of molestation!


The brain does funny things to protect itself and I'd excused his fondling as an accident, yet it was upsetting enough that my mind stored it, under layers of subsequent trauma. I think his confession to assault was simply arousal. He enjoyed reliving it. 


Than he went on to say this:
















Stepping out of my condo that night, following our conversation on August 22, 2016, I ran to a bar and blacked out, waking up with a knife gash near my wrist. I don't think I did it. I remember fighting with my drug dealer who tried to force me into a limo but I can't say indefinitely what happened. Suicide and recklessness were on my mind, that's all.


I took a picture on my phone. Great reminder never to do that again. I’m lucky I didn't. 






There’s another abuser and what he did hurts more. He drugged me and the parts I remember I could never in a million years have agreed to while passing in and out of consciousness. No one believed me. I was told that if true, I was a flirty teenager and seduced him. He vanished over 15 years ago and has never confessed. 


Abuser, if you're reading this, why did you say that you'd kill me if I told Mom and Dad you raped me? Why did you tell our sister you'd run my car off the road? Why did you never talk to me again? Was it worth it? Do you feel awful carrying that with you for the rest of your existence? How is using me for your gratification when I was that vulnerable okay? How can you live with that? You must be so miserable. I've seen your photos, and you look it. I wish you could give me answers. I know you won't.


   

    Three Years



I regret not going to the police. But I feared them and still do. How the hell does someone trust a stranger with a gun??! It’s beyond my logical reasoning. I'm programmed not to trust. 


If you've sought justice for sexual assault or domestic violence, I applaud the effort. Right now at this present moment I'm not convinced I have the strength. I don't blame you or disbelieve you if you feel the same. You know what's a mind @%#$? When victims feel compassion. As crazy as it sounds, I don't want them to go to jail. I saw those same people who abused me as helpless children, covered in blood; in the same breath, I wish other people were warned. 


Ironically, drug offenses that involve willing participants are often handed down with harsher punishments than rape. That doesn't make sense. I met someone who's rapist got three years. Better than three months, I know. But three years? That's not encouraging. What will the police do once they've released a more hardened, angrier monster?! Park on your doorstep forever? Last I heard, prison doesn't reform.



The Netflix Show, Unbelievable 



Watch it. It's a true story. The title suits it well.


Marie Adler, an alias for the eighteen year old main character, was brutally raped at night in her bed. She recanted her statement after the police and those around her doubted her groggy, broken memories of the assault. From what I gathered, she was a deep sleeper and just like me, her brain shut most of it out. 


She was charged with lying about rape, until detectives matched DNA and patterns in her story to a travelling serial rapist in another state. He was brought to justice and she sued the courts a small amount. She didn't want excess money. All she wanted was her life back. I relate. Happy and carefree will do.


What made me think was her self doubt. They weakened her pysche with their drilling and sarcasm. She, the victim, was ready to receive punishment! 




Trying Hard To Undo It



Some days it feels like a bad dream. How nice would it be to just give in and believe that, for a moment's peace? 



I'm quite sure I've developed a dissociative disorder. You would think that it's a relief but it's not. You just feel scared and lost in unfamiliar surroundings, even if it's your own street or home. You aren't you anymore. It feels like dementia, like losing your mind. 


I've googled false memories and OCD, since OCD runs in my family. Sure why not, I'm crazy and imagined it all. That's more bearable. But that fleeting theory dissolved when I realize other family members share my same traumatic memories. 


I know my abusers may use this against me but it's not for them. It's to help other survivors. You're not crazy. It's hard to grasp what bad people are capable of....


My heart literally aches. I need another break. 


I can't spend much time editing this, either. It’s too difficult to dwell on. 


To be continued....


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Introduction

What The Lack Of School Taught Me

A Brief Look At PTSD, Covid And Motherhood