Being sexually abused, in any way, places you in a club no one wants to (or should be) a part of. I know. I’m a member. I was reminded, as if I could ever forget, recently when I picked up the autobiography of critically acclaimed author, Alice Sebold. She was beaten and brutally, brutally raped during her freshman year at Syracuse University. She tells the story in such a way that grips the reader and forces them to not only witness the hell she’s enduring, but to endure it with her. And you do. You can’t help it. I usually devour books in hours, days FLAT. But, not this one. Not because it was anything less than stunning, but because it was raw. And real. And I felt it. I felt it more than I had prepared myself for feeling it.
When you experience being sexually violated in such a manner at such a young age, you have no idea how to process that. No way. You deal with it the best way you can. For years, I felt that the coping mechanisms implemented by my four year old self, my eight year old self, my fourteen year old self, my eighteen year old self, my twenty-four year old self- that they were all just weird rituals I held myself to because I knew no better. I thought they made me weird. It wasn’t enough that I felt damaged in the most immeasurable way, I also felt I wasn’t even normal in my own ability to be damaged. But, reading Alice’s story, hearing her words- her own misgivings and nightmares…well, it let me know I wasn’t.
I have vivid memories of playing in the yard one afternoon maybe about six months after the incident, which is weird in and of itself, as I wouldn’t venture out of the house alone. I remember imagining him coming to get me again. I remember saying,
No! No! You can’t hurt me anymore. You can’t hurt me anymore. And I ran around my yard saying this- whispering it really- to myself. And I thought, even then, how strange this was of me. Why would I wish that on myself again. While reading about Alice’s own battles of wishing her rapist upon her again, I realized it was all about asserting some form of control. Control that has been ripped from your grasp, leaving you reeling.
But, the difference in Alice’s imagination and my own, is that mine came true. He did appear that day, walking down the road towards me. And suddenly any control I had tried to summon was gone. Vanished into the humid air along with the heated breaths escaping my mouth in my attempt to get to my front door. I knew if I could just get there, I would be okay. I reached for the knob, but it was locked. I panicked even more. I began to beat my small fists against the door, screaming. I screamed with everything I had. My childish mind didn’t allow the thought to run to the back door, for now, this was my only escape. My sister and a friend were inside and heard me beating on the door. Truth be told, I could be a dramatic child, and my sister had no idea of what had happened to me during the months prior. She thought I was just being bratty and refused to let me in, taunting me. I remember seeing her face and thinking she, this time, would be the one to save me or let me die. In my little brain, that was it: live or die, right then. My mother, having discovered what was going on, pushed them aside and let me in. I rushed to her arms, and I shook. I screamed and I cried and I shook. I don’t remember how long it took for her to calm me down. But, I do remember the way my sister looked at me when my mother explained to her what had happened. I remember the way she hugged me and told me she was sorry. I remember the anger and sadness that dwelled together behind her eyes, and I knew she had never meant to hurt me.
I hurt along with Alice as she constantly worried where she would next see his face. I lived that worry every day for sixteen years. My mother and father decided it was best not to press charges, as not only were we very close with the rest of his family (most of which never knew about it), but I couldn’t even talk about it without breaking down into a heaving, sobbing, mess. It would be my word against his. A child. It was futile, they agreed. He was a part of my life- a nightmare in the flesh only one hundred yards or so away from my own house. I watched him come and go as he pleased. I watched him drink until he couldn’t stand. I watched him laugh and attempt to talk to me. My father had sworn he would never be allowed on our property again, but slowly, I watched him walk right back into my life.
He eventually did come back on our property. He helped my father build a shed. He had a beer in my backyard. He tried to make small talk with me, and I found myself making the effort to do the same. I wanted so badly to just be who I was before. I thought, maybe, if I was a good girl and I could talk about things like school and why I didn’t like Muscatine grapes with the man who had pushed his fingers so far into my small body that I couldn’t go to the bathroom for weeks without my mother holding my hand- that maybe, just maybe I could be who I used to be. Maybe we could all just forget about it. But, it’s never that easy.
I read along as Alice destroyed her body with drugs and booze in the attempt to “destroy” her feelings. She hated her body. So did I. Part of me, I know, still does. It is a fact that most sexual abuse victims either dramatically gain weight or lose weight to alter their body. I did. Unconsciously, I truly believe, initially. Everyone used to tell me what a “pretty little girl” I was- that I would, they were sure, turn into a beautiful young woman. He, himself, nicknamed me his Princess. I thought if I could just be unpretty, then I couldn’t get hurt. He couldn’t hurt me again. It worked- kind of. People never remarked what a pretty young woman I was. I was “smart”, “kind”, “sweet”. These adjectives, though well meaning, became words I still resent to be associated with. But, as I was pointedly told by a member of my family a few years back, being overweight won’t stop someone from hurting you.
There are all kinds of sickos out there that like your type. It doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt. Why, thank you for that dose of reality. It had never dawned on me.
I cringed and cried along with Alice as she experienced her own sexuality after the rape, wondering if she was truly broken. If the sadness and pain, though not physical, would ever really go away. When do the flashbacks stop? We train ourselves to focus on different things. I thank God that my journey was drastically different from hers, here. I was cared for, understood, held with patience. She was not so fortunate, but I knew the path she was training herself to walk. Private moments are never really yours again. Not for a while, at least. You still feel enslaved- owned by the person who stole your innocence.
Unlike Alice, who fought bravely and with a passion I have yet to see in any other human to place her violator behind bars, I never got that luxury. When I was 20 years old, he went missing and was later found to be drowned after falling into a pond while inebriated. My initial reaction was FREEDOM. I had never felt so free, not in a very long time. Then, I felt guilty. I was raised in the church, and I felt I was being sinful to engage in such delight in another’s passing. I felt like a horrible person for celebrating his death. I did not go to his funeral. I grieved for his family and for his mother mainly, who had been like a second grandmother to me. She had lost her son, the second of which she had had to bury in her lifetime. I knew it was hard for her. But, I had to dismiss myself when she stated to the preacher that,
I know he hurt a lot of people, but I don’t think he ever hurt anyone as much as he hurt himself. That was a lie to me. I would never share in that sentiment. He chose to drink and drive behind the wheel of a car that killed his wife and nearly killed his young son. He chose to do drugs and ruin what brain cells had remained. He chose to live the life he lead. I did not choose for him to put his hands up my shorts. I did not choose for him to clasp his hand over my mouth. I did not choose for him to violently, aggressively assault me as I screamed. I did not choose for him to whisper vulgar things in my ear, his temper flaring and showing in his actions as I whimpered: I want my mommy. No. I didn’t choose for him to do any of those things. I certainly did not choose to be a twenty five year old woman, who still shudders when I hear a voice familiar to his, or I smell the brand of cigarette that he used to smoke. So, I win. I hurt more. If you want to call that winning.
Looking back, I have so many unanswered questions. I am hesitant to be angry with my parents. They loved me more than enough and neither children nor life comes with a manual. They were just doing what they thought was best for me. But, still- my heart burns and my throat tightens a little when I ask why. Why? Why did they let him come back into my life? Why did they make it seem like it was okay for him to just be there in the only place I felt safe? Why did I have to pretend to be grown up about it? To keep being told that even if I did run into him, I was older and he couldn’t hurt me anymore? Did they not realize this made absolutely no sense? That every time I saw him, it mattered not whether I was 4 or twenty- that the fear was paralyzing? I’m most hesitant to ask what kind of parents expose their child to that. Because I know how it makes them seem. But, they loved me. More than I have ever been loved by anyone. And I love them, immensely.
In all honesty…I am resentful. I’m resentful that I have to figure out, after all this time, how to live my live despite this. How to pull in the reins and not let it control me unconsciously or otherwise. I resent that there are times when I feel the only person I will every truly attract is a pervert like he was. And I most resent the fact that when I found someone who did, and was not, he haunted me still. I resent that I felt the need to play nice, to destroy my body, to be a “good girl” in order to ever be worth anything or anyone. I haven’t really, truly cried about this for a long time. It hurts, but I mask the hurt with other pain. But, as I sit here reliving this through her experiences, I cry. I don’t just cry- I sob, I weep, I feel it…all over again. Am I resentful? I’m so resentful. But, I’m trying to move past that.
Alice, I know you’re not reading this. You probably never will. But, I have to say: Thank You. Thank you so much for not only your book, but for the courage to live the truth you so boldly wrote about. Thank you for helping me realize I am not alone. I am not weird in my ability to be damaged. And that I will not always be damaged. It means more than you could ever know.
