Sexual assault—especially that which occurred before adulthood—is something we don’t like talking about. We don’t like talking about it to the point that we may instinctively stigmatize the victim when he or she speaks up. Why? Because it makes us uncomfortable. All our brain recognizes is a person saying things that make us uncomfortable.
It’s been 16 years since the first time I was abused by an adult as a child.
Now, I’m an adult myself and after spending 15 of those years in silence, I’ve learned these two lips and this unique voice are the most powerful weapons in my arsenal in a fight to do what I hadn’t managed in all that time being quiet: to overcome.
As a teenager, and in my early 20’s, the effects of what happened to me became most pronounced. I began dressing provocatively. Having indiscriminate sex. Self-harming. Drinking. Doing drugs. Working in adult entertainment. I was a cliche. These are what I call “destructive coping mechanisms,” and that list isn’t anywhere close to exhaustive. They really do work. You forget the pain you suffered as a child for a while. You just create new pain.
I lived in a vicious cycle for years. I destroyed everything good that came my way. I sabotaged every relationship with every good and decent man who came into my life. I hurt myself and the people around me—whether directly or by extension. Then one day, I got a call that the man who’d hurt me died. For a lot of people, that call feels like closure...and as time has passed, I’ve started to feel the same way. But that first day, it felt like every bad memory was being unearthed and I had to sit and listen while everyone said what a great guy he was—it broke me. It became my rock bottom.
From there, I had nowhere to go but up. I decided to pursue therapy. I didn’t tell anyone. I was ashamed. I didn’t want anyone asking questions. It was group therapy. My first few visits, I said as little as possible. Then one day something struck me. Something that someone else in the group said. Someone who had been abused as well. She said, “the worst part is, I still love him.”
I didn’t know why, but my eyes filled with tears. The therapist noticed and asked if I had anything to say. I told her that what the other girl said had hit home and burst into tears. It was my first eureka moment. I still had love for the man who hurt me. I wanted to forgive him, but not FOR him. For me. I was holding onto hatred and anger and it was like a poison that I was spewing on everyone around me. But it took time. It took talking it out. It took learning to be unashamed of being in a room full of people who knew what happened to me. I’d never experienced that before.
I began to understand my abandonment issues better. My aggression. My habit of pushing people away, sometimes without even trying. It all drew back to an intense distrust of human nature. Somewhere in what he did, that man communicated to me that people are cruel. It was a lie. When I learned to accept what happened, that was when I was able to forgive. And if I could forgive someone who did something so awful, how could humans be all bad? We have a beautiful ability to love, deeply, sincerely and loyally. But we don’t always foster it within ourselves. I certainly didn’t.
Learning to trust in that ability started with setting the example myself. Giving back, particularly through my volunteer work. Becoming addicted to kindness. Complimenting others every chance I get. Finding the good, and creating some of my own. I fell in love with honesty and compassion and along the way, I’ve met incredible people—far better than myself— who have taught me what we’re really capable of. Finally, I learned to forgive myself. To fully understand that happened was never my fault. That I’ve done things that are wrong, that I still do, but that those things don’t define me.
I still have certain inclinations, and I always will. I will always be a little damaged. But I’m not broken anymore. I look in the mirror every day and see a smart, beautiful woman who’s doing her best, and someone I love to be. It isn’t easy getting here. Even with a long road ahead of me, I’ve come so far. A year ago, this kind of peace felt impossible. But it isn’t.
You can never make the bad stuff playing through your head go away completely, but you can turn down the volume. That’s a choice. And it all starts with a single word.
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