Contrary to what many would think, I did not become interested in rape trauma immediately after my rape at age 13. I spent several years in denial before the reality of the situation finally sunk in. Looking back after becoming more knowledgeable about the after-effects of acquaintance rape, I began seeing the effects in my life throughout high school and most of college. In the course of my research in the past two years, I began making connections and realized how typical my reactions were of an acquaintance rape survivor. The more I researched, the more I wanted to know. It is cathartic for me to share my story and learn more about how this situation affects other survivors. The most troubling thing that I found in the course of my research was how few people truly understand what the survivor has experienced. That inability to empathize, coupled with the tendency to rationalize the rape and/or blame the victim, provided me the impetus to do this project.
I never experienced to trauma narratives before taking this class. When it was discussed at the beginning of the semester, it seemed like an ideal way to convey the depth of emotion experienced by the survivor. How better to explain what the survivor is feeling than to have access to her journal and read her thoughts? Of course, when I initially conceived this project, I did not anticipate that I would be using my own story or emotions as showcase.
Using my story as fodder for the narrative was born from trying, (unsuccessfully), to create a fictional narrative. It seemed so contrived to fabricate emotions and situations when there were so many people who had real stories and real emotions to share. Selecting my story had an empowering effect, so I knew it was the right choice. The next hurdle was trying to remember exactly what I felt at various times in my life that would fit well into the narrative. Since it has been ten years since the incident and only about five years since I truly accepted it, my emotional experience was interspersed with many other factors in my life. Thankfully, a solution presented itself. In February 2003, I began writing in an online journal. In it, I recorded mundane happenings in my life, big events, song lyrics, personal surveys, notes to myself, and various other textual accounts of my life as I experienced it. I spent a few hours going back through my archived entries and trying to stir up memories that I could use in my narrative. It worked. Three hours and a box of tissues later, my memories were fresh and ready for recording. Since my healing took place over a ten year period (and is still not complete), the applicable entries were dotted quite sporadically. I read them closely and came up with a more reasonable time line for my purposes.
My first entry is unlike most of the other entries. The writing style is immature and choppy. I intended it that way. I wanted to convey the awkwardness and naivete of a virgin girl who had little prior sexual experience. I wanted to highlight that immediate recollection of the incident to contrast it with later entries as the depression becomes more apparent, but also the growth takes place. Rape forces a young woman to grow up quickly. That is what I hoped to portray by differing the writing styles. In addition, the first entry discussed the event from a detached perspective, indicating that there was a sense of shock and denial (i.e. the reality had not yet “sunk in.”)
The July 4th entry was a textbook demonstration of the second stage of the grief process—pain and guilt. I wanted to experiment with font and capitalization to convey the first tiny question why followed by greater and greater urgency and pain associated with this basic question. It conveys a sense of loneliness and isolation (I just want someone to hold me) coupled with the reality that at the moment, there was no one to talk to except the journal and God. The section at the end is almost a poem—a prayer—an urgent plea to take away the pain, but to no avail.
With the July 6th entry, I wanted to show examples of the ways that rape trauma can manifest physically and mentally. Mentally reliving the incident caused nausea and loss of appetite. It also affected a part of my life (horseback riding) that up to that point had always been a source of solace. I hoped to convey the idea that even after a few days, a rape victim can lose interest in food and other activities that would normally be sources of enjoyment. The July 7th entry travels along a similar vein, with the continuation of no appetite but with the added symptoms of crying and sleeplessness.
In the July 10th essay, I took a break from first person and gave it a bit of a second person perspective, in an attempt to draw in the reader. It had to be believable, so I couldn’t use “we” as academics sometimes do to make the reader feel included. I used “you” to drive home the idea that it can happen to “you” the reader. It seemed to make it more real. The tone and tempo of the entry when I wrote it felt almost like running when out of breath. There was a sense of heart beating faster, desperation, trying to run unsuccessfully.
The August 21st entry, over a month later, feels angry. There is bitterness and resentment. There is full realization now, and the social implications have already begun to manifest. Survivors feel objectified. It’s a learned objectification, as a coping method in some cases. Sexual assault is polarizing, and while some survivors become asexual, many become hyper-sexual. This entry served to foreshadow how that would affect my life in the months and years to come.
Depression is one of the most common developments for rape survivors. It can range from daily sadness to thoughts of suicide. That was a particularly low point in my life, and I distinctly remember the desire to cease my existence. It was unbearable to be in so much emotional pain. I never actually made a formal plan to kill myself; I just toyed with possible scenarios.
I chose to include a poem I’d written that I found when going back through my old journal entries. It is another example of the tempo I described above, the mood seeming to indicate someone running but not fast enough to outrun the pain. The allusion to “My solace/my sanctuary/my school” came from my desire to get as far away as I could from my high school. I wanted to put lots of distance between the cruel students in my school and myself. I chose an expensive Catholic school near Philadelphia because only two students in the history of my high school had ever attended there and I would be able to start anew. I discovered within the first year of my attendance that although I could put distance between myself and the incident (and my high school classmates), I could not get away from my own mind. After I began repeating old habits and getting a bit of a “reputation," I realized that I couldn’t outrun my past.
The January 2nd entry allowed me to have a self-talk to admit that my behavior had been spiraling out of control and that I was to the point that I needed help. It took many years but finally in April of my sophomore year, I stood up at the Take Back the Night speak out and publicly admitted what had been done to me. It was a turning point.
The final entry is bittersweet. I wanted to show that with therapy, one can begin to heal, but I didn’t want to end it on a completely rosy note because although the healing process had begun, I was still far from being okay again. The difference was that I now had a commitment to myself to change. Hence the Dashboard Confessional lyrics at the end, “This is where I say I’ve had enough/And no one should ever feel the way that I feel now.” It was a call to action, a promise that I would devote myself to trying to prevent this from happening to other women. I finally realized my true purpose in life. That entry was written on April 25th, 2009 directly after my final therapy session.
Showing posts with label reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reflection. Show all posts
02 May, 2009
Journal Project
For one of my graduate classes, we were asked to complete a semester-long project in which we attempted to create a philosophical work in a non-traditional way. I chose to write a trauma narrative in the form of a journal, based on my own experiences. My goal was to give readers who were not survivors of rape a chance to see one survivors deepest and most secret thoughts in an attempt to give them an inkling of what survivors experience. This is not to say that all survivors react this way--everyone reacts differently--but I hoped to convey the range of emotions that can stem from that one life-changing event. My next post will be my critical analysis and explanation of my project. *Major Trigger Warning*
July 3rd, 2005
Dear Journal,
Yesterday I was at Gary's house, so was Dave. Dave was supposed to be meeting his girlfriend for some afternoon romping, and I was going to hang out with Gary. The two boys were smoking weed. I don't smoke, so I didn't have any. Gary kept blowing it in my face. I couldn't help but inhale some of it. I don't remember how we ended up in the basement, but he started trying to wrestle me. I thought we were just joking around, so I fought back a little. Then he started wrestling clothes off, once he got me to the ground. I tried to protect my clothes, but I couldn't do top and bottom at once. I remember he looked at me and said, "You have to give one of them up" so I gave up my shirt. Then he proceeded to wrestle off my pants. So there I was, clad in just a bra and panties. The panties went next. I was still on the ground. He kissed me...we'd done that before. Something was different though...I felt more out of it. He put his hand between my legs. He started to finger me. I was still struggling a little. He said something, but I can't remember what. Something to the effect of, "come on, you know you like it." Next thing I know, there's something a lot bigger than a finger inside me. It hurt. I was tight. I was so shocked; I didn't know what was going on. He rolled off me to get a condom. I sat up...told him I didn't want to lose my virginity. He simply replied, "Penetration is virginity, so it's gone." So nonchalantly, like we were talking about the fucking weather. He's continued, “You might as well just let me finish, it's not like you're a virgin anymore.” I lay down, more in shock than anything, and he finished. There was a puddle on the floor. I dressed in a daze, and walked down the street to meet my dad, who didn't know I had been at his house. I felt like there was something between my thighs keeping them from completely closing.
July 4th, 2005
Dear Journal,
I think I was raped. I didn’t want to have sex with Gary, and yet, we did. I never said I wanted to have sex or that it was okay for him to have sex with me, but he did.
why? Why? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STOP HURTING WHY DID YOU DO THAT? WHAT IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN? I DON'T KNOW IF I COULD DEAL WITH IT AND IT HURTS SO BAD MY HEART JUST ACHES AND I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND I DON'T KNOW WHO TO TALK TO AND I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO HUG ME AND SAY IT'LL BE OKAY BECAUSE RIGHT NOW I FEEL LIKE DYING.
GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STOP HURTING
PLEASE MAKE IT STOP
PLEASE GOD
GOD
July 6th, 2005
Dear Journal,
Haven't eaten in 24 hours. I was too upset to ride yesterday. In my entire life, that has never happened to me. Horseback riding has always been the one thing that gets me through whatever I was going though. Not yesterday. I went down the barn, groomed Snickers as if I was going to ride her, and then it was just like...I can't. I was thinking about what happened too much. I went to work in a daze, and when I got home and tried to go to sleep, I just laid awake, thinking about it. It makes me sick. Every time I would start to get hungry, I’d think of it and just feel nauseous.
July 7th, 2005
Dear Journal,
I haven't eaten in 36 hours, minus a cup of broccoli cheddar yesterday. I've slept a grand total of 12 hours in the last three days. I can't sleep; I can't eat. All I can do is cry. My eyes are swollen and red. My contacts don't even work because all the tears dried them out.
July 10th, 2005
I’m not planning this out in my head. The words are just going to flow. I hurt right now. So badly. I want you to know what I’m feeling. Every emotion. Anger, betrayal, depression, sadness. You can’t possibly understand being violated by the person you thought you could trust. Having a person force you to engage in that one sacred act, that act of love, against your will. Wanting to run, to scream, to tear through your skin and rip out your heart. Just wanting to sleep, to die, to be unconscious, something to make the pain vanish for a while. Hoping that sleep would bring release but finding yourself restless and tossing and turning, or worse, haunted by nightmares that are so much more vivid than what you pictured while awake. The nausea. The constant nausea every time you so much as think the word "food." Why would you want to eat when you'd rather die? The hurt - the realization that you put your faith in someone who could violate it. The self-loathing...thinking if you had just been better, done this, done that, this wouldn't have happened. The somber acceptance that it did happen, and nothing they say will ever change it. The hatred. Hating him for making you hurt, wanting to hurt him, wanting to see his emotions, wanting him to hurt as much as you do so he would never hurt anyone like this ever again. The prayer. Praying, begging, screaming, asking, God why is this happening? Asking what you did to deserve it. Hoping that He will take your pain away. Waiting, and waiting, and realizing that the solace will not come. Wanting to run forever, run so far that no one will catch you or find you, hoping to outrun the pain. Never being able to. Feeling helpless. There’s nothing you could do to stop it. There’s nothing you can do to change it. There’s nothing you can do at all, except try to survive. But part of you doesn't even want to. You contemplate going out into traffic and hoping an ignorant driver hits you. It sounds crazy. It is crazy. I realized that I lost a piece of myself that day. Now maybe you’ll understand a small shadow of what it’s like.
August 21st, 2005
Dear Journal,
I hate him for what he did to me...how he made me think my body was the only part of me that would ever get a man's attention. How he made me feel like I was just an object for pleasure. How he made me lose respect for myself. But mostly, I hate myself for letting him get away with it. I was told he's done it to two other girls. Virgins. It could have stopped with me.
August 31st, 2005
Dear Journal,
I’m back at school now. I can’t focus in class, so I wrote a poem today.
Suffocating
Strangled
Fenced in
Cornered
Can’t take the pressure
Everyone is watching
Listening
Probing
Like I’m an experiment
I need to get out
Run
Hide
Go far away from here
Escape
I can’t take this anymore
Going to explode
I can’t lose it again
This was supposed to be
My solace
My sanctuary
My school
Where no one could find me
Where I would be far away
Now it’s my prison
January 2nd, 2006
Dear Journal,
It’s been months since it happened. I’ve begun doing things I never expected. I have been sleeping around. I started dating Bruce a few weeks ago and slept with him almost immediately. I didn’t mean to, but it just happened. I’m afraid to be alone, I’m afraid of rejection, and I’m addicted to the attention that I receive from guys. As long as a guy will give me the emotional things I need, I can forgive lying and manipulating. I’ll do whatever it takes to get more of that attention, even have sex with him.
I’ve slept with boys in the past few months because I needed their attention. I am convinced that my only marketable feature is my body. I told Bruce last night, I feel like I’m not worthy enough on my own merits…I have to sleep with a guy, because I fear that if I don’t, I will be left for someone prettier, smarter, and/or more willing to do such things. I feel as though I’m in constant competition for the males in my life, and I won’t ever be able to just relax and enjoy a relationship. I have a deep-seated fear of being alone, and an even deeper fear of never truly being respected and cared for.
January 15th, 2006
Dear Journal,
I started seeing a therapist. She’s helping me through this, and making me realize how much of my recent behavior stemmed from Gary raping me over the summer. It has affected me on every possible level.
Rape. It’s a funny word to say. Something you read about in the newspaper but never actually think will happen to you. It happens to other people. It happens in dark alleys. It doesn’t happen in the basement of your ex-boyfriend’s house with your mutual friend upstairs, seemingly oblivious. It doesn’t happen when you’re a virgin hoping to save yourself for someone who truly cares.
And even if it does happen, you call the police right? You do the things they teach you in school. But what happens when you’re out when your parents think you’re at a friend’s house? What happens when it takes you a few days to even fully comprehend what happened? Why can’t I just erase this from my memory instead of feeling like it now defines every action I take and every emotion I feel? How can I keep this from happening to other people? No one should ever feel the way that I feel now. I found these lyrics from Dashboard Confessional that seem so applicable…
This is where I say
I've had enough
And no one should ever feel
The way that I feel now.
A walking open wound,
A trophy display of bruises
And I don't believe
That I'm getting any better
July 3rd, 2005
Dear Journal,
Yesterday I was at Gary's house, so was Dave. Dave was supposed to be meeting his girlfriend for some afternoon romping, and I was going to hang out with Gary. The two boys were smoking weed. I don't smoke, so I didn't have any. Gary kept blowing it in my face. I couldn't help but inhale some of it. I don't remember how we ended up in the basement, but he started trying to wrestle me. I thought we were just joking around, so I fought back a little. Then he started wrestling clothes off, once he got me to the ground. I tried to protect my clothes, but I couldn't do top and bottom at once. I remember he looked at me and said, "You have to give one of them up" so I gave up my shirt. Then he proceeded to wrestle off my pants. So there I was, clad in just a bra and panties. The panties went next. I was still on the ground. He kissed me...we'd done that before. Something was different though...I felt more out of it. He put his hand between my legs. He started to finger me. I was still struggling a little. He said something, but I can't remember what. Something to the effect of, "come on, you know you like it." Next thing I know, there's something a lot bigger than a finger inside me. It hurt. I was tight. I was so shocked; I didn't know what was going on. He rolled off me to get a condom. I sat up...told him I didn't want to lose my virginity. He simply replied, "Penetration is virginity, so it's gone." So nonchalantly, like we were talking about the fucking weather. He's continued, “You might as well just let me finish, it's not like you're a virgin anymore.” I lay down, more in shock than anything, and he finished. There was a puddle on the floor. I dressed in a daze, and walked down the street to meet my dad, who didn't know I had been at his house. I felt like there was something between my thighs keeping them from completely closing.
July 4th, 2005
Dear Journal,
I think I was raped. I didn’t want to have sex with Gary, and yet, we did. I never said I wanted to have sex or that it was okay for him to have sex with me, but he did.
why? Why? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STOP HURTING WHY DID YOU DO THAT? WHAT IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN? I DON'T KNOW IF I COULD DEAL WITH IT AND IT HURTS SO BAD MY HEART JUST ACHES AND I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND I DON'T KNOW WHO TO TALK TO AND I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO HUG ME AND SAY IT'LL BE OKAY BECAUSE RIGHT NOW I FEEL LIKE DYING.
GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STOP HURTING
PLEASE MAKE IT STOP
PLEASE GOD
GOD
July 6th, 2005
Dear Journal,
Haven't eaten in 24 hours. I was too upset to ride yesterday. In my entire life, that has never happened to me. Horseback riding has always been the one thing that gets me through whatever I was going though. Not yesterday. I went down the barn, groomed Snickers as if I was going to ride her, and then it was just like...I can't. I was thinking about what happened too much. I went to work in a daze, and when I got home and tried to go to sleep, I just laid awake, thinking about it. It makes me sick. Every time I would start to get hungry, I’d think of it and just feel nauseous.
July 7th, 2005
Dear Journal,
I haven't eaten in 36 hours, minus a cup of broccoli cheddar yesterday. I've slept a grand total of 12 hours in the last three days. I can't sleep; I can't eat. All I can do is cry. My eyes are swollen and red. My contacts don't even work because all the tears dried them out.
July 10th, 2005
I’m not planning this out in my head. The words are just going to flow. I hurt right now. So badly. I want you to know what I’m feeling. Every emotion. Anger, betrayal, depression, sadness. You can’t possibly understand being violated by the person you thought you could trust. Having a person force you to engage in that one sacred act, that act of love, against your will. Wanting to run, to scream, to tear through your skin and rip out your heart. Just wanting to sleep, to die, to be unconscious, something to make the pain vanish for a while. Hoping that sleep would bring release but finding yourself restless and tossing and turning, or worse, haunted by nightmares that are so much more vivid than what you pictured while awake. The nausea. The constant nausea every time you so much as think the word "food." Why would you want to eat when you'd rather die? The hurt - the realization that you put your faith in someone who could violate it. The self-loathing...thinking if you had just been better, done this, done that, this wouldn't have happened. The somber acceptance that it did happen, and nothing they say will ever change it. The hatred. Hating him for making you hurt, wanting to hurt him, wanting to see his emotions, wanting him to hurt as much as you do so he would never hurt anyone like this ever again. The prayer. Praying, begging, screaming, asking, God why is this happening? Asking what you did to deserve it. Hoping that He will take your pain away. Waiting, and waiting, and realizing that the solace will not come. Wanting to run forever, run so far that no one will catch you or find you, hoping to outrun the pain. Never being able to. Feeling helpless. There’s nothing you could do to stop it. There’s nothing you can do to change it. There’s nothing you can do at all, except try to survive. But part of you doesn't even want to. You contemplate going out into traffic and hoping an ignorant driver hits you. It sounds crazy. It is crazy. I realized that I lost a piece of myself that day. Now maybe you’ll understand a small shadow of what it’s like.
August 21st, 2005
Dear Journal,
I hate him for what he did to me...how he made me think my body was the only part of me that would ever get a man's attention. How he made me feel like I was just an object for pleasure. How he made me lose respect for myself. But mostly, I hate myself for letting him get away with it. I was told he's done it to two other girls. Virgins. It could have stopped with me.
August 31st, 2005
Dear Journal,
I’m back at school now. I can’t focus in class, so I wrote a poem today.
Suffocating
Strangled
Fenced in
Cornered
Can’t take the pressure
Everyone is watching
Listening
Probing
Like I’m an experiment
I need to get out
Run
Hide
Go far away from here
Escape
I can’t take this anymore
Going to explode
I can’t lose it again
This was supposed to be
My solace
My sanctuary
My school
Where no one could find me
Where I would be far away
Now it’s my prison
January 2nd, 2006
Dear Journal,
It’s been months since it happened. I’ve begun doing things I never expected. I have been sleeping around. I started dating Bruce a few weeks ago and slept with him almost immediately. I didn’t mean to, but it just happened. I’m afraid to be alone, I’m afraid of rejection, and I’m addicted to the attention that I receive from guys. As long as a guy will give me the emotional things I need, I can forgive lying and manipulating. I’ll do whatever it takes to get more of that attention, even have sex with him.
I’ve slept with boys in the past few months because I needed their attention. I am convinced that my only marketable feature is my body. I told Bruce last night, I feel like I’m not worthy enough on my own merits…I have to sleep with a guy, because I fear that if I don’t, I will be left for someone prettier, smarter, and/or more willing to do such things. I feel as though I’m in constant competition for the males in my life, and I won’t ever be able to just relax and enjoy a relationship. I have a deep-seated fear of being alone, and an even deeper fear of never truly being respected and cared for.
January 15th, 2006
Dear Journal,
I started seeing a therapist. She’s helping me through this, and making me realize how much of my recent behavior stemmed from Gary raping me over the summer. It has affected me on every possible level.
Rape. It’s a funny word to say. Something you read about in the newspaper but never actually think will happen to you. It happens to other people. It happens in dark alleys. It doesn’t happen in the basement of your ex-boyfriend’s house with your mutual friend upstairs, seemingly oblivious. It doesn’t happen when you’re a virgin hoping to save yourself for someone who truly cares.
And even if it does happen, you call the police right? You do the things they teach you in school. But what happens when you’re out when your parents think you’re at a friend’s house? What happens when it takes you a few days to even fully comprehend what happened? Why can’t I just erase this from my memory instead of feeling like it now defines every action I take and every emotion I feel? How can I keep this from happening to other people? No one should ever feel the way that I feel now. I found these lyrics from Dashboard Confessional that seem so applicable…
This is where I say
I've had enough
And no one should ever feel
The way that I feel now.
A walking open wound,
A trophy display of bruises
And I don't believe
That I'm getting any better
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