April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month.

Sexual Assault

Awareness

Month

The words feel weird in my mouth.

Obviously, I want, nay need, the world to be aware of the issues and statistics around sexual assault. I need everyone to be aware of how the intersections of our identities impact those statistics, and how institutions in our society perpetuate them. 

I guess, for me, it’s just hard to remember people are still unaware.

I’ve thought about my assault every day for the last ten years. I don’t want to, but it’s always there. Lurking in the shadows of every interaction. Stalking my mind, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce when I’m at my weakest or most vulnerable. How could people be unaware of sexual assault when mine rides around with me in my skin? Is painted on my body like scars?

I swear you can smell it on me.

Sexual Assault Awareness month is particularly poignant to me right now because a recent (less extreme? If that’s a thing) assault was the final spark that triggered this mental breakdown.

So, the last few months of my life have been consumed by the consequences and products of my assault. Therefore, I am approaching this month with all of this heavy on my mind.

I am at a point in my life where I must process through my assault in order to move forward. This became urgent recently because a new trigger from my most recent assault made it impossible to do my job. 

So here I am, trying to process and realizing the multitude of ways being sexually assaulted has impacted my life.

These realizations have led to a lot of grieving for the woman I was too afraid to be, for so many years, because of my assault. 

And this is where I’m going to unload it all. 

This is my official “victim impact statement.”

This is my love letter to the poor, broken girl that spent her 20s refusing to allow herself to feel the love she deserved:

I have had depression since puberty.

But the deep sense of self loathing that bubbled up in my throat like bile and made me want to die?

My rapist gave me that.

Oh boy, did I feel fucking stupid.

I kissed him. I drank his booze.

I went upstairs with him.

He told everyone we had sex.

I was really drunk.

Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was? Maybe I’m being dramatic? Everyone is always telling me I’m dramatic.

Fuck, then why do I feel so dirty?

Like, that feeling you get when you have one of those gross “part-of-life” things that no one likes talking about, but it could happen to almost anyone.

That night with that boy. In the bathroom upstairs. And my eyes in the mirror.

That night is a wart. It’s a yeast infection. 

A booger.

And I can’t fucking get rid of it. 

I feel it in the moments when I’m alone with men I don’t know. In an elevator. At a gas station. A parking lot. These men are probably perfectly decent people. To me, they are a nightmare.

And then, for a while, I assumed me saying the word “no” was the trigger of the violence against me. Therefore, if I don’t tell people “no,” and I just give them what they want, I’ll be safe, yeah?

Makes sense, doesn’t it?

And, if I was worth more than my body in the first place, he never would’ve felt like he could help himself to me like a complimentary breakfast buffet at a two-star hotel. 

Ok, perfect. That’s how you’ll protect yourself. That’s your plan:

Just pretend you want all the attention from men. Hell, force yourself to want the attention. Egg it on. Tell yourself that kind of attention proves you are worth something.

Draw them in, give them what they want, make them feel good about themselves, expect nothing in return. 

This is how you establish your worth, right?

Right?

What a weird feeling it was the day I woke up and realized my body was no longer mine. 

That I had given my body up.

Made it public property.

And my sense of self was gone (or maybe I never had one?).

That was the day I almost killed myself.

And where am I in all of this now?

Well, I’m doing the seemingly impossible work of trying to reclaim my body, reclaim my power, and reclaim my sexuality.

I’m trying to reframe sex as a way to feel good, and sexuality as a way to feel good about myself. 

I’m trying to explore other things too, that make me feel fulfilled and good about myself in general.

I’m trying to turn self-loathing into self-love.

I’m trying.