It’s taken me months to write this post, but here we are.
Oh, hey! Ça va ? Today I am making a bit of an unusual and very uncomfortable post, one I wish I didn’t have to make. But in the spirit of leaving my traumatic experiences behind and helping someone somewhere feel a little less alone, I want to share this story.
CONTENT WARNING
This post contains material that may be triggering: child molestation, sexual assault, trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
ANOTHER WARNING
This is going to be a very long post.
Okay, let’s go.
CONTENTS
Setting the scene
If you’ve read my memoir, you know I was molested as a child, and maybe that was shocking news to you. I am still shocked that I wrote it and left it there, because it was never part of the plan (at least not mine). I didn’t think it mattered; after all, sexual assault has nothing to do with dreams that come true. Or dreams at all. Plus, The Book was almost done (or so I thought) when I added this part about my childhood that I never ever (ever, like ever) intended to add.
What happened? What made you want to add it?
I never wanted to. To this day, it’s something I feel very uncomfortable about, knowing it’s out there for anyone on Earth to read. What happened is one day, sometime in November 2021, I was casually scrolling on Instagram when I came across this post from @igototherapy that I deeply resonated with.
I’ve been through quite a few traumatic experiences of varying degrees both as a child and as an adult, but when I saw this post, what immediately came to mind was the sexual assault I experienced as a child. Until 2021, that unfortunate event had only been a distant memory, one that had been buried so deep that I acted like it didn’t exist.
I wrote most of The Book in 2021, starting in April. From the beginning, I knew I was not going to mention anything about that part of my childhood. I didn’t even think about it. Not sure how or why that happened, but this once distant memory resurfaced out of nowhere and gradually made its way back to the forefront of my mind. No flashbacks, no specific details, it was just… there. And as time went by, I became more and more aware of its growing presence.
It bothered me that it was there. It bothered me even more that it seemed to want my attention, so I paid it none.
Why is this happening? Why am I thinking about this now?
At some point, I was even angry at myself for allowing this thing to take up so much space in my mind, but I couldn’t seem to control it this time. Some days, a part of me wanted me to write about it, but then the other part would immediately talk me out it. What does that have to do with dreams? It wasn’t even that big a deal. It’s in the past and it's completely irrelevant. In all honesty, I was also scared of how that would make me look.
It is during the last four months of 2021 that this thing started poking at me more intensely, making it harder and harder to ignore. I tried as hard as I could until I came across this post on Instagram and caved. That was the beginning of a trip down memory lane. A trip that was not at all enjoyable. A trip I never wanted, or thought I would ever have to take.
The trip down memory lane
Because I don’t know how else to structure this post and already spent too much time trying to figure that out, I suggest we go point by point as shown in the picture, starting with the most relevant to me.
Your trauma is valid, even if…
You think other people have it “worse”
This is the biggest reason why I reacted how I did toward that unfortunate event over the years. The nature of the assault and my interpretation of it deeply affected my thought process.
I spent my life thinking and telling myself it was “nothing,” that there were people who had experienced “real rape,” that what had happened to me wasn’t “that bad,” that at least he hadn’t tied me or done all these other horrible things I saw on TV or that I heard of. My definition of rape was deeply flawed. To me, sexual assault and rape pretty much meant the same thing, that is, penetration by genital organs only. That’s it. I didn’t consider anything else, especially in my case, as rape. “Generic” sexual assault, maybe, but definitely not rape. So, if I hadn’t experienced “real rape,” who was I to complain?
It could have been worse. At least he didn’t rape me. It didn’t last that long. I didn’t even bleed. He didn’t go that far.
In a sense, this was also my way of “respecting” other people’s feelings, those who had gone through something worse or “more traumatic.”
The truth is, I never tried to fully understand what was considered rape, because I was afraid to eventually find out that I too had been raped, which is exactly what happened when I started doing more research on sexual assault and rape, after seeing the Instagram post. I was fine with my own definition because it made me feel like what I’d gone through wasn’t “a huge deal,” that I was actually “lucky” that worse things had not happened.
I also blamed myself a little bit (or a lot), telling myself that if I had just stayed in the living room and kept on watching TV instead of following him when he called me, none of it would’ve happened. While that is true, I couldn’t possibly have known what was going to happen. But I didn’t think that way. I told myself I could have avoided it, especially since that day was not his first attempt at assaulting me.
I should have seen it coming. I repeated to myself.
For context, my perpetrator was one of the men who worked at our house. If you’ve read my memoir or seen my childhood pictures, you know I was quite chubby as a child. You may also remember the effects that my body image issues had on my self-esteem. What I did not mention in The Book, however, is how my perception of my body also contributed to further blaming myself.
I used to think that maybe if I weren’t so fat, if my thighs weren’t so big or if my butt was less round, he wouldn’t have wanted to do all these things to me. Again, it was my fault. So why was I going to complain?
I don’t remember him threatening me not to say anything, but I never told anyone. I simply stopped playing out in the garden, looking forward to the day he would eventually stop working at our house.
The research I did lasted from November 2021 to around May 2022. I didn’t research every single day, but I had eighteen million four hundred and seventy-six thousand nine hundred and thirty-two tabs open, all about sexual assault. No kidding, I counted (😉). They made my laptop crash an equal number of times before I moved them to a reading list, for when I would be ready to stop acting like they weren’t there. But that’s beside the point.
The point is, it took me time to come to terms with what I was reading. At first, I didn’t want to believe that I had been raped. I kept double checking, looking again and again, trying to find sources more reputable than the United Nations’ website that would not categorize what I’d been through as rape.
“Rape is any non-consensual vaginal, anal or oral penetration of another person with any bodily part or object.”
Any bodily part? No… I couldn’t have been raped. It was “just” fingers. This couldn’t possibly be considered rape. It wasn’t that big a deal. Yeah, sexual assault, but rape?! I don’t think so. Maybe that was “just” child molestation? What even is child molestation? How about sexual touching? That’s more plausible. But what is the difference?
I wondered, going from one article or website to another, refusing to accept what I was reading. I didn’t want to have been raped, and although many countries and even jurisdictions within countries seem to have different interpretations of sexual assault, most definitions of rape I found led me to the same conclusion.
It’s not that I consider myself to be “above” certain things, absolutely not! Life struggles don’t discriminate, I know that all too well. I just didn’t want to deal with the feelings associated with that discovery.
You can’t remember it properly
I cannot (or maybe a more accurate way to say this is I do not want to) remember exactly what happened. During the months that followed the assault and up to a few years later, I’d get flashbacks here and there, but I always pushed them to the side and quickly moved on, especially considering my perception of the situation. I eventually reached a point where I absolutely did not remember anything about it anymore, like it had never even happened.
Who? Me? Sexually assaulted? Lol. Excuse me, what are you talking about? Goodbye.
Your symptoms don’t look like someone else’s
What symptoms? As I grew up, I barely remembered anything and wasn’t really affected by it. I say “not really” because there were times when I’d listen to certain stories or watch certain movie scenes and be reminded of that, but since I didn’t take my situation seriously, I always suppressed whatever feelings wanted to arise.
It’s only after seeing the Instagram post and while doing my research that I started to get more vivid flashbacks. For the first time in years, I remembered lying in his bed, feeling the pain and discomfort of what was happening. I remembered throwing up and having to brush my teeth a million times because a few minutes earlier, he had forced his tongue into my mouth and the only way to get him off me was to bite that tongue. I remembered how nauseous I felt the days that followed, how I couldn’t eat because it all kept replaying in my head. And it’s only then, years later, that I remembered it actually hurt, that it was actually painful. Because I never saw it as “real rape,” I managed to convince my body that it should be able to handle whatever had happened.
In case you’re wondering about the whole “bed” situation, there is room in the outbuilding of our house that was usually occupied by whoever was taking care of the outer parts of the house, especially if it was a man. In this case, it was the gardener. I suppose the idea was to keep things separate and prevent unfortunate events from happening…
It’s been years since it happened
It most definitely has. Once more, I cannot pinpoint the exact year it happened, but I was either 9 or 10. Or 8? I don’t know.
As you may also know, my faith matters a lot to me and is something that I’ve learned to lean on over the past few years. So, when this thing started bothering me and as it became harder to ignore, I prayed about it. But the truth is, I mostly wanted God to make it go away and stick to the plan we had initially agreed on. I did say I’d put it in The Book if He really wanted me to, just like I said I’d make this blog post if He really wanted me to, but I was hoping He would not.
Please don’t make me do this. I wasn’t supposed to mention this. I don’t want to write about this, please.
My thoughts, when I wrote that short sentence about the assault in my memoir for the first time. (By the way, the very first version read something like this: “I was molested as a child and even though it wasn’t rape, the things he did to me made me feel bad about myself.”)
It's so irrelevant. What does that have to do with anything? I can’t keep this here.
I highlighted that sentence in red and told myself it was simply a placeholder that I’d remove during my final round of edits. And here we are. Ah… the things I would do for God. Isn’t that great? I think it’s amazing! Love it! Woohoo!
Anyway… so yeah, it’s been years since it happened.
It didn’t make you “stronger”
It didn’t. But it didn’t make me weaker either, because once more, over the years, I managed to forget all about it and was doing perfectly fine, or so I thought. But how about when I remembered, you ask? Excellent question! In all honesty, I was… ashamed. When I read all these articles on rape and couldn’t or didn’t want to believe it had happened to me, the first thing that I felt was shame.
I certainly cried about it as a child, but so many other factors contributed to my unhappiness, ones that I even considered more important. January 2022 is when I cried for the first time because of the assault alone. There was shame, there was denial, there was discomfort, there were flashbacks. There were so many “Why now?”, so many “I was doing okay,” so many “Everything was fine,” so many “I don’t understand.”
I was angry. I was sad. I was ashamed. I felt powerless.
It took a while for you to realize it was trauma
For sure! Again, the Instagram post is what made me realize it was trauma. I had learned to live my life like nothing had ever happened, but when I saw the post, the only thing that came to mind was the assault.
You haven’t told anyone about it
Sort of. I did mention it very lightly to two friends when I was in middle school and to one when I was in college, but I always made sure to specify that it wasn’t “real rape.” I also briefly told someone else about it last year. The first time I really talked about it was when I started therapy in July 2022.
Another reason I didn’t want to write about it is because I’d never told my mom, and I felt bad for making her learn about it for the first time in a book.
Someone didn’t think it was a big deal
It’s me. Someone is me. I am someone.
It doesn’t really impact you anymore
As I grew up and managed to forget about it, I didn’t see any specific impact on me, which is yet another reason why I didn’t want to talk about it in the first place. However, once I started doing my research and after finding out the real name of what I experienced, the story completely changed.
When I started thinking about it again, especially while avoiding all those articles, that thing kept haunting and bothering me. I was initially mostly confused and uncomfortable (very, very uncomfortable). Then it became a bit more serious. My research was turning my world upside down and I began to feel sad. It also affected my confidence in ways that I didn’t think it would. I was self-conscious, sometimes wondering if people could tell I’d been sexually assaulted simply by looking at, or speaking to, me. Many times I wished I hadn’t gone through that. Many times I wished I’d never remembered it. Many times I wished I was… normal. Many times I wished I wasn’t so broken…
I remember spending a few hours one night in front of the mirror in my room in the townhouse on Dalton Road. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at myself and thinking all sorts of things. I felt… weird and… stained and… damaged. Not because of the assault alone, but everything else I’ve been through. I just felt like that was a lot, too much maybe, and I didn’t know how else to feel. It seemed like everything I knew about myself had been wiped away. It seemed like everything I had accomplished no longer meant anything. It seemed like I’d been pretending to be someone that I was not.
And, for a moment, I felt like the decisions I had made about my body, the things I said I would do and mostly not do (unrelated to the assault), no longer mattered or made sense. Now, that doesn’t mean I was going to give up on any of these decisions. I did not. My decisions very much still stand, but I want to acknowledge the impact that giving its real name to the assault had on me, even though I know now that it does not define me and is simply a part of my story.
It doesn’t impact me as much anymore, but I am still healing. Even after starting therapy, I continued to have a hard time not blaming myself.
“I want you to repeat after me: ‘It is not my fault. I did nothing wrong,’” my therapist said, the first time we talked about this.
“It is not my fault…” I whispered, “…but I should have known,” I continued after a few seconds of silence. “I should’ve never gone. Why didn’t I stay put? This wasn’t the first time. I should’ve known! I should’ve known!”
It wasn’t the first time that he had tried to touch me. It wasn’t the first time that he had tried to kiss me. It wasn’t the first time that he had tried to do other things to me. It wasn’t the first time he had lured me to his bed. I don’t remember how many times it happened or for how long. That day was, however, the first time he succeeded with one of the other things before I escaped.
I should have known.
As much as my therapist tried to explain to me it was my adult and more mature brain now analyzing the situation, I just couldn’t bring myself to say that I had done nothing wrong at all. He also told me the reason I couldn't remember many things is that my brain had been using a defense mechanism to protect me from the trauma, a process called dissociative amnesia.
I didn’t realize how much time it would take to process this event and its associated feelings, but as with everything else in my life, I will take my time and continue working on getting better.
Final Thoughts
The caption of the post sums it up pretty well: “Trauma is trauma.” No matter what caused it, no matter when it happened, no matter what you or anyone else thinks about it, and whether you realize it or not, if you’ve experienced trauma of any kind, it is real and you deserve to heal.
I wish no one related to this story. I wish no one had gone through similar or worse experiences. I wish I were writing this for none other than my younger self. I wish in this case, someone somewhere did not exist. But I know she does, I know he does, and my heart breaks at the thought that there are so many of us. Too many of us.
While topics related to abuse, trauma, and mental health in general, are increasingly being discussed, there is still a long way to go. That is especially true in my culture, where these topics are either considered taboo or are outright dismissed. Even worse, violence and abuse against women are often normalized and internalized, the “good women” and the “good wives” being the ones who can withstand them.
Waiting until it becomes “appropriate” to discuss these topics has not worked out very well for me, so I think I’ll try something different.
To someone somewhere…
Whoever and wherever you are, if you related in the slightest to my story, more than ever, I hope you feel less alone. I hope you realize how big a deal what you went through was, regardless of how “small” or “insignificant” you or other people may think it is. But please, don’t make the same mistake I did by holding it in. I’m not saying write a book or share your story online (unless that’s what you feel the need to do), but just don’t let it inside. It may be affecting you in ways you do not realize.
As much as I hated that this memory came back to haunt me, I am now glad it did so I could address it. And as much as I know how safer and “probably better” it seems to simply ignore your feelings, I hope when yours resurface, you can stop and address them as well. Because they will eventually resurface. (Someone told me that their memories came back thirty-six years after the traumatizing event.) And most importantly, if you have access to it, please, go to therapy.
Hey. It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. Someone took advantage of you.
You will be fine.
Take your time.
Heal.
Helpful resources
I would be remiss if I ended this post without providing some resources, so here you go:
C’est quoi un viol ? (Watch this! English subtitles available.)
Frequently Asked Questions: Types of Violence Against Women and Girls
A note on consent and sexual coercion
For the adults out there (since children cannot give consent), I’d like to share some information on consent and sexual coercion.
UN Women defines consent as follows:
“No means No. Yes means Yes. Consent is an agreement between participants to engage in sexual activity or enter into marriage. It must be freely and actively given and cannot be provided by someone who is under the influence of drugs or alcohol or by someone underage. Consent is specific, meaning that consent to one act does not imply consent to any others, and reversible, meaning that it may be revoked at any time.”
Keywords: any time. Before, during, or even after.
Here is Educaloi’s take on the topic:
“Consent to sexual touching means clearly showing that you agree, through your words or actions, to a sexual activity. According to this definition, a person who says or does nothing hasn’t agreed to a sexual activity. It’s possible for people to give consent but then change their minds later. If they change their minds, they no longer consent.”
What the Edmonton Police says:
“Remember that NO MEANS NO even if the other person: Says yes, but changes his or her mind. Has been kissing you or engaged in some form of sexual activity. Has had sex with you before. Has been using an intoxicant and appears willing. Wears provocative clothing.”
And on the topic of sexual coercion, the Office on Women’s Health says it is “unwanted sexual activity that happens after being pressured in nonphysical ways that include:
Being worn down by someone who repeatedly asks for sex
Being lied to or being promised things that weren’t true to trick you into having sex
Having someone threaten to end a relationship or spread rumors about you if you don’t have sex with them
Having an authority figure, like a boss, property manager, loan officer, or professor, use their influence or authority to pressure you into having sex."
"In a healthy relationship, you never have to have sexual contact when you don’t want to. Sexual contact without your consent is assault." (!!!)
And that’s whether you’re dating, in a committed relationship, or married. Physical intimacy, in all its forms, without consent is assault. Period.
Oh, and one last thing—people are free to give or withhold consent to sexual activity. Whether they’ve been assaulted in the past or not, and whether their decision is motivated by trauma or not, they should be able to dispose of their bodies as they see fit without having to justify their choices. If anyone can do whatever they want with their body, they can also certainly choose what not to do with it. One choice is not made more freely than the other. No source, it’s just me saying.
Okay, now I’m done. Stay well, physically and mentally.
Câlins,
Danielle
TSBTP
This song also inspired me to write this post. As I mentioned in this story behind The Playlist, before 2022, this song only reminded me of the times I was in pain or going through a hard time, but said I was fine. It’s only after I embarked on the trip down memory lane that it started reminding me of other things and encouraged me to write this post.
Another song related to this memory is this one. Below is what didn’t make it to its story.
Winter 2022. After years of denying it, I have finally come to the realization that I was raped as a child. One night, I am sitting in front of my mirror, thinking about all the things I’ve been through. I am ashamed. I feel damaged. It’s a lot to process. I don’t know who to turn to. The following days when I listen to this song, I am once more reminded of the fact that only He knows what I’ve been through. That despite my story that sometimes feels too heavy to bear, He will never leave me.
Key lyrics
You keep a cover over every single secret
So afraid if someone saw them they would leave
For the lonely, for the ashamed
The misunderstood, and the ones to blame
What if we could start over?
Keywords: shame, loneliness.
Comentarios