The Words

"I was sexually assaulted."

"I was raped."

"I was sexually abused."

"A man raped me."

"Something happened."

The words themselves are so familiar, and yet so foreign to me, even now. I have to remind myself at times that speaking them out loud holds power in and of itself, becuase there is still a part of me that wants to be very, very silent.

People often say to survivors "Why didn't you tell?" Or better "Why didn't you tell me?"

A close friend, in telling me once of her trauma, took several deep breaths before stating "I was raped" and her tone was almost apologetic. I felt so much for her at that point. I can't remember if she knew at that time of my history, but I remember thinking, I know that tone. The need to apologize for the trauma I experienced. The desire to hide, to keep the dark, jagged edge of your pain away from the people it might hurt. And it does hurt. The knowledge that every time you tell someone, if they have a soul, they will feel for you. And the desire to not cause pain, because of your intimate aquaintance with the feeling.

I remember later, the same friend being chastised by another friend, when he said those words "You need to tell me."

And I understand the inclination, as I have even said the words myself sometimes. And my righteous indignation, of the emphasized "me," as in "Why didn't you tell ME? Of all people, you know I would understand." But then I remember my own hesitation in telling others, the questions (will they believe me, what if they don't, who cares, will they look at me differently, what will they think, will they make me uncomfortable, will I make them uncomfortable, will they be angry, and my favorite, "I don't want to be a downer") when I say "I was sexually abused."

And I want to remind the world that the very words are so difficult to push out of your vocal chords, to remind them of a nightmare they had when they tried to scream and couldn't, and the only sound they could produce was a gurgle, or a low moan. To tell them "That's what it feels like, to tell."

And to remind them that when someone tells you that information, when someone says the words, it may seem like it came out in a short burst, almost effortless. But it is the kind of effortless that happens when the dam breaks, when the edifice can hold no longer and the tortured trickle becomes a gush of force. It is the pushpushpush, explosion, that is anything but easy does it.


And also know that when someone tells you, it means they want you to know. Because they would not put themselves through that fear (what happens now? will they still like me? am I the wierd, fucked-up girl now?) if they didn't feel you (and they) would benefit from the information, either to increase intimacy with them, or to increase your knowledge of the world.



Of the 4 women who are closest to me in this world, 2 of them are survivors of sexual assault/trauma. That's statistically half. And then you add me to the mix and that's 3 out of 5 women. That's not a number I'm comfortable with. And so I tell, though it hurts. It's possible the information will alert a peer to the concern, it's possible they will put it out of their head because "It can't happen to me, to my child, to my mother, my friend." I don't choose the outcome. But I choose to assist in the reduction of the statistic, and knowledge is power. Awareness is protection, and an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of treatment (because there is no cure).


Break the silence.