Disclaimer: This post is from the perspective of a female with male attackers. It is important to acknowledge that men can also be the victims of sexual assaultand women can be the aggressors.
We expel so much energy into telling people how to protect themselves from sexual assault or how to prevent it, but spend much less time telling people not to assault others. Why is the onus on us to constantly be on the defensive? Why can’t the standard just be that no one assaults anyone?
We are built to believe that rape is a misunderstanding. Or that consent was given through body language. We question the victim and try to tear down their story, but don’t place the same burden on the offender. All they have to prove is that there was confusion surrounding the issue of consent and the victim loses.
Rape is horribly unique because it takes sex, which is meant to be an enjoyable, intimate act, and flips the notion on its head. Most criminal trials are focused on proving whether the defendant is the one who committed the crime (murder, theft, etc.). With rape, juries first have to determine if a crime even occurred. That creates this feeling of powerlessness and hopelessness inside of a victim. Juries don’t question whether an individual wanted to be robbed or beaten, yet we are built to question whether a woman wanted to have sex and whether she made it clear if she didn’t. There is a constant cloud of doubt and judgement surrounding rape because the act of penetrating someone isn’t illegal – it is only illegal when there is no consent, no “permission”. With breaking & entering, there is a clear line — you can’t walk into a stranger’s house without an invitation or permission. Why should that be any different with sex? Why do we default to assuming the offender had permission?
Victim Blaming
Very few crimes rely as heavily on a confession as rape. It is also one of the few crimes in which people tend to question the integrity, credibility, and behavior of the victim, rather than focusing on the behavior of the offender and the offender’s intentions. When you’re the victim of a burglary, nobody says, “well your curtains were open and everyone can see your stuff, what did you expect? You left your door unlocked, so you were asking to be robbed”, but when you are raped, society asks, “what were you wearing? Did you flirt with him and lead him on? You must have indicated you were interested.” When I came forward (on the cruise), I found the need to defend myself, despite being the victim.
The Absence of Violence
There is this notion that rape is always violent or the victim kicked and screamed or repeatedly said “no”. That isn’t always the case. And the media’s sensationalized portrayal of only the most violent of cases can cause other victims to feel invalidated or to trivialize what happened to them. It can prevent people from coming forward for fear of not being believed or being called “dramatic”. Statistically, the vast majority of sexual assaults do NOT include a weapon.
My Experiences with Harassment
I don’t think men truly grasp what we go through as women. I’m not talking politically or professionally. I am speaking in terms of sexual harassment, sexual assault, and microaggressions that we are programmed to accept as just a standard part of life.
At age fourteen, a boy on my bus started texting me and asking for topless pics.
At fifteen, an older guy connected with me on MySpace and started grooming me (asking me how my day at school was and saying I could tell him anything, while simultaneously asking for pictures and offering to buy me a plane/train ticket to Boston to visit him).
At sixteen, I was digitally raped by a stranger on a flight overseas.
At eighteen, I was drugged and raped by a stranger on a cruise, just narrowly avoiding a gang rape. The following day, I was called a “slut” and a “dirty whore” (by his friends) for reporting the assault.
At nineteen, I started receiving unsolicited dick pics and dirty Facebook messages from strangers.
At twenty, I was riding a bus and a man stuck his hand up my dress. I was dancing in a club and a man grabbed my breast. My roommates and I were leaving dinner and a man started following us home. I was dancing at a bar and a man grabbed my crotch, then tried following me into the bathroom when I fled. These were all in a two-month span while studying abroad.
At twenty-three, I was working in the city and started encountering hecklers on the streets and on public transportation. There’d be an occasional whistle in my direction or a “hey baby” as I walked past. Sometimes a repeated “hey beautiful, how are you? Hey, hey I’m talking to you. I know you hear me, bitch”. One man flat out told me that if we were in a dark alley instead of on the subway, he’d attack me then leave me for dead.
At twenty-eight, I was assaulted on the train to work.
I know countless other women who have endured similar experiences. At a certain point, you start to normalize the harassment and assaults. Suddenly, being groped in a bar or club doesn’t even seem that bad. It is a sad testament to the society we live in.
What Needs to Change?
Bringing awareness to these issues is only step one. We need to create a society that allows women to tell their stories without fear of judgement, retaliation, or invalidation. No one’s experience should be trivialized. When we are silenced, we are left feeling ashamed of what has happened. We treat assault like a secret – a scarlet letter. No one should have to carry the burden of their past alone.
I’ve been a Buffalo Bills fan since birth. I was born into the Mafia in the peak of our Super Bowl glory. Growing up, my dad always had the game on and I’d watch it with him, though I never really followed what was happening. As I got older, I got busier and didn’t carve out time to watch the games on Sundays. It’s usually when I was cramming in all my homework that was due the next day that I’d avoided all weekend. Once I moved away from WNY, however, I started watching the games more. It helped fill the void and cure some of the homesickness.
Once COVID hit and my choice of social activities was even more limited, I threw myself into the sport. My passion for it has only been growing season by season. Slowly, but surely, I started learning the rules, the players, the stats, etc.
Football became my escape. It was my safe space. When I was watching a game, I didn’t think about the work I was behind on or having to clean the apartment or the twelve hundred other worries that were always floating around in my head. It was all about the game and the pride I felt in my hometown.
Late last week, however, my safe space was invaded. The team’s rookie punter (the “punt god”) was accused of participating in the gang rape of a 17-year-old at a Halloween party last October. The young woman was handed a drink that she thinks was spiked and then she was led, by the punter, to a room where he and two other teammates of his raped her for over an hour.
If you’ve read “The Second Trauma”, you’ll understand why this story hit so close to home. I was 18 when my drink was spiked and I was led to a stateroom on a cruise ship and raped by one man, while another was waiting for his turn. The magnitude of the assaults is obviously different, but it doesn’t change the impact.
The way the Bills handled the allegations was less than ideal, which only exasperated the situation. The victim’s lawyer alerted the Bills’ legal team to his client’s accusations at the end of July. Management either did their own investigation into the claims and didn’t find enough evidence to act or willfully ignored the issue.
On Monday, August 22nd, they chose to release our veteran punter, which secured the “punt god” a spot on our roster this season.
On Thursday, August 25th, the victim’s lawyer filed her civil suit against the “punt god”. The suit made national news and the Bills were forced to comment on the claims. They said they had done a thorough investigation and had no further comments. That didn’t go over well with fans.
By Friday evening, public pressure to act had become so intense that the Bills opted to keep the punter out of the final preseason game. The press conference after the game was rough. Reporters kept pushing the issue and our coach was running out of responses. He was visibly shaken by the whole ordeal.
When the team didn’t immediately release the punter on Friday, fans were shocked. We have a strong team this year and we can’t afford for the players to be distracted by the allegations. The “punt god” became a distraction to his teammates and marred the team’s public image.
Finally, on Saturday evening after practice, the Bills held a press conference where the coach and GM announced they had released the punter. This was their only option. The media and the public forced their hand. It was the right move, though it would have been more impactful if they had done it before the public outcry. Now, instead, the client’s lawyer is dragging our team through the mud for not acting sooner (perhaps a month ago when they were first alerted to the assault). The lawyer has also pointed out that the team’s “thorough investigation” didn’t include talking to him or his client.
There are a few emotions/thoughts I’m filtering between right now:
My “safe space” no longer feels safe. At the moment, football makes me think of sexual assault. And I’m not sure how long it will take for my brain to stop associating the two.
My PTSD is in overdrive. This whole ordeal has been very triggering. And it’s more than just the similarities I mentioned previously. The biggest thing that is triggering me is the notion of entitlement. Similar to veterans/active military, athletes have an air about them. They tend to think they’re untouchable or above the law. That is what is sticking with me. And because I’ve been so triggered, I’ve been afraid to sleep. I’m scared that I’ll have more night terrors.
I’m proud (and relieved) that the vast majority of the comments in the Bills Mafia groups I follow were in support of releasing the “punt god” from the roster. I’m glad people are starting to put the culture and public image of the team over the desire to win games.
I’m frustrated that they didn’t release him from the team back in July when they were first informed about the allegations. Actions speak louder than words. They must have known this would be distracting for the other players when it surfaced. And they let it get too close to kickoff.
I’m disgusted that the punter’s parents released a statement defending their son and saying he lost his job and is receiving death threats and their whole family has been “cancelled”. You are not the victim here.
I have always tried to keep my thoughts on “controversial” or divisive topics to myself, but the overturning of Roe v Wade was my tipping point. This isn’t about politics. It isn’t about religion or morality. It is about our basic rights as women.
When the government retains control over our bodies and our reproductive rights, we are seen as nothing more than baby-making machines. We are forced to populate the world at whatever cost.
The government is endowing unborn babies with more rights than the women bringing them into existence. The impregnators can just walk away. They have none of the same restrictions on how they spend the next 9 months of their lives. They’re not being held responsible or accountable for anything.
Think of all the babies that will be born into poverty or into broken homes. The infants that will be abandoned, neglected, unwanted, resented, or unloved. Babies who will be born into a country divided. A country with a formula shortage, no universal healthcare, and racism on the rise. A country that insisted the baby be here, but is unwilling to provide for it.
Think of the women that cannot afford proper healthcare. The women who will give birth in unclean or unsafe conditions. The women who risk bleeding out. Who will have to risk their own health and safety to deliver an unwanted baby.
Think of the women whose birth control failed them. The pills didn’t work. The condom broke. The women and teens who were being careful and are now being punished. Who now have to put their futures on hold. Whose lives will never be the same. How many dreams will they be forced to give up on?
Think of the women who have wanted so desperately to be mothers, only to find out their fetus is unviable. They will have to carry it to term. They will have to be constantly reminded of how close they were to what they’d always wanted. They will have to delay moving on. Grieving.
Think of the women who are told their pregnancy is destroying them and they may not survive. They cannot terminate the pregnancy to save their own life.
Think of the doctors and nurses who have to watch their patients suffer, who are forced to choose between saving their patients’ lives or saving their career.
Think of all the women who will be the victims of rape, incest, stealthing (removing the condom without consent), etc. They’ve already been victimized. And now the government is telling them they have to spend the next nine months being revictimized as they carry around their perpetrator’s child.
And the states that so graciously allow exceptions for rape — I’d love to know how that works. What is the process for requesting an exemption under these conditions? What burden of proof is required? If a conviction is required for the clause to take effect, it won’t even be relevant. The wheels of justice are too slow. You shouldn’t have to win a case against your attacker to abort the baby he put in you.
Beyond that, what if the father then has rights to the child you were forced to carry? He will forever be a presence in his victim’s life. This ruling turns men into weapons and women into passive victims.
Why do fetuses have rights and the women carrying them are treated merely as “vessels”? We are not here to populate your world at the cost of our own sanity, financial stability, health, or life.
In the last year, I have started speaking more about my assaults, which has been cathartic and freeing, but also extremely emotional and draining. I had this notion that finally sharing my story would be a magical fix – the clouds would part and the guilt, shame, and trauma would wash away. I thought my flashbacks would cease, my triggers would no longer set off a fire inside me, & I would gain back the self-confidence and trust I lost long ago.
As you can imagine, that wasn’t the case. Speaking up did give me a quick adrenaline boost and a feeling of pride and closure. It was short lived, though. It was followed by disappointment – disappointment in not feeling “healed”, in not speaking up sooner, in opening a door I could no longer shut. Exposing yourself and your deepest, most vulnerable experiences is truly terrifying, especially on the internet.
I spent so many years avoiding posting about my assaults because I didn’t want to make OTHER people uncomfortable. I didn’t want them to look at me with pity at events or family gatherings. I didn’t want them talking about me when I wasn’t around. Or telling me how they would have “handled the situation”. Or telling me about a similar situation they’d been in with no lead up. I am all for supporting other survivors and am more than happy to listen if you want to confide in me, but it can’t be unprompted. That is very triggering.
I have this debilitating and seemingly unavoidable habit of immediately trivializing my own assaults after hearing about someone else’s. Being reminded how common sexual assault is makes me feel less alone, but it also makes me increasingly disgusted with humanity, and, most importantly, it makes me question why I can’t seem to process it and work through it as fast as other people. If these assaults are why I don’t have my shit together, but other people with similar stories do have theirs together, then there must be something wrong with me. That’s how my brain thinks about it. Hearing about a person who has a similar story and is now thriving should, logically, give me hope. But instead it makes me feel inadequate. And then it’s just one more thing I’m “bad” at – healing.
I need to be in the right head space or it can set me back. It may sound selfish, but is a boundary I feel strongly about. In order to be the best support system I can for someone, I need to have the mental capacity to commit to helping.
The memories resurface
Bad thoughts flutter through my mind
I feel I’m in the moment
Every noise reminds
Every movement I felt
I can feel over again
And every push I gave to him
Begins to wear me thin
The loud unspoken refusals
Sear into my brain
As I hear every utterance
The dirty words remain
I’ve lost control completely
He’s gotten in my head
I cannot tell if it’s a dream
Til I wake up in bed
I realize that I’m safe now
But it hasn’t yet sunk in
I feel that he can see me
That every stranger’s him
I can’t rest til he’s sorry
Til he admits to me it’s true
But right now I feel so helpless
Unsure of what to do
I want for him to suffer
Like he has done to me
For all his loved ones to know
What only I can see
I hate that he can go on
Like there was no assault
And I’m feeling so shameful
Believing it’s my fault
A piece of me left with him
There’s no way to be whole
Cause he can never give back
My virginity he stole
I shatter the image, the pieces are scattered
Ripped into the smallest of shreds
But I’m feeling empty missing what mattered
And knowing it’s still in my head
Walking quickly, picking up step
Leaving the past behind
Not looking back to even check
I just want it out of my mind
Like an afternoon shadow, it looms and haunts
Beating down on my guilty soul
I try to escape it, but it forever taunts
And I can’t get out of this hole
An abandoned house, empty and cold
Floorboards creaking in the night
And all you can feel is the past you sold
To win temptation’s fight
Lightning flashes and thunder resounds
To mimic the pounding in your head
Your past is winning; you’re losing ground
And there’s nothing that can be said
You attempt to piece the image back together
To shake the guilt from your mind
But it can’t be reversed – not ever
For there’s one piece that you won’t find
He took a piece when he disappeared
And buried it in the deepest of holes
This defines all that you feared –
You’ll never get the piece he stole
Always wishing to be guiltless, complete
But the loss is there to remind
Of his thoughtless act and ultimate deceit
And the peace you’ll never find
This is a dual (two-part) poem. This first part outlines my feelings and reactions to the Brock Turner case.
Part I
Too naive to think the worst
She struggles with self-blaming
Fears no one will understand
The guilt and the slut-shaming
But the problem lies with him
And his complete denial
That anything that he did
Will ever go to trial
To rape is a conscious choice
You cant blame it on the booze
Or try to play the victim
When your story hits the news
Actions have consequences
Rape isn't victimless crime
No one cares that your life changed
They just care that you do time
There's no free pass for assault
No exemption or clean slate
No wealth, privilege, or power
Can make up for all that hate
How do you face yourself
Or justify your sins?
Even if you go to jail
Nobody really wins
Her life has changed forever
Her confidence is shattered
Meanwhile you are adamant
That she should just feel flattered
This continuation is a reflection on my own assault in the wake of the Brock Turner ruling. The light sentencing the defendant received, despite the guilty verdict, caused feelings I had long-buried, to reemerge.
Part II
There was no justice for me
No apology, no guilt
I'll never have peace of mind
With this resentment that I've built
But why does he get to walk
When I feel so paralyzed
He kept his wife and children
But if only they realized
The monster that they live with
And all the hurt he caused
A man who keeps advancing
While my future still feels paused
But that's merely a pipe dream
They will never know the truth
Much like I will never have
A chance to live my youth
Today is a milestone for me. It is an achievement I never thought I’d reach, a headline I didn’t expect to read. Today marks ten years since the last time I self-harmed (September 24, 2010). Ten years! That may seem trivial to some, but for me, it is such a feat. I am incredibly proud of myself for staying clean this long and not relapsing. What follows is a graphic, intimate description of some of the darkness I waded through and overcame more than a decade ago.
Trigger Warning!
November 2006
In late 2006, I self-harmed for the first time. I’m not even sure what started it. I think a combination of undiagnosed depression and self-confidence issues left me feeling a bit hopeless and scattered. I constantly felt that my friends didn’t really like me or that I’d never get a boyfriend because I wasn’t skinny enough or pretty enough. I wanted a life of adventure and spontaneity, but was terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone. Part of me wonders if self-harm was my way of punishing myself for not being “good enough”. The more likely scenario is that I needed something I could control, something to distract me from the unfamiliar emotions I was feeling. Cutting was a release – a break from the constant “what ifs” bouncing around in my head. For that brief moment, there was just the physical pain and nothing more. It was liberating (in the worst way).
Late 2006-June 2007
The cutting was fairly infrequent at the beginning. I only turned to self-harm if no conventional coping mechanisms were working. It was always a conscious, deliberate decision – a last resort. Since I was in control of the situation, I wasn’t concerned that my actions warranted intervention of any kind. Did I need a less destructive coping mechanism? Yes, of course. My previous coping mechanism, though, had been eating (‘comfort food’) and the weight gain associated with it had shattered my already fragile self-image, so this felt like a better overall solution. After all, I could stop anytime I wanted.
July 2007
Then, on Fourth of July weekend, my first trauma occurred. I’m not going to delve into it, since there is already a separate posting about it (‘The First Trauma’), but in short, I was assaulted on a flight overseas. The FBI technically defines what happened to me as ‘digital rape’. That flight changed everything. At the time, I didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I thought somehow I had indicated that I was interested. I internalized that confusion, guilt, and misplaced blame for over a year.
July 2007-August 2008
In that year, things took a turn. I was a completely different person. I felt broken and damaged. Since I didn’t realize I had been assaulted, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t actively think about it, but it was affecting every aspect of my being. My self-confidence took a nosedive and I started hating my body. It seemed disgusting and unrecognizable, but I couldn’t understand why or what had changed.
The cutting escalated rapidly. It went from being a last-resort coping mechanism to my go-to. Soon it was the only thing that worked at all to (temporarily) relieve the complicated emotions I was feeling. My cuts were fairly superficial, but the sting was enough to distract me from having to confront my feelings. If I was having a hard day at school, I would go to my car at lunch and self-harm with whatever I could find. I wasn’t picky – paperclips, pushpins, scissors, etc. Nothing was off limits. Other times, I sat in the backseat and carved inspirational words into my thigh in hopes that when I saw them, I’d be reminded that I was “strong” or “beautiful” and I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable. It didn’t make a difference. Inside I was broken.
I never usually talk about this part of my past because of how it sounds to other people. It comes off as dark and twisted or disgusting and disturbing. The stigmas surrounding self-harm and “cutting” are damaging. A lot of people strongly believe that it is a “cry for attention” or a juvenile “act of rebellion”. I can’t speak for others, but I can confidently say that that is not the case for everyone.
I didn’t want an intervention. I didn’t want attention. I didn’t want questions or judgement or dirty looks or help. Part of me didn’t think there was a problem that warranted help. I was just marking up MY body. It was mine – no one else’s.
I went out of my way to cover my scars and fresh cuts. I was constantly paranoid that someone would see them and would ask me how I got them or, worse, would know exactly how I got them and would judge me for it. I started wearing sweatshirts in the summer and wearing chunky bracelets when long sleeves weren’t an option. I didn’t want to risk anyone noticing and taking away my one “successful” coping mechanism.
February 2008
Eventually, my mom discovered cuts on my forearm. She had noticed a few the year before, but she thought I had stopped. Neither one of us could understand why I was so depressed all the time, especially when things were, on the surface, going so well — I was president of a couple clubs at school and treasurer of my senior class, I was accepted into my top choice college, and I had a tight-knit group of friends, a loving family, and a boyfriend.
She scheduled an appointment with a psychotherapist and I saw him that same month. He talked me through some anxieties about graduating and going off to college, leaving my friends, my breakup with my boyfriend, etc., but the cutting continued.
August 2008
A couple of weeks before I left for college, my therapist asked if I’d ever been abused or assaulted because I was exhibiting a lot of the warning signs and symptoms of PTSD. After I told him about the July 2007 plane ride, he helped me see the incident for what it was.
Identifying the root cause of my worsening depression and self-loathing was a relief at first, because I assumed if I knew what the underlying cause was, I’d be able to address it and move on. That could not have been further from the truth. I started to see myself as a victim and I was now walking around with this huge shameful secret that I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about. I internalized my feelings again and retreated inward.
September 2008
Moving into my dorm in college was the perfect storm – I was living on my own for the first time, I had a roommate who I had to censor myself around, I hadn’t yet found my niche, I wasn’t sure if I liked my major, my classes were intense, I was away from my family and friends and support system, and I was responsible for my own schedule, food, laundry, etc. for the first time. It was a lot to process at once and would be for anyone, but when you layer on a newly-discovered, unaddressed trauma, disaster strikes. I began cutting more than ever before.
January 2009
On the advice of my therapist, my mother took me to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder and started me on an antidepressant. I also started sessions with a new (female) therapist. I wanted to discuss my trauma and try to work through it, but didn’t feel comfortable doing so with my previous (male) therapist. Despite the medication and weekly therapy sessions, the self-harm continued.
March 2009
On a Tuesday night in late March, while away at school, I deactivated my social media accounts and texted messages to a couple friends before turning off my phone and downing a handful of my prescription anxiety pills. I’m still unsure if I was suicidal or if I was having a severe panic attack and thought, ‘taking more pills means they will work faster’. It wasn’t the first time (or the last) that I deactivated my social media accounts and turned off my phone, in an attempt to block out the world.
My roommate realized what had happened and alerted the R.A. He was then required to call Campus Safety. Within minutes, a few campus EMTs were putting me on a stretcher and wheeling me to the elevator and down to the ambulance, as many of my floor mates watched from their doorways.
At the hospital, the ER doctors cleared me within a few hours – my blood work was okay and I hadn’t taken enough pills to cause any lasting damage. They then passed me off to the psych department for evaluation. I met with a couple therapists and psychiatrists, who asked me numerous questions about how many pills I took, if I’d done anything similar before, what I washed them down with, etc. before determining I was not a risk to myself or others. They labeled the incident an ‘accidental overdose’ and not a suicide attempt, so I was free to leave.
April 2009
Shortly after, while visiting my parents, I woke up with fresh cuts on my arm and dried blood on my pillow. Somehow, I had cut in my sleep. I don’t know if I was half-awake or sleepwalking, but it was terrifying to wake up to. As a result, my psychiatrist added an anti-psychotic medication to my ever-growing list of pills.
The following weekend, I came home drunk from a party and fell on my thumb/wrist in the dorm hallway. It started swelling and bruising almost immediately. I could still move it, but it hurt a lot. I didn’t want that pain to fade, so a couple of days later, I used the hammer from my tool kit and hammered the area. I didn’t hit it very hard, but it was enough to prolong the hurt and delay the healing. I had rationalized this action in my head. I felt that this was a safer, more effective version of self-harm than cutting. Unfortunately, the swelling was so bad that I had to go to the doctor, who immediately recommended I get a cast.
I was frustrated and had no interest in dealing with a cast. I knew it would complicate everything – showering, getting dressed, taking notes, etc. Looking back, I’m extremely relieved that the doctor opted for the cast. The cast drew unwanted attention, which deterred me from ever using that method of self-harm again. Anytime people saw the cast, they asked what happened and everything inside of me froze. I didn’t want to be judged, or pitied, or yelled at, so I stuck to the original story – I fell on it while drunk. It wasn’t technically a lie, since that did cause the underlying injury.
May-August 2009
Thankfully, I managed to make it through the rest of the school year without drawing too much attention to myself. Once I moved back home for summer, my mother tried everything she could think of to get me to stop cutting. When I mentioned that I didn’t want to be alone in my room at night because I was afraid of waking up with fresh cuts again, she convinced my sister to let me sleep on the futon in her room.
She also instituted a ‘gold star’ system. She would check my forearms for fresh cuts each day and if I didn’t self-harm, I would get a sticker (a gold star) on the calendar. At the end of the summer, if I had enough gold stars, I would get a new camera for our cruise to the Western Caribbean. This incentive/reward system would work for a few days and then I’d start cutting again. Every time I tried to stop, I relapsed. It was extremely frustrating.
Mid-August 2009
By the time the cruise rolled around, though, I was a week or two clean, which was a personal best. The vacation started out great with a couple of days in Florida before we set sail. The first night onboard, though, I was drugged and raped by a stranger I met in the ship’s nightclub (‘The Second Trauma’).
When we got home from the cruise, I was a wreck. I immediately returned to cutting. Why did I get assaulted AGAIN? Why me? I couldn’t get out of my own head. It felt like I was doing something to attract these predators. I needed to take back control of my body and self-harm gave me that opportunity. It went from a coping mechanism to a way of life – a full-blown addiction.
September 2009
Despite my mother’s concerns and hesitations, I returned to school for the fall semester. There was a distinct change in my personality, yet again. I started skipping classes and social functions and spending every day in bed. My friends were worried, my parents were scared, and I felt nothing. I cared more about how much my actions were hurting them than about how they were hurting me. Knowing how upset my mother probably was back home is what kept me up at night. But things didn’t change.
October 2009
Halfway through the semester, I started EMDR sessions at the on-campus counseling center, while simultaneously coming off of my antipsychotic medication. EMDR should never have been suggested to me a mere two months after my trauma. And I shouldn’t have been taken off of any medications without a tapering plan in place.
November 2009
After a few EMDR sessions, something inside of me broke. The result was complete apathy. I didn’t care if I lived or died. I had no set plans to kill myself, but the suicidal thoughts and ideations were becoming more frequent and were clouding my judgement. As someone with little to no impulse control, I was nervous I would do something I couldn’t heal from. I mentioned this to my on-campus therapist and she called my mother to ask what she should do about the situation, as if my mother, who was at work when she took the call, was equipped to deal with this issue. Ultimately, the therapist consulted with the center director and they decided I was a suicide risk.
Once again I found myself in a campus ambulance to the hospital. This time, though, I wasn’t allowed to leave. They admitted me to the Emergency Psych Ward on a three-day hold and suicide watch. They took my phone and my belongings. All I was able to keep were my clothes. My “room” consisted of a shelf, a barred window, and a bolted down bed and desk. There was a nurse assigned to look into my room every fifteen minutes, the bathroom doors didn’t lock, and all meals were served with plastic spoons (even when those meals were chicken). I spent those few days in group and individual therapy sessions and intermittently writing poems or napping.
After the three-day required hold, I was released and I returned to school to finish out the last couple weeks of the semester.
December 2009
At the start of winter semester, I had to meet with the dean of my college and an advocate from the counseling center to justify why I should be allowed to stay in school. They asked how I could be sure that the winter semester would be any different than spring or fall, how I could be sure I wouldn’t have to be taken to the hospital again, how I was going to be able to manage my mental health and classes, etc. Ultimately, whatever answers I gave were enough to convince them that I was healthy enough to stay. They cautiously agreed I could remain enrolled.
January 2010
By the time the new year rolled around, I was barely functioning. I started partying hard on the weekends – drinking excessively, smoking at house parties, etc. Anytime I drank, I cut. One time, one of my sorority sisters followed me back to my apartment after a night of drinking and stood in my doorway begging me not to hurt myself. She then came inside and collected all of my scissors and razors. At the time, it felt like I was being babysat. Or that I couldn’t be trusted. But the truth is, I couldn’t. When I was alone, my thoughts were dark.
January 24, 2010
Later that month, I made a particularly deep cut, far worse than any cut I had done before. It likely required stitches, but I didn’t go to the hospital. I just waited for the bleeding to stop and then went to bed. The wound eventually closed up, but it left a raised scar that is still visible now, almost eleven years later. A dermatologist once recommended a cream I could use to lessen the appearance of the scar, but I had (and still have) zero interest in that. The scar is a symbol of my past and the battle I overcame to get to this point.
The next morning, I called my mother and told her I needed help. I’d been back at school for three weeks and hadn’t gone to a single class. She was extremely supportive. I went to my advisor’s office and filled out the paperwork for a “leave of absence” for the rest of the semester.
March 2010
When I returned to school six weeks later for spring semester, I opted to sleep on my friend’s couch, instead of in my apartment. I felt safer at her place. I felt like there was nowhere to hide or to get enough privacy to cut, which deterred me from hurting myself. Even though I didn’t make the dean’s list that semester, I was proud I managed to make it through the whole ten weeks of classes.
Summer 2010
I remained on campus that summer so I could take a few classes and still graduate on time, despite dropping all of my winter courses and taking ‘incompletes’. I got involved with the campus radio station and tried to keep myself busy.
July 2010
In July, I made the decision to get a tattoo. I had the word ‘love’ tattooed on my foot, as a nod to the organization To Write Love on her Arms, which had provided me with a community and a safe space to talk through my problems with like-minded individuals. That simple act of getting a tattoo helped me heal more than I could have ever anticipated. I felt empowered and in control of my body for the first time in three years. I had “reclaimed” it. It started to feel like mine again.
September 2010
In the fall, I moved into my sorority’s mansion. Living in a house with 15 other girls meant there was constantly someone to talk to or study with or grab food with. The support this provided was crucial to my recovery. The frequency of my self-harm decreased each week I lived there.
Then, on September 24, 2010, I cut for the last time.
September 24, 2020 (Present Day)
Today is my ten-year anniversary of being clean and I couldn’t be prouder. There are still days where I have to actively fight the urge for a “quick release”. Like any other addiction, the risk of relapse is never completely gone, but I have worked really hard to instill other coping mechanisms in myself. Some people think it is a “strange” or “pathetic” thing to say I’m “proud” of, but those people have obviously never had an addiction.
Regardless of how an addiction starts and what your first motivations were, it consumes you. It becomes a habit – a part of you. It weaves itself into your life in ways you don’t even realize and eliminating them all is overwhelming and extremely difficult. It needs to be a conscious decision and, in my experience, only works if you’re surrounded by a strong support system and if you’ve found a new, healthy way of “coping” when things get tough. Trying to stop “cold turkey” or end an addiction by force, before you’re ready, usually only leads to relapses and then shame and frustration surrounding those relapses.
If you are battling through an addiction to self-harm, please know that it gets better. It is a process and recovery takes time. Be patient with yourself and don’t be afraid to reach out to someone you trust for help. I also recommend celebrating your milestones (i.e one day clean, one week, one month, one year, etc.), no matter how small or insignificant they may seem.
Talking Through Trauma 