The Impact of a Sexual Assault on Me and My Life

I thought long and hard before writing this. I'm not really one for baring my soul full stop, let alone baring it to a group of people I've never seen face to face. Yet somehow I felt that putting this down would be cathartic, that it would help me to put things into perspective; and more importantly, that it may help others who have been through something similar.

Over seven years ago now, a man that I trusted, a man I was friends with, sexually assaulted me in my house. It came utterly out of the blue; from sitting and chatting, drinking a cup of tea, to being pushed against a wall, to being dragged upstairs...

At the time I somehow blamed myself. I'd split up with my boyfriend a week or so beforehand, and as this man touched me he told me how much I must have been "gagging for it" since my split. While I wasn't the fittest woman in town, I wasn't exactly a weakling and I was no shrinking violet - why did I not hit him, kick him, scream at him, scratch at him? The truth was I was scared; he was a lot bigger than me, a lot stronger than me. I said no, I insisted no, I tried to push him away, but he overpowered me without even trying, even though he'd had a drink or several. I didn't dare to struggle any more because he could have seriously hurt me.

Immediately afterwards, I didn't tell anyone. Not a soul. I wanted to totally forget what happened and I tried to block it out of my conscious mind. I felt a number of things; dirty, used, ashamed, depressed... I felt that the places I felt safest - my home and my self - had been broken into and ransacked. People did notice a change in me, but assumed it was down to the break-up of my relationship, and I felt totally unable to correct them. I didn't want to tell them; part of me felt relieved that I could hide in it.

When I finally cracked under the pressure of keeping quiet, it was dramatic. I refused to go into my house alone; I refused to spend any time alone. I refused to go anywhere I might see my attacker; I felt such fear, such revulsion, and ultimately such anger at what had happened, that it turned the essence of myself upside down. I was never the most emotionally open of people, and I slammed the shutters down on my inmost self and built barricade after barricade to make sure no-one ever got close enough to cause me any more damage. I wondered what sort of a person I was, for someone to think that I was so easy - for me to have let him do that to me practically unchallenged. But I just kept pushing these feelings down, where I didn't have to focus on them. Eventually, though, I had to acknowledge that something had happened, and that I couldn't ignore it forever.

I went to my university authorities, and told them what had happened. With their support, I went to the police and made a statement; and they arrested him. He of course alleged that it had all been consensual; it was my word against his, as by this time all the physical evidence was long gone. My coming forward to the authorities had some nasty consequences for him; he lost his
place on the course he was doing, and his wife kicked him out. I felt, and I still feel, no satisfaction or happiness about this; I didn't enjoy the results, but considered it was justice being done. I didn't want him to think he could do it to anyone else.

A couple of friends, the closest to me, stood by me; they stayed with me, called me, dragged me out of the house to go for walks or even just to their house for a cup of tea. They asked me how I was doing - but the answer was always OK. I could barely find the words to express how I felt; I wasn't even letting myself feel everything properly.

Some other friends, who also knew this man, sided totally with him. They told people that I was making this up, that I had exaggerated what had happened, and that I was lying to wreck his life. The thing that got me was, what would my motivation be for lying? We hadn't had a fling, he hadn't hurt me in any other way... how sick a person did they think I was to have made it up?

It didn't help that I was wondering if I'd done something to encourage him, or given him some signals he'd misread - surely men don't do that for no reason, do they? I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything, at least not on purpose, but it didn't stop that niggle in my mind that somehow it was my fault.

And then there were other friends, who empathised with me but thought I'd gone too far in seeking justice; after all, they said, a mistake is a mistake, sure he gets a bit randy when he's had a few but he'd never do that. And even if he did, he'd never mean to hurt you so why can't you just forget about it? This made me so angry, I could barely acknowledge them again. Forget about it? Forget about the violation of my home and my self? Just put it to one side like I'm not worth anything? No. I'm not prepared to. I found these people harder to deal with than those who openly disbelieved me.

For a while, I thought about suicide. I spent nights staring up at the ceiling, wondering how many paracetamol it would take to make sure I would die; once, while cooking, I looked at a carving knife and wondered if it were sharp enough to slit my wrists. I was just about to line it up with the artery when my closest friends came round to take me out. I've never told them what I was about to do, but I'm so glad they came around just in time. They made me feel wanted, and more importantly, they listened to me without judging me. They pulled me out of wanting to die.

My ex-boyfriend found out and came around to see how I was. To my shame, I pounced on him, wanting him to love me, protect me and care for me. I wanted him to make me feel like I was still whole, still a woman, still worthy of being loved and fancied; of course, he was concerned as a friend, and my clumsy attempts to rekindle our relationship wrecked a friendship which could have been good. I really regret what happened and I wish I could see him now, to apologise and perhaps (if he wanted to hear) explain why I behaved like I did.

I tried to carry on with my life, but I found it hard. At university, I felt surrounded by people who doubted me, people who hated me for what I'd done while ignoring what had been done to me, and I withdrew into myself. Wherever I went, I felt the shadows of what had happened, and I felt stuck and isolated. Deep down I felt worthless, and I didn't feel like it was worth doing anything about it. I suppose looking back I did get depressed, but again, I didn't feel that seeking help would be worth it. I tried counselling - but spending the session talking about my parents, rather than what had happened, frustrated me and I just didn't see the point in carrying on.

After the investigation was done, the Police didn't charge him with anything; after all, it was just my word against his. I had mixed feelings about this; part of me wanted a trial, but mostly I was glad that the whole thing was officially "over".

I moved on physically, by moving house and by starting a work placement, but emotionally it was still there. I fell into a relationship with an older, married man, where I let myself be treated pretty much as a prostitute. He took me, the poor student, out for meals at expensive restaurants, and I let him have sex with me afterwards. It was the most emotionally empty relationship I've ever had. I didn't feel like I was worth anything better. I deeply distrusted pretty much everyone, and I found it very hard to make new friends, so I almost appreciated this man's attention. By the time it ended, though, I was beginning to realise that I didn't want this situation to continue indefinitely; I was about to go back full-time to university, and he was moving jobs too, so we simply stopped seeing each other. Although I didn't realise it fully at the time, I was very glad it just stopped the way it did - no recriminations, just a straight cut-off where we never contacted each other again. All I knew was that deep down I was glad it was over, but it just
exacerbated my feelings of worthlessness.

To all who saw me after I left university, it appeared like nothing had ever happened to me, and to be honest I thought I'd wiped it from my life, too. Instead I'd just locked it all up in my mental basement, and just like acid eats through metal, the unresolved mental mess had eaten through my inner self.

I more or less hid what had happened, and tried to convince myself that it was in the past, and that the past could no longer hurt me. The trouble is that for the past not to hurt you, you have to accept it's gone and that there's nothing more you can do about it; and I've never been very good at letting stuff go.

As I started work, I started a relationship with another man, and although I didn't tell him about my past, it clouded our relationship. Looking back, although I didn't realise it at the time, I was constantly needing reassurance about who I was and that I was loved, yet I was still holding myself back and keeping my own shutters down. We lasted about 4 months before he confessed that he couldn't give me the love and attention that he thought I needed. He admitted he wasn't ready to commit that deeply to me, and as a result he thought we should split up. Although the split did hurt, I appreciated his honesty, and we're still friends. I welcomed the fact that he didn't want to use me, and while my confidence took a knock, he somehow restored some sense of self-worth to me.

Over three years ago, about three months after I split up with this man, I started seeing the man who would become my husband. And I was utterly gobsmacked at the fact that he wanted to get to know the real me, not to mention the fact that he considered the real me as worth knowing. I hate to say it, but I really didn't make it easy for him, and it took a lot of effort on both our parts to try and keep the shutters open. When I confessed to him what had happened those years ago, he hugged me and reassured me that the past was gone and that he wasn't going to leave me because of it. His unswerving love and support has shown me what I'd unconsciously known for some time; I'd built a shell to protect myself, but it had become a prison.

I got into the habit of using a mask to protect myself, to project an image of me out into the world and to take the blows the world has to deal me. I still find myself using these masks, when I have bad days. Sometimes it seems like I have different masks for different occasions, so many that the real me has been buried under them for years, and I no longer know who or what I am.

My self-confidence is still utterly gone. I felt, and often still feel, worthless and useless. I'm often amazed when friends get in touch, as I don't feel like I'm worthy of their time. When people agree with me, or find something I've done good, I often feel like they must be lying as they can't possibly really feel like that. I still have days when I feel physically repulsive, and I look in the
mirror and see nothing attractive. I became brittle, hard, and extremely defensive whenever I thought anyone was challenging me or my views; to an extent, I still am. And whenever I started to make friends and talk to people, my shutters would come slamming down and I refused to let people get closer to me as I was just too scared. Paradoxically, I was crying out for people's approval, but just too scared to admit it. I desperately wanted to let someone in, but I was far too worried about being hurt, or hurting them, to actually do it.

I've come to terms with the event; I'm still coming to terms with the aftermath. Part of me is jointly amazed and glad that I haven't turned into a man-hater, but as some of those who stood by me were men, that probably helped. I went through a phase of feeling convinced that all men want from women is sex and no consequences; luckily I'm friends with enough men to know that isn't the case. It seems like a lot of my anger and hatred of what happened has been turned inwards at myself; I had no-one else available to aim it at.

When I look at myself and burst into tears, when I berate myself for making a tiny mistake, my husband's there to pick me up, to comfort me, and to tell me it's all right. When I feel down, when I feel like crap and want to retreat into myself, he reaches out to me and gently brings me back. When I lash out in anger, he doesn't run away or react with more anger, only more patience and love. He is the only
person I've been able to let in to my inner self, and he treats me - all of me - like I'm precious. With his patience, I'm gradually beginning to break out of the prison I built for myself. One day I may be able to accept how much he loves me, but for the time being it still gives me tears of happiness and grateful disbelief at how lucky I am to have him.

I wish I could say I was fully healed now, but I'm not. Despite my husband's best efforts and me trying my best, my instincts push me to keep shoving my feelings into my mental basement, but they don't want to stay in there any more. More importantly, I feel like it's time to let it all out. The stupid thing is, I've held on to this for so long, I don't know what, if anything, will be left of me afterwards!

As I write this, I'm planning to arrange some counselling to come to terms with all this and bring it to a close. I'm uncertain as to what I expect, given that I didn't get on with it last time. I'm sure though that admitting that I do need help is going to heal me sooner than if I hide from it.

I don't know if this makes any sense; what I'm writing is what I'm feeling, which is the jumble of thoughts inside. I'm not pretending all victims of sexual assault go through the same emotions and processes as me. But this is the first time in seven years that I've put all of this down on paper, and for the first time I can see that, with God's help and my husband's help, one day I will be whole again.