survivor feelings, dark and light

Written by a survivor of sexual assault. These are the things I've been feeling, and I wonder if you've been feeling them too.

[dearyousurvivors]

#5

Dearest survivor,

I’m writing this to you from my couch, where I have parked myself for the afternoon and possibly for the rest of the night. That should give you some sense of where I’m at emotionally right now.

Nothing can prepare you for how tiring trauma is. Doing your chores is tiring. Trying to find a new job is tiring. Answering emails is tiring. Listening to friend gossip is tiring. Leaving the house? Very tiring.

There are many people in my life who don’t know I’m a survivor of sexual assault, that I might have to testify against my rapist in court this year. There are also many important people in my life who do know what happened to me, and I want to name that feeling isolated even when you have willing, loving people to care for you is okay. They can't know exactly what we're going through. It's normal to feel lonely about that.

Our secret survivor identity can create such a heavy sense of disconnect from the real world. I can’t tell you how many parties and gatherings I’ve been at where I’ve drifted out of myself to hover above the conversation. “Did I find this stuff interesting Before It Happened? Why am I struggling so much to stay present?”

I’m writing this to you — to us, to me — as a reminder that it's okay to feel this way. It’s okay to struggle with focus. It’s okay to struggle with small talk. It’s okay to feel exhausted by life. Survival means living even when it doesn’t feel good, but the discomfort doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. It’s actually, in a kind of fucked-up way, a nice reminder that you’re growing.

Call in your entire network of support. Call crisis hotlines*. Cry to someone that feels safe. Hug a pet. Take a very long, very hot shower. Find some way to sweat — running, dancing, yoga, whatever you’ve got.

And please, if you take anything away from this post, just remember this: you are never alone. I read something in Thich Nhat Hanh's How to Love yesterday that has stuck with me: "We are aware that all generations of our ancestors and our future generations are present in us." As I ran through my neighborhood this morning, breathing through all my triggers, I felt pearlescent, glowing beings running with me. Generations of survivors that came before us.

They are always with you, as am I. You are a survivor, which means — in all its complex, bittersweet truth — that you have an entire community of people who know exactly how you feel. You are surrounded by light.

I love you, just as you are.

Take good care of yourself,

Me

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*here are some hotlines that might help:

BAWAR (Bay Area Women Against Rape): [phone]

RAINN (hotlines and online chat support): https://www.rainn.org/resources

[dearyousurvivors]

grayness

Do you feel gray today, love? Because I do.

Gray like perfumed smoke, worn sheets, a feeling you're not sure of yet. Not bright hot happiness, not deep blue despair. Just predictable, flat, safe gray.

Gray is a lifestyle. It's survival, because even if you're living gray -- where days aren't clearly defined and seasons blur seamlessly into each other and you're not really sure why -- you're still here. You're still alive. What a miracle, and I truly, earnestly mean that. You're doing the best you can; so am I. Picture me sitting next to you in the fog, rubbing slow circles on your back. I'm reminding you with these words that we're not alone. For that, gray is beautiful.

I think it's hard for the people who love you to see you in this grayness. People want to solve it; they want to clear the clouds away for you. Maybe on some level you make them uncomfortable -- perhaps your grayness reminds them of their own. Maybe they hurt seeing you, their dear one, afraid to live fully. Maybe they genuinely want to help you find vibrancy. They offer up all these ways to bring color into your life, and it's okay if all your brain says is DANGER.

Here's what's hard for survivors like us. Being seen is a tricky thing. Living in grayness means you won't stand out, and we've learned that's a good thing because standing out means that you'll inevitably stand in the way of someone's rough hands. Grayness doesn't give you PTSD. Grayness doesn't fray your nervous system or make you twitch.

But grayness isn't really that satisfying, is it? Grayness doesn't make you particularly excited about your days. Grayness can make you feel antsy, itchy to find the thing(s) that will make everything make sense. Will you look back on your life when you're old -- if we're lucky enough to get old -- and enjoy remembering the grayness?

Love, the great thing about this moment right now is that we have a choice. I know that choice was taken away from us in the cruelest, most violating way; if it takes a lifetime to get over that, that's okay. But we can choose what we do with our grayness from now on. We can stay in it, and that's okay. We can add in little bits of color -- try new things, push our boundaries, be seen -- and that's okay too.

I just want you to know that however you're living your life -- whether you're safe and comfortable in your grayness or experimenting with adding color even though it's scary -- you're perfect. You're not something that needs to be fixed. You're whole, complete, and alive, right here, right now. You don't have to apologize for any of the choices you made, are making, will make.

When I began writing this, there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon. The light was thin; morning was still being formed. Now the sun is up and shining all over my room. The sky is a clear, even blue. It feels like a cliche and also it feels so right.

I love you, survivor.

-Me

[dearyousurvivors]

#4

Dear survivor,

I would like to start this letter by saying: your anger is so incredibly valid.

We are taught -- or at least I grew up thinking -- that anger is something you shouldn't express. That anger is a “bad feeling”, a mask for something else, the thing you need to hurry through to get to the root of the matter. Yes, it is true that anger often covers older hurts and grief so deep you don’t know the bottom of it yet, but I want you to know that you are allowed to be mad. What happened to us is infuriating. You are allowed to feel every itchy moment of rage, to marinate in the wildfire for a while. You do not need to caretake other people through your anger. Unfortunately, we have very legitimate reasons to be mad, and voicing our rage at the injustice is part of the healing process.

Anger can be transformative. Anger can be cathartic. Anger can be validating. Anger can be amazing. Anger can be productive. I took my first solo run through the neighborhood where I was assaulted — my neighborhood — when I was furious. I have the stamina to go out into the world alone when I’m seething. I write when I’m mad; I dance when I’m mad; I clean and throw triggering things away when I’m mad. Don’t let anyone talk you out of your anger before you’re ready. You are moving on your own timeline now, and that’s all yours to decide.

I’m proud of your anger. Your rage is an honor to witness. These feelings are great and terrible and proof that we’re still fucking here. Follow your fury until it leads to the next feeling. I’ll be right there with you.

All my love,

Me

[dearyousurvivors]

#3

Dear survivor,

I talked about sex with my therapist today and I thought of you. I talked about safe words, about making agreements with partners about what’s okay and what isn’t, about what to do when a trigger happens during sex. I thought about the conversations you may or may not be having with your own therapists or partners or friends about sex. And I thought about so many of you who haven’t spoken a word of what happened to you to anyone, and maybe never will. I honor you in your silence. You get to control when you open your mouth and what words you say.

Do you ever grieve your body like it’s dead? The other morning I woke up and sobbed for everything that was taken away from me when I was assaulted. I spent most of my adolescence and early adulthood hating the way I looked, resenting my body for all the things it wasn’t or couldn’t do, only to have it almost completely taken away from me one random morning when I was 29. How do I apologize for a lifetime of hatred when this body did everything to keep me alive and succeeded? There are layers to what happened to us; sometimes examining all them just fills me with grief — for me, for you, for all of us. Weighted, stubborn grief. Do you feel this way, too? Do you feel like “sexual assault” barely even covers it? Here is where I offer you a tissue, take one for myself, and tell you to let it all out. Fill your belly with breath. Exhale with a sigh. You do not have to hold this by yourself.

Can I share some things that I took away from my therapy session today? Here they are anyway, in case you need them:

You are right where you need to be.

Just because you feel this way now doesn’t mean you always will.

Sex is a joy that we’re going to have to work harder at sometimes. You're right; it’s not fair.

The people who love you want to help you through.

Taking a shower is a great way to regulate your nervous system.

I love you. I am frustrated with you and for you. I know that one day you are going to have so much pleasure in your hands that you won’t know what to do with it. I know you will feel full and solid and held. I know that you will be able to look at all the layers of yourself with compassion and understanding. I think you are healing beautifully.

All my love,

Me

[dearyousurvivors]

#1

Dear you survivor,

None of this is right, and yet you’re still here. Still becoming brighter, still making it through every single day even when tomorrow feels terrifying. I hope you know how grateful I am to know a part of you, even if we’ve never met and will never meet.

Your unwillingness to fake anything is a gift. Your vulnerability is your strength. Your courage to do small, brave things to reclaim your life is inspiring. Know that you never really walk alone, that I will think of you often. I hope that you’re continuing to breathe and treat your body like the beautiful gift it is. I hope you're telling people to fuck off who need to.

None of this is your fault. None of what you’re feeling is wrong, bad, or shameful. Nothing warrants an apology. You’re here, you’re right here, you’re here. I’m so glad you are.

All my love,

Me