content warnings: frank discussion of attempted homicide, sexual abuse
Part of my struggle in crafting this post has been the nature of my complex trauma, the various traumas which intermingle and overlap. For simplification, I will be referencing only one sexual trauma. The one I’ve chosen is the one I’m most practiced in speaking on. In short, when I was ten years old, someone attempted to murder me so they may finish sexually assaulting me in peace. While I don’t go into a graphic description of the incident, that is the decided framework moving forward.
The Importance of Storytelling
To me, storytelling is a godsend.
Sexual abuse survivors can be messy because we’re making sense of the mess imposed upon us. Through storytelling, through seizing ownership of my narrative, the mess begins to lessen.
Gone are the police officers implying a child doomed themself through inappropriate clothing. Wiped is the offender lying through his teeth, and his cruel lawyer echoing the lie back at me. I know what happened.
When the story becomes mine, I slow down time.
The narrative pauses. I breathe. I separate myself from the events.
Instead of experiencing everything at once, I now break down the event into different parts. I move the parts around, examining the impact from different angles. Heck, even writing this article has been an exercise in detachment and analysis.
I reach inside myself, pulling out my emotions. Jumbled like haphazard Christmas lights, I spend time untangling them and accessing the failing mechanisms.
Over time, I process the event not only in the initial incident but how it echoes into other parts of my life, how everything became so tangled. We often forget that an assault is much more than the incident itself.
Yet by breaking it down, by telling my story, healing has been much easier.
How I Tell Stories
From my grandpa telling tales by the fireplace to vibing with a performer’s slam poem, storytelling is part of my life in so many ways. Before I started scribbling in notebooks, I told myself bedtime stories. Snuggled in bed, I’d stare at the wall and internally manifest Disney fanfiction before drifting to sleep.
Storytelling is a part of human nature. Reflecting on this, it makes sense to me that storytelling is an aspect of my healing journey. Since the sexual assault and the following web of complex trauma, storytelling manifested in different ways.
Learning To Speak
Before writing or reading, many of us learned to speak. I first had to speak about the assault to the woman who saved me. I had to communicate that the teenage boy was bad. Then came talking to the cops, the nurses, and everyone else who followed.
While I could recount the actions of the events, I somehow didn’t have the words I needed. I didn’t know how I felt. I didn’t know what everything meant. Moments earlier, I knew this person had his hands around my throat, that he spoke his intent to kill me, but still, in that humid night, and the nights that followed, the world felt so distant. I don’t remember when in childhood I overheard someone referring to my experience as “sexual abuse,” but I finally had a word to cling to, to help make sense of everything.
Talking to my peers, as opposed to authority figures or professions, felt different.
At first, people would inquire in the way one is curious about train wrecks or True Crime podcasts. It made sense. These were my adolescent peers who also struggled in wrapping their minds around the unthinkable. In a way, this provided more intimacy; a coziness and a lack of pressure I never received from authority figures.
Writing It All Down
If I mention writing, what’s the first thing to come to mind? A short story, outlining a novel, crafting a poem? Maybe something personable like journaling your day? Schoolwork? Beyond writing about the assault for legal purposes, my first foray into exploring the incident occurred in school.
Looking back, I wonder what my middle school and high school teachers thought?
Assigned essays would be paired with prompts. If the prompt aligned, I’d write about the incident. Reflecting on this, I’m sure there were other moments in my adolescence I could have centered my writing on. However, I think my decision to continue writing about the incident indicated its continued impact on me, whether or not I consciously admitted it.
As I wrote about the incident, I experimented with metaphor and imagery. I found meaning. I found words to describe my emotions. I found structure within the chaos.
This pursuit continued into my college years. I leaped into exploring poetry, creative nonfiction, blogging, and flash fiction. I pushed myself beyond writing about my experiences with sexual abuse and moved into how sexual abuse played a part in my life beyond the first impact.
Recently, I dusted off a piece I worked on in a creative workshop. “Ghost Stories” reflected on what came after each sexually abusive experience. This ranged from the moment I realized the danger lurking in someone to what it was like revisiting the scene of my almost-death years later. These were moments I hadn’t encountered in literature at the time. It was very therapeutic to finally see my experiences.
Thus far, I’ve only brought up forms of nonfiction, but there’s something to be said about creating a universe outside of one’s own.
Even when creating fictional characters, it’s difficult for me to not impart some form of trauma. There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence, but let’s continue. When writing traumatized characters, I keep it several steps removed from my own experiences. Similar, but not the same. There’s this calculated relationship between distance and familiarity.
By the nature of their fictional existence, characters are allowed to behave in ways we wouldn’t. This can mean forgoing societal restraints, our hangups, and even laws of reality.
One way this has been healing is by creating characters outside of the ideal survivor narrative. I may feel personal and societal pressure to behave a certain way, regarding my survival, but this doesn’t have to be the case for my characters. They are allowed their mess and mistakes and nonlinear healing. These things are true of actual survivors but come with the risk of shame.
More Than One Type of Line
It’s only within the past year I begun experimenting with drawings. Oftentimes, I simply free-form my “lil friends.” Other times, drawing becomes integral in processing what I’m feeling.
When my words aren’t working right, it’s easier to draw how I’m feeling. Are my drawings perfect? Of course not. My linework is messy. Sometimes the ink unintentionally blends. I have only the fainted grasp on the concept of bodily proportions and poses. Yet, none of that matters.
What does matter is the satisfaction of striking down that thick line, experimenting with new shapes, and scribbling in color combinations. I’m able to then shape how I feel in a way that wouldn’t be possible if I attempted to vocalize or write my feelings.
I may not always have the words for the unthinkable, but words aren’t always needed.
What Listeners Can Do
What happens when someone is ready to tell their story to you? What is it that survivors need from others, both non-survivors and survivors alike?
While this contemplation never fully retreats from my brain, it’s been at the forefront more often these past few weeks. I don’t think I have all the answers. I think I have my answers. And even those are subject to reevaluation and evolution.
What I know thus far:
I need space for my story to be told and heard.
I need the understanding that I hold many stories.
I need acceptance that these stories will be told more than once.
I need agency in being the one to tell my stories.
I need others to not impose their narratives on me.
I need agency when I tell my stories.
I need the understanding that I know my well-being better best.
I need the understanding that I will not be an “ideal survivor.”
In the above essay, I used the term “survivor.” Some people use the terms “survivor” and “victim” interchangeably, while others have a preference. I opted for “survivor” due to preference and simplicity. When speaking to others, understand they may refer to themselves differently and that’s okay.
