A Cathartic Letter

 71. A CATHARTIC LETTER

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time I invite you to join me on a short walk in my journey of healing. Don’t forget to stay to the end so that you can enjoy my gem of positivity 

Writing can be cathartic, or healing, in your life’s journey through the ups and downs of being a rape survivor. Especially when you feel so much anger towards certain people. I have added as an example, a letter I wrote “to” my family, although I never sent it to them, and never plan to. But it has helped me in my healing nonetheless.

To My Family:

This family has absolutely no understanding of what it means to love and be loyal, within itself. Yes, you love and are loyal to each other. But you also have no idea what it means to be loved despite pain and isolation. 

You think that I have isolated myself of my own volition. Yet not one of you are willing to look back at yourselves and see that in every way, you all have isolated me out of your family, and your lives. But despite this, I have been under the misapprehension that you would one day see me and maybe even include me.

But as I say, it was a misapprehension. Not one of you realise that the reason I exclude myself from your family gatherings, because not a single one of you have ever bothered to try and find out what I am actually thinking or what I care about. What’s more, you don’t even notice I’m not there. And yet, knowing this, I have continued to do what I thought was my job to do.

I have, even after all these years, and no matter what each of you have said to me at different times, thought that you were all worth it. So, let me tell you something of what I have thought you have been worth all these years.

I lost my virginity when I was raped at the age of four. I have a complete recollection of that evening and night. I can even tell you what I ate. But I never mentioned a single thing until I was twenty two years old. Why? Because my rapist told me that if I ever told, the family would be broken up. And I actually thought you were worth keeping together.

Then we come to the school years. You all poo-poo me for what you see as my lack of respect of Dad as head of family. And yet not one of you have bothered to find out why. The fact is I didn’t even realise Dad was related to me until we moved. I just thought he was married to my Mum.

Here’s another fact for you. I thought a paedafilic police man was my father. Remember all those times when you were telling me to go away and play by myself? I went down to the swamp, and met with the man I believed was my Dad. He listened to me, he spent time with me, and yes, he gave me what I thought was “love”.

And while you choose to ask how dare I be so selfish and self centred, and always ruin everything, let me remind you that I was the twelve year old who saw a doctor uncomplainingly on my own, because one of you was too scared to see their doctor on  their own without a parent in tow. And when we got home, and the other parent was told what had happened, their response was “good”.

All those times that my much older siblings told me to “grow up” and “act your age”, you forget that I was. I was eight years old, and nine years old. And I had the unbearable cheek to actually act those ages.

You all know that I worked for two years. I know that some of you won’t want to hear the following because it upsets your sensibilities. It upset my sensibilities too, but I didn’t have a choice as to whether I got to ignore it.

I spent those two years in hell. I was hit, kicked, spat on, pushed off moving farm vehicles, urinated on, had human excrement rubbed all over my body, and without a doubt, raped. I was not only raped, but gang raped on multiple occasions, including having foreign objects shoved up my vagina until I bled.

Now, I put up with that for TWO YEARS. Why? Because I was constantly threatened that “my” family would be killed. Not me. But YOU. I thought enough of all of YOU to put up with an atrocity that you’ve probably only ever heard of as happening in some third world country. But it happened to me.

All of this has cost me dearly. I lost my daughter, Muriel Ashlynne. She came too soon, breathed exactly six breaths, and then was gone. I lost the twins I thought I might actually keep, Charles and Olivia. They came too soon as well, sooner than Muriel; so soon they never got to breathe. I lost the ability to even get pregnant after the twins.

I lost any self confidence and self esteem I might have ever had. I lost my ability to ever work again. I lost my peace of mind. I lost my mental health. Instead, I gained fear. The constant fear that the very people who make up this family will still be killed should I speak out about what has happened in my past.

So before you continue to call me a “witch bitch”, or how dare I say anything about the family, or how my “communication skills aught to be better than they are considering how long you’ve been in therapy”. Please stop and think. Are any of you going to behave like your lives have been worth the ruination of someone else who you all speak and act with such scorn and revoltion? Or was it all for nothing?

In closing, I want to make one thing absolutely and completely 100% clear. I want nothing from any of you. I never have. I have always had to stand on my own two feet. I have never been protected, or even wanted by any of you, and that’s fine by me. You keep yourselves close as a family. But after all’s said and done, I will not put up with your slander of me for one minute more. Because I thought you were a family worth saving — don’t keep proving you weren’t.

Ruby

As you can read, I was very angry when I wrote this letter. But it has, in its own way helped me to heal. You see I got to take out of myself all the pain and frustration I have held so long. And it can work for you too. Simply write what you feel, whether it be to perpetrator/s or someone else. Get it out, so you can heal little by little yourself.

This time the gem of positivity is attributed to Anne Frank:

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”

And that is what I have found, to an extent. My sorrows don’t exactly disappear, but I do find new courage, when I write something like my cathartic letter. I’m able to put all of that pain, misery, and yes anger, into it. Which means that it is no longer sitting inside of me, burning me up. Why don’t you give it a try?

Thank you for joining me on this short walk through my journey of of healing. Don’t forget to leave a comment on what you do to get the pain and anger out. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby.

Life After Rape: Part Two

 70. LIFE AFTER RAPE: PART TWO

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time, I invite you to join me on a short walk through my journey of healing from the trauma of sexual violence. Don’t forget to stay to the end so that you can enjoy my gem of positivity.

This time I am going to continue to let you see what my life is like now, after rape. A changed life, but a life nonetheless. I’m particularly talking about the changes in my life after my sexual imprisonment by the man I refer to as Alex.

Money is a huge problem for me now. Alex refused to let me handle money at all. I wasn’t even allowed to carry my own bank card. If he found any money on me, I received such a beating, I would be left whimpering on the floor. Battered, bruised and bleeding, I would beg for mercy. 

So I learned not to be caught. If I got any cash, I had to spend it straight away. It didn’t matter what I bought, because Alex never seemed to notice. Just so long as I didn’t have any money on me, I was fine. I even took to taking money out of his wallet while Alex slept, before heading off to work.

These trauma driven habits continue to this very day. I still feel like I have to spend all the money I have. If I have money on my credit card, it must be spent. Online shopping is where I fall down the most. The overwhelming trauma voice in my head, tells me that if the money is there I’ll get beaten.

Then there’s laxatives. Back then, I felt so dirty from the unceasing painful and devastating rapes, I had to get clean. And that meant being clean on the inside as well. So now, even though I’m free physically of that toxic situation, mentally I still have that contaminated mindset of needing cleanliness.

So I still take excessive quantities of laxatives. I must admit I’m down to ten or less laxative tablets in the one go, but it’s still for the same reason. I must be totally clean, inside and out. I have, in recent years been hospitalised for laxative overdoses. The last time was a mere 50 tablets, but it was enough to unsettle my heart from the sudden electrolyte imbalance. That hasn’t stopped me from trying to get clean though. I just don’t take that many tablets in one go.

Next is orderly preoccupations. Everything has to be in even numbers. Buying things in twos used to be enough, but the more I feel unsafe, the number has increased. At the moment, I’ve been able to hold at the number four, although I am very tempted lately to go up to six.

And we come to invisibility. I don’t want to be seen. It’s not enough to just stay inside my home to make me feel better. Even in my own home, the smaller I can make myself, the better. Because if I can’t be seen, I won’t be hurt. That is the thinking that drives this, and all the other issues that I have.

Do these sound at all familiar to you? Are you trying to make the fear of past rape go away by alternative methods? Or are you holding on to old ways that you learned under a tyrannical system fuelled by evil and cruel people? Neither you nor I have to. Because you and I are worth more than existing in fear. We deserve to live, without the fears of the past. We deserve a better life — we are survivors. And we can heal.

This time the gem of positivity is a quote attributed to Michele Rosenthal:

“Trauma creates change you don’t choose. Healing is about creating change you do choose.”

This is only too true. I have been traumatically changed. I did not choose what happened to me to make that change. And yet, despite this, I can choose to change myself for the better. I can choose to heal, and I am. How about joining me? We can heal together.

Thank you for joining me on this short walk in my journey of healing. Don’t forget to leave a comment on how you are choosing to heal. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby.

 

Life After Rape: Part One

 69. LIFE AFTER RAPE: PART ONE

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time I invite you to join me on a short walk through my journey of healing from the trauma of sexual abuse and sexual assault. Don’t forget to stay to the end so you can enjoy my gem of positivity.

Rape. The word itself can conjure a whole train of thoughts and emotions to different people. But what does it mean for the survivor on a day to day basis? I obviously cannot speak for anyone else, so I thought I’d give you a look into the daily fight I have myself.

One thought I have constantly, is that of being filthy and dirty. Just have a bath or a  shower, you might well say. I do. At first it was constantly, because I felt so contaminated. The hottest water I could stand, and the relentless scrubbing of my whole body (breasts, anus, and vagina included) with stainless steel wool until I bled. Now, I’ve gone the other way. I struggle to be naked at all for showering. 

After rape I feel compelled to sleep with my pants off, but fully naked, no. I unfortunately have even developed the anomaly of answering the front door to strangers in nothing but a bra. I just feel like I’ve already been raped by every man in the world. So it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing (or not wearing) when anyone sees me.

It’s not uncommon for me to display what are called “obsessive compulsive” post-rape cleanliness urges. Like washing my hands for five minutes each at least ten times a day. Or taking all the clean dishes out of the cupboard and washing them each day, to make sure the kitchen stays clean. Or walking in certain patterns on the sidewalk to stay safe.

Leaving my home is stressful. I hate it, absolutely detest it. At first, it was because I feared my attackers might see me and continue their disgusting behaviour of sexually horrifying assaults on me. Then I became scared by association that any man would see me and I worried about being raped by any man, not just previous perpetrators.

Now I sit in my chair, in a corner of my room and just plain hide. I’m trying to hide from the world in its entirety, not just men. I’m keeping myself safe from all harm. Or at least that’s what I think I’m doing. However, there is another key point about this trauma response.

I sit (or stand) in corners and against walls. I hate to think that people might be able to be behind me. It positively scares me. I automatically think that if people are behind me, they will attack me either physically and/or sexually. And I really don’t think that I can cope with any more of those tortuous crimes against me and my body.

The front door. At first I kept the door religiously locked. And I never opened the door, even for deliveries. The deliveries were simply dropped at the door, a knock on the door, then I wait long enough for the person to go away. Then I started to leave it open for a little, to let some fresh air in. And now? I can’t even be bothered to shut the door, let alone lock it. I just think that if someone wants to hurt me in any way, they’re going to. Nothing I do is going to stop them. So why not make it easier — and no property damage.

And then there’s light. I can’t stand being in the dark. I feel like there’s always someone waiting for me in the dark. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and every single sense goes into high alert. Even after the light has been turned on in a dark room, it still takes a few minutes for that “danger, danger” feeling to settle back down. 

I even have to sleep with the light on. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I need to be able to see everything around me straight away. I need to know if someone is in the room with me the instant my eyes open. I’m too afraid to fall asleep in the dark, too.

What about you? Do any of these things sound familiar to you? All of these scenarios are common in society. You may have some. You may have all. Maybe you have even more than this. One thing is sure. Rape changes the survivor. And that’s exactly what you and I are. We’re not victims, because we are still alive. And that’s what make us survivors. Ours lives are changed, yes. But it’s still a life. And while there’s life, there’s hope. That hope is we can all heal.

This time the gem of positivity is attributed to none other than Anne Frank:

“Where there’s hope, there’s life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again.”

And that’s just it. With our life comes the hope of healing. It takes courage on our part to heal. But as we do, we will find that our healing actually makes us stronger. And that makes healing worth our life. Don’t you agree?

Thank you for joining me on this short walk in my journey of healing from sexual trauma. Don’t forget to leave a comment on what gives you the hope to heal. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby.

Rape and Confused Healing

 68. RAPE AND CONFUSED HEALING 

Hello and welcome back to Raped 25 Years. At this time, I invite you to join me on a short walk through my journey of healing from the trauma of sexual abuse and sexual assault. Don’t forget to stay to the end in order to enjoy my gem of positivity.

As I heal, I am finding that the past is blurring with the present. I’ve been told that this confusion by the subconscious is quite normal. So my dreams confuse traumatic memories which involved cruel and toxic perpetrators, but inserts the safe people in my present. The following is one such confusion I have. It takes out the perpetrators (Alex and Dr X) and swaps them for my safe therapists (Dr H and Dr Q).

The dream lately is the same, ever since being on the bed in a normal general practitioner’s visit for a normal everyday appointment. I am being dragged into the room. Sometimes it’s the man I refer to as Alex, sometimes it’s the man I had believed was my Dad. Then Dr H is there, in the place of Alex. He tells me to undress, which I do without thinking it odd. Once naked, I get onto the bed, and he helps me to get comfortable. Then I look down and instead of Dr X, Dr Q is there, wearing a gown and mask. Dr H is standing beside me and he tells me it must be done and just breathe; it will all be over soon.

Dr H is on my left side so he holds my left hand with your right. Dr Q tells me to put my legs apart so he can do his job. I start to protest, and try to get up. But Dr H leans down and puts his right forearm on my chest to hold me down. He tells me to just relax and it won’t hurt so much. But I am kicking out at Dr Q to stop him getting to me. So Dr H catches my left leg with his left arm and pull it towards my chest, bent at the knee. I can’t breathe properly when he does this, so I have to stop fighting.

I start crying. I’m looking into Dr H’s face pleading for him to not let Dr Q touch me. But Dr H just tells me that everything is okay, to breathe and relax, and it will all be over soon. The I look down, and Dr Q has the dilator in his left hand. I can feel him putting his left hand on my upper thigh, after swapping the tool from left to right hand.

I can’t breathe properly as I feel the cold metal entering me. I start to scream, and say I want to keep the babies this time. The pain of the dilator has me forgetting to kick out any more. The tears are running freely down my cheeks, but Dr H just smooths left hand across my forehead, telling me to shush and I’m being so good and brave and it’s nearly done. 

I can feel the dull scraping of my uterus, then Dr Q stands back and says it’s all done, and I’ll be feeling back to normal in no time. I can’t breathe properly, seeing that the front of his scrubs are covered in blood, the same blood I can feel oozing out of me. Dr H just holds me as I continue to sob, until I’m just sniffling and hiccuping. I am so tired, and I know I lost the fight, so I finally just turn my head away from them and sleep. 

This is a nightmare where my subconscious has confused the past with the present. It mixes an abominably traumatic event from the past, and but brings in people who are helping me to heal in the here and now. However, as odd as this confusion in the dream is, it shows that I am actually processing the appalling situation depicted here. And this processing shows just one thing. I’m healing.

What about you? Is your subconscious confusing events from the past with the people helping you to heal now? It hurts. It makes things scary. It can make it harder to trust the people helping you. I know. I go through all those thoughts too. But as you work through this confused mix, you will realise something. You, too, are healing.

This time the gem of positivity is a quote attributed to Linda Hogan:

“Some people see scars, and it is the wounding they remember. To me, they are proof of the fact that there is healing”.

This is all too true. I can relive these events in my mind and confuse the people in them, and remember the event only. However I’m taking them for what they are. Signs that my lifetime of traumas are starting to heal. Yes, scars will remain. But most of all the wounds that made those scars will show that healing is possible. It is already taking place. 

Thank you for joining me on this short walk through my journey of healing. Please feel empowered to leave a comment on how your scars are showing your healing. And until next time, just breathe and believe.

With love and care, Ruby.