“Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.”
Once upon a time, I found my college apartment void of all my roommates. I began to feel lonely. But it wasn’t the kind of alone easily cured; it was scarily a type that aches, grows, and becomes unbearable. It leads to fear, tears, and a frantic reaching out to anyone who could ease such emotions. In this instance, I chose to act: I made more than two dozen chocolate-peanut butter no-bake cookies. I posted on my Church’s local congregation Facebook page announcing said cookies, listing them as leftovers, offering them to hungry college students who would like to come by and grab some. And they came. About five or six wonderful people filled my kitchen and ate and talked and laughed and filled my home with the life and light I so desperately needed there. And it was good.
Once upon a time, I had a secret. I began to feel its weight. But it’s not the kind of secret that comes with a happy surprise; it’s a type that isolates, shames, and becomes a road block for life. It leads to depression, reduced self-esteem, and damages all relationships in one way or the next. And finally, I chose to act: I decided to tell.
I was fourteen-years-old when I was sexually assaulted.
Violated, used, objectified, broken.
I was physically used and manipulated for over a year.
Demeaned, conditioned, reduced, destroyed.
I was fifteen-years-old when I was sexually assaulted again, this time by someone else.
Expected, silent, suppressed, secret.
These words are not enough to convey the magnitude and depth of hurt, shame, anxiety, stress, and immense sadness these events have placed in my path of life. Two of my peers had non-violently damaged me in more ways than one.
One of the worst parts? The people familiar with just only parts of this secret easily number less than the fingers I have. No one knows the whole story. I’m not sure they ever could without realizing how far its reach on me has extended, how much I have been affected. Allow me to demonstrate; these are some of the ways my experience with sexual assault has changed my life:
- I felt tainted, damaged, and irreversibly unworthy to be good enough for anyone else.
- I dropped into a shame cycle, not just limited to the assaults; I was shameful of everything. I thought I would never be good enough for anything: a relationship, a friendship, a family, a teammate, a human.
- I could no longer trust a man to be in a relationship with me for just me; my perception of his commitment was strongly tied to his desire for my physical body, even if he denied it.
- I thought I was only worth what my body could deliver; I thought if I didn’t physically please a man I was interested in, then he would leave. I sought for approval through physical attention. Some portions of this effect some people call wounded attachment.
- I withdrew from physical affection from my family and friends; I didn’t like to hold my sister’s hand or kiss my mom goodnight. I didn’t even want hugs.
- I developed an eating disorder. Three times. Partially to have control, partially to punish my body, partially to somehow be of more worth, partially to die.
- I physically harmed myself. Many times. Partially to numb out other pains, partially to punish myself, partially to have a physical presentation of the inner anguish and hurt I was feeling, partially so someone would see and help, because I couldn’t ask for help.
- I wrecked a lot of romantic relationships because I couldn’t trust or talk or open up about what pain, cynicism, hurt, distrust, disgust, and anger I was hiding.
- I developed and was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. I had nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, and became fearful and anxious. Especially at dark.
- I would fall into periods of depression. Paired with my shame, there were times I did not want to continue living. I felt hopeless.
But humans are incredible creatures; our bodies, paired with spirits from Heaven, adapt and evolve. I buried it. I became the crazy, adventurous, long-haired Ally you may know. I lived and laughed and tried my best to be okay when I was alone.
But, as a friend put it, just because you bury the zombies, it doesn’t mean they’re dead. Sometimes those effects, they’d cause a little tremor beneath my feet, or sometimes they’d rip a hole in the ground and threaten to swallow me, too. The only way to get rid of zombies is to kill them one at a time. The only way to fully eliminate the effects of sexual assault from my life is to face them head on, and deal with it.
This is me starting to deal with it. This is me trying to be more than okay.
This is my secret.
And so far things are ridiculously hard, but also very much worth it. A weight lifts when I speak up; a light is turned on when I receive support; a zombie is killed when I stop trying to pile a mound of earth on top to hide its existence and instead, talk about it.
I’m so exhausted of being alone and wanting to reach out but knowing no one knows.
I’ll be talking more about this, as I’m ready. I think I'm okay with not hiding any more, so we can check step one off the list.
I’d really appreciate knowing I’m being heard; send me a text, shoot me a message, or the next time you see me, tell me you read my post. Tell me you heard my secret. Tell me you’re proud of me. And tell me it’s going to be more than okay.
As I continue to share about the insights and perspective I have gained by addressing the pain these events have caused me, I hope others can find parallels in their own lives about how we are not alone, forsaken, or forgotten, even in the darkest of times.
"For the Lord shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving, and the voice of melody.”
Once upon a time, I shared my secret; and it was good.
