I have a story to tell. I once heard about this woman. They said she had an air about her, that she was confident, fierce, and one of the most caring people one could meet. Some said she was beautiful. She had a career she loved, a college degree, a husband who cared deeply for her, and two children she adored.
From the outside looking in, she was completely in control of her life. It looked as though she had everything a woman in her 30s could want. She was very vocal about her struggles with depression and anxiety. It afforded her the opportunity to have open conversations with others who were also struggling. She could talk to someone for hours if it meant assisting them through their problems.
On the inside, she was falling apart. Her anxiety and depression could take hold of her and send her spiraling into a hurricane of anger, fear, and tears. There were times her husband tried to console her, but could never find the right words to say. If he touched her she would pull away.
She held dark secrets inside. Secrets that would once in a while expose their ugly faces from the depths of her forgotten memories.
The flashes of images of an older family member removing her clothes. Flashes of him forcing her to hold onto his erect penis as they watched movies. Flashes of him placing his erect penis near her mouth. Flashes of him placing her little girl vagina over his teenage penis and “dancing around the room.” These images would circle her head during the most intimate of moments. Moments with her husband. Moments when certain scenes would come on the television screen or even when she was alone in the dark of night.
Sometimes she’d have flashbacks of another time. This time it was her babysitter’s son. The time he rubbed a yellow child’s baseball between her legs, back and forth, back and forth. His teeth yellow and mangled as he smiled wide and laughed. She remembers him asking “does that feel good?” in a way a young child should never be asked such a question.
Other times it is images of that time she got drunk with a bunch of friends. It was all in good fun. She drank, they drank. There was laughter and fun all around. Then suddenly, a switch change. One of her male friends came barreling towards her. He grabbed her. She screamed. She kicked. She knew something was wrong. She didn’t remember, to this day the flashes and images have never told her what happened seconds before he grabbed her. But she remembers him grabbing her. He held her sideways against his left side like a rag doll. She couldn’t get free. He swung her around and threw her down on a plastic table. He hadn’t known his own drunken strength. It happened to be her saving grace.
The table collapsed beneath her as he slammed her onto that cold black table. He stumbled. She thought quick and scrambled to her feet. She stood up and bolted out the door. There were three others in the room, one of which was also female. A so-called friend. No one moved. No one did anything. No one asked if she was OK. No one stopped it from happening. And this girl in the story? She couldn’t drive home. She was too drunk to drive. She locked herself in her car and called another friend to come take her home. She was stuck just 500 feet from the man who tried to have his way with her. He enjoyed the festivities as she was locked in a car praying that he wouldn’t come outside.
But to the outside world, she was perfectly adjusted. It would be unimaginable to think this woman had been through these experiences. Only a handful of people in her life knew these stories. She trusted very few with these secrets.
But she was well adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
These images made her feel humiliated, worthless, disgusting. What could she have done to stop it? Why didn’t she stop it? The constant questions would often cause a rise in her anxiety and the feelings of disgust and worthlessness caused her depression to deepen.
But she was perfectly adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
She didn’t tell her father because she didn’t want her dad to get arrested. She knew he’d go after the men who did these things. She cared more about protecting her father than justice. He was a good man. He doesn’t deserve to go to jail because he loves me or because I couldn’t stop him.
But she was perfectly adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
She never told her mother because her mother didn’t need that pain. It wasn’t her mother’s fault this happened, it was his. And she won’t cause her mother pain even if it means allowing a man who didn’t know how to control his urges to walk free.
But she was perfectly adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
She couldn’t go to the cops, her teachers, her friends. They’d tell her parents. No. It wasn’t her parents’ fault this happened. They shouldn’t suffer because I couldn’t stop it. She hoped by not confronting these men, it would go away. That she’d eventually forget these things happened to her. She struggled with the guilt of wondering what if he does this to someone else. But she was too ashamed to tell. Too embarrassed.
But she was perfectly adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
If she tells now, she has to put her children through the circus. Her husband. They don’t deserve the hurt and pain the truth would cause. They don’t need to hear the names their mommy could be called. It wouldn’t be fair on them.
But she was perfectly adjusted. Normal. Well put together. And she never spoke the names.
Last I heard, this woman was still living well. Enjoying her life. Fighting off her demons each time they come.
My heart aches for this woman. She never chose this. Someone else decided her life for her. Someone else decided what childhood memories would burn in her mind. She protected the hearts of others and drowned her pain at the bottom of a bottle for a while. Those men stole from her. They are free to do as they please while she is trapped in a cage of endless images, trying to live the good life.
But she wasn’t perfectly adjusted after all. Or Normal. Or as well put together as others thought. And she never spoke the names.
Note: If you have experienced sexual assault, Pathways to Healing can help. One of 15 rape crisis centers in South Carolina, Pathways to Healing advocates for and supports survivors of sexual assault and abuse in Richland, Lexington, Newberry, Clarendon, and Sumter counties and educates the community to identify and prevent sexual violence.
