I was watching TV with my husband and children when my phone
notified me that Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s written statement to the Senate
Judiciary Committee had been released. I scanned it once, and then paused the
show to read a few lines to my husband. Over the years—especially over the last
couple weeks-- I have read many statements written by survivors of sexual
assault. In fact, a week ago, I shared my own statement at a press conference
with Senator Blumenthal, proud to note that my voice was clear and my eyes free
of tears. However, as I read Dr. Ford’s statement aloud, I found myself sobbing
in the middle of the living room, my husband reassuring the kids that Mommy was
just tired.
As I read Dr. Ford’s statement aloud, I noted how much of
it I could have written myself. Our experiences were different, of course, but so much of the feeling was the same. I did my best to suppress memories of the assault, she wrote, because recounting the details caused me to relive the experience, and caused panic attacks and anxiety. As I spoke her words, I recognized what a struggle it has been this week to focus when my kids tell me a story or ask me for homework help. I remembered going to dinner after the press conference last week, how I spent the whole meal feeling as though I was outside myself, watching my body nod its head at the children and push food around its plate.
Right now, forcing myself to recall memories of one of the
worst years of my life, the feeling is similar to the one I felt at dinner.
It’s the feeling that something horrible was done to me and no matter how
I try to wish it away or ignore it, I can’t make it unhappen. It’s the feeling
that even if I were to run screaming through the streets, shouting all the
terrible details and naming names, no one with any authority would care. It’s
the feeling that I should be able to get over it, but I can’t, and the more I
try to think myself out of it, the worse it gets. It’s the thing I’m fighting
through tonight as I attempt to put the awfulness into words so some phantom
reader will know, at least momentarily, that they are not alone. It’s a feeling
I privately refer to as The Big Sad, and it’s one reason I didn’t report to the
police when I was assaulted fifteen years ago.
As many survivors know, The Big Sad is but one of many
reasons a person may make the excruciating choice to stay silent after an
assault, but it’s a good one to start with because it’s fairly uncomplicated
and non-survivors can relate. If you’re raped, you’re sad. It makes sense. But
The Big Sad doesn’t wake me up the middle of the night to call me both a coward
and a liar, like Self-Doubt and Denial have been known to do. Unlike Guilt, it
doesn’t appear in my brain to spin a Rolodex of treasured memories the instant
before I name names, asking, “Do you really want to hurt this person? I thought
you loved them.” The Big Sad is a cousin to Grief, but unlike Grief, it doesn’t
trap me for years in the bargaining stage, attempting to renegotiate the
details of the assault and make it more of a hiccough than a trauma. Of course,
you can’t have Grief without its friend Loyalty, who shreds the accusatory
letter right before I drop it in the mail, assures me that it’s better if I
just keep my thoughts to myself where they can’t endanger anyone’s marriage or
career. The Big Sad tells me no one will care if I tell my story, and that’s
much easier for me to live with than the Fear, which tells me that someone will
care, very much, and will dox or hurt me for writing this. It’s much easier for
me to admit to sadness than admit that I am still ruled, to a certain extent, by
Shame, which even now is trying to convince me to walk away from the computer
and close my mouth. These other reasons are much more difficult to unpack in an
op-ed, because unlike The Big Sad, they are nuanced and feel particular to my
experience, but they are no less real.
These reasons have been my burdens and my security blankets
for over a decade. They’ve worked together to keep me quiet. But Dr. Ford’s
statement has turned my face toward truth. For a myriad of complicated,
personal reasons, not every survivor comes forward after an assault. In fact,
the vast majority never report. They carry the secret truth in bodies’ forever,
unable or unwilling to make an official accusation or share the names of their
rapists.. As difficult and painful as it is to say it publicly and permanently,
I am one of those people. I am a survivor of sexual assault. And you, Reader,
are not alone.
