Ch. 21 What Not To Do
It Isn’t Your Fault, Either
You’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to hurt the one you love unintentionally at some point, and you may never even know that you did. There’s no definitive guide to getting through all of this, and there never could be. Everyone’s experience is different, so the best you can do is communicate with the victim as much as they’ll allow without bothering them. I know, this is already easier said than done. But don’t worry, we know you are human, and unlike you, we as victims have no idea what it’s like to experience what you are experiencing. Someone once asked me if I’d rather go through what I went through or have someone I love go through an illness knowing they will live through it. A morbid question, I know, but the answer is so easily that I’d rather go through what I went through. The reason being that I know what happened and how it affected me and how it felt and don’t have to imagine any of it, or think the worst, or never know how I’m really doing. It’s so much more difficult to watch someone you love go through something while feeling completely helpless than it is to go through something yourself.
When my parents told me that they wouldn’t be telling my grandparents nor certain cousins of their choosing, I felt sick. My assault will forever be a part of me, of who I am, and the thought of my grandparents living and dying and never knowing this about me stung. There was a part of my existence that was too upsetting for people who loved me to know. What does that do to a victim’s mind? Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Rape. Sodomy. Assault. Torture. I get it. Those are some of the worst things that can happen to a person who can still live to talk about it. I know how heavy it is because I carry the burden of it with me everywhere I go. But what they were telling me was that this burden was too heavy to share with some of the people who cared about me the most. That it was mine to carry in silence. It hurt beyond logic. The thought of them hearing about my assault was excruciating, but what if I had died? Surely they wouldn’t keep my death from them. You can always spare the details, but to completely erase that part of my life to someone like Memere? The grandmother I used to call “Second Mom,” who is largely responsible for shaping me to be the kind of woman who I’d become, the kind of woman that doesn’t keep her mouth shut? It didn’t add up to me. What else could I feel but shame? All the logic in the world couldn’t take away the fact that some of the closest people in my life would be “too hurt” to know about my hurt.
My grandmothers have since passed, never knowing what I went through, and I’ve made peace with it as time has gone on. But there is a lesson here that I think needs addressing. As much as I often appreciated friends and family telling people about my attack so that I didn’t have to, I don’t think it’s up to you to decide who will not be told. I am no longer ashamed to talk about what happened to me, but that took a long time and a lot of therapy. Because of this attitude toward sexual crimes, I was conditioned to carry shame with me silently, so as not to upset other people. Do you know what that teaches a broken 19-year-old girl? Or a victim of child abuse or domestic assault for that matter? Our stifling culture may incubate the stigmas associated with these atrocities, but the seeds often sprout from the least amount of care. The idea that silence is preferable to staining oneself is stunningly real.
I understand how much situations like these hurt friends and family, but I was never prepared for how much it would bring out the worst in them. When I told some of the boyfriends I had more serious relationships with, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to ask me if I would like them to find the ringleader and kill him. I know his full name, after all, ironically this book is the first time I’m not using it freely. Perhaps after they found him, they could use him to track down the others, but at the very least, they could kill him. Some were very matter of fact, even casual, but some were dead serious. I always responded repugnantly of course. Especially to the ones who had children. Like, really? You’re a father and you’re going to hunt down your girlfriend’s rapist in New York City? Aside from how insane that is, if you actually did it, you’re going to spend your life locked up instead of being a father to your children? No. This is why it was so upsetting when I found out that it wasn’t just delusional boyfriends who had floated this idea. But my own Uncle and one of my closest family members. Apparently, he had made at least some moves to put the plan in motion, according to my liquored-up source. And you know what? This hurt me very deeply.
You see, Uncle and I are very close, but I’d never really heard a peep from him about what happened to me as I was going through the worst of it. Years later, I found out that he was considering this kind of shady business. Even worse was that my entire family knew of his plan. Aside from the whole thing being an insane idea, especially considering the fact that he was also a father to my young cousin, I was still more angry than hurt. The pain was from my whole family discussing this without me and that they could even speak that piece of shit’s name. But just as fleetingly as the pain had arrived, it was overrun by seething anger.
They were too busy helping themselves to help me.
Of course, neither my Uncle nor the rest of my family consulted me about this plan. I was a fragile snowflake to them, so asking me if this was what I wanted would have been out of the question, it would have just upset me. At least, that is how I assume they rationalized it. Looking back, I feel that I was so upset to hear about what they were planning because it was so clear that this idea wasn’t about me. It was to get rid of that helpless feeling they all had, that there was no way they could make me feel better, so they had to do something else. What they didn’t realize was that those actions would have been completely for them, to ease their own pain and make them feel better, as if they were doing something for me. I was angry because for years I thought my family just didn’t know how to deal with any of it, that they were just brushing it all aside and hoping that by ignoring it, I may get better and move past it. To discover that instead of being there for me, daring to initiate conversation or ask how I’m feeling and really mean it, they were up to this. This was their outlet. No matter how much or how little any of them were involved, all that nonsense wasn’t about supporting me. Turns out, they weren’t pretending it didn’t happen, they were serving themselves, in my name, without me having anything to do with it.
There are ways to help and there are ways to help yourself. They are not mutually exclusive, but in my case, it felt like they were. This is why you need to put the victim first, be there, support them, and give it your all. Don’t give up, don’t pretend it’s all over, don’t stop trying to help, or think that they must have figured it out on their own. And don’t accept that they have without details.
Like I said, you’re going to fuck up. My family didn’t do so hot. My friends had no idea how to be around me anymore. In many ways, I felt abandoned, but that’s no one’s fault, including me. All of our lives were a row of perfectly poached eggs, and without warning, my yolk broke and we were all scrambled. I’m not writing this to make anyone feel bad. I’m writing this to tell you that some things stick. In such a confusing time, there were certain moments involving those closest to me that left a bad taste in my mouth. I knew then and still know now that not one of them did any of it purposefully. It was emotional pandemonium and talking to them about it later would only hurt them more. Instead, I wanted to take what I learned, what I went through, how it felt and how it could be better, and share it with you. You don’t have an easy road ahead, but I hope this helps you understand your loved one, the victim, your person, just a bit more. It takes much more than just surviving to become a survivor. They need you for that. I hope this helps.
