I Was Raped as a Child, and There's No Going Back

I was raped as a child.

There’s no going back.

• What is PTSD?

I’ll relive the whole thing every day, because trauma affects the way the brain works.

I’ll have nightmares most nights about my abusers coming back to find me.

My mind will trap moments and thoughts in deep, primal parts of itself, hiding and then boiling over. It’ll store up bodily sensations and throw them at me at random.

I’ll make mistakes. I’ll break down. I’ll have panic attacks. I’ll have flashbacks. I’ll forget whole days, whole weeks. Sometimes I’ll be hyper-vigilant. Going out will scare me. There’s people out there. People hurt you. Duh.

I’ll never be the same.

I’ll wonder what it’s like to be “normal” and not raped.

I’ll bear the guilt of doing whatever they said, taking it and not telling, feeling complicit for what happened to my body.

I’ll say “I’m fine” because describing what I’m going through, and what’s happening in my head, will be deemed inappropriate. Taboo. Nobody wants to hear that shit.

I’ll feel like I’m never going to be who I was meant to be.

If I’m a man, I’ll feel less like one. I’ll feel silenced because it’s a “woman’s issue.” I’ll feel responsible because most rapists are of my gender.

If I’m a woman, I’ll be seen as the slut, the one who caused it. I’ll fear normal intimacy. I’ll fear pregnancy.

I’ll always be “different.”

Sometimes I’ll meet someone and just know they’ve been through it. Something about their bearing, the signs of struggle in their eyes. A certain self-deprecating manner. An increased empathy. We may bond, we may not.

I’ll be sensitive. I’ll want to stand up for women being abused, for victims being blamed. I’ll want to stop the ignorance.

I’ll be awkward. I’ll have issues. I’ll break down. I’ll snap at people. I’ll be a pain in your ass, I’ll be a burden.

Managers won’t hire me. I’m too unstable, they’ll say. Too much of a risk.

Friends will ditch me because I’m too complicated.

Co-workers will attack me. Bosses will fire me for being flaky or emotional. I’m a walking liability. A problem that breathes. Nobody wants a problem.

The healthcare professionals will juggle diagnoses.

The insurance companies will claim I’m making things up. That my illness isn’t legitimate enough.

I’ll be rejected. I’ll be terminated. I’ll be unemployed. I’ll be denied. I may eventually be homeless. And if I have a family, I may fail them.

All because a society we live in holds me responsible. Because the big, tough, Darwinian world “don’t make no room for snowflakes.” Because “only the strong survive.” “You need to deal with your issues.” “It’s not my problem.”

Because “she was asking for it” or “he had it coming.” Was my abuse a pre-existing condition to you?

I’ll wonder what the point of it is. What the purpose is. Sometimes, I’ll wish I’d died. Sometimes I’ll want to. Sometimes, I’ll wish I’d never existed, so I could take away the hurt and pain I cause others with my problems.

Sometimes I feel like a sick animal that should be put down.

I didn’t ask for this.

I was raped. There’s no going back.