I Hate That I Was Sexually Assaulted.
I hate that I blame myself, I hate that I think I should have done better. I hate how easy it was. I hate the persistent regret. If I had stayed home, if I didn’t come out today, if I had bashed their head in, If I said ‘no’ a few more times, maybe louder. I hate how stupid I was. I hate how I froze. I should have been smarter, quicker, faster than them. I should have not been there.
I hate how I couldn’t believe I was sexually assaulted. I hate how I denied it. I hate how I cried. I hate how I slowly scrubbed my body after. Licking my tears. I hate how I slept for the whole day. Curled up, still crying, still crying, always crying. I hate how slow I became. I hate how noticeable the change was.
“Are you okay?”
I hate how I said I was fine. I hate that I smiled. I hate how I couldn’t tell anyone. I hate how heavy it weighed on me. I hate the way my friends looked at me. I hate how I couldn’t hug them. My legs hurt, I can’t move too much, I can’t hug them. I can’t seem to speak, speak of what? I can’t say it. I hate how I can’t say it. I hate how suddenly there’s no air in my lungs.
I hate that I went back. I hate that I let it happen again. A point to prove, it was a mistake. I hate that I was there again but I thought of maybe redemption. “You made me uncomfortable last time”. Uncomfortable is not the right word. I hate that I can’t say the right word, what’s the right word? “How did I make you uncomfortable?” I hate how dizzy I felt. I wish I didn’t say ‘uncomfortable’, that’s not the right word. I hate how I left.
I hate that I haven’t healed. I hate how I haven’t forgiven myself, despite the articles, the videos, the talks, the self-help. “It wasn’t your fault.”, I hate that I know that and still I hate that I don’t believe it. I hate that it’s not always enough. I hate that my sexual experiences going forward have been ruined. I hate how ruined I feel. I hate that I can’t be the same person, that I might never be the same person.
I hate that I don’t have the strength or bravery required to call out my sexual assaulter. What is the point? Who will listen earnestly? I hate to become that person. A person who was sexually assaulted. I don’t mean to talk about it so much. I hate that I can’t talk about it so much. I want to speak out, I want to listen. I hate how alone I feel.
I hate who sexually assaulted me.
But I wish I didn’t extend that hate to myself. I think I hate myself more. I wish I could show myself more mercy. I hate that I was sexually assaulted but I hate myself more. I didn’t sexually assault myself yet I suffer more than the culprit. I hate torturing myself, I hate thinking back to it. I wish I could erase it. I could have done better, I should have done better. I hate that I blame myself.
It’s easy to feel like this as a victim of sexual assault, it’s normal. The demeaning questions people ask of; why, where, how, when. I have asked myself a million times, on the way home, every night before I sleep and in prayer. I hope this inspires you to keep a never-ending tank of grace reserved for survivors of sexual assault. It has never been an easy journey.
To victims, it wasn’t your fault. There is no right way to be a victim. There’s no straight road for your healing journey. It’s not going to take a day or a month, it may take a year, maybe years. But it is imperative to know that you’re never alone in feeling, although maybe different, never alone. I hope this thought allows you an easier sleep till that day comes.
