Part 23 - The Final Push

"Dressed To Kill" - New Found Glory

About three years ago, a young lady was transferred into our department. I had met her briefly before, but didn’t really know her well. However, she was a very friendly and bubbly person. Really easy to get along with. Her name is Lauryn*. Over the course of a few months whilst getting to know her, she revealed that’d she’d had a life-long struggle with depression. I didn’t really pry too much at first, but we just shared some similar experiences.

Months later, she began to open up (although she’s a very open and to the point girl), and let spill that the major course of her difficulties with depression had been due to extensive abuse (physical, mental, and sexual) at the hands of the man that she had called Dad. He wasn’t her real Dad but had acted as though he was since her early years. Her Mother had split from him, and Lauryn resided with her for many years, but at the age of twelve she returned to live with him. Between that age, and when she was sixteen years old, he frequently (almost daily) abused her in the form of beatings and bullying, followed by sexual abuse.

Had Lauryn not disclosed this information to me, I would never have know. She projected such a level of confidence and brightness, without any fear or bitterness, that I couldn’t comprehend the strength that this young woman had. She had formed a relationship with a gentleman, (all be it, a relationship where she was very slightly dominated), and even gone on to have a child. She’s an amazing Mother, and she has every right to be seriously proud of her daughter, who is now six years old. Looking back now, I can see some of the cracks that were there, but she recently underwent further counselling, and then later hypnotherapy. She is a true inspiration to me, constantly fighting to be the wonderful person, that she doesn’t even realise that she already is.

After a couple of years knowing Lauryn, I had confided in her about my own traumas. Particularly the rape. She was very supportive and comforting, and was one of the only people in my life, that truly understood all the mixed up feelings that I had in regards to this incident. And she surprised me, by saying, that (like I had with her), she would never have known that this had happened to me, had I not confided in her. As a rape victim, you often feel like everyone around you can see the flaws in your sytsem, and that you are wearing your status for the world to see. To me, it all seems so obvious; my behaviour patterns can often link directly back to my rape. I began to realise that I hadn’t fully achieved any sort of closure on this incident. Keeping it quite for so long, I had then continued once people knew with the belief that now people knew, it could be thrown away into the deep dark recesses of my conscious mind, and that it would never hurt me if I just ignored it.

I knew, through, many impromptu counselling sessions during cigarette breaks at work, that I had to resolve this issue in my own mind, and that I would only be able to do that through returning to counselling. So off I went to my GP, who kept trying to put me back onto medication, whilst I insisted that counselling would be all the action that was necessary. The wait for counselling was excruciating, so I did end up falling back onto anti-depressants (in amitriptiline form), and ever increasing my dose. I’ve got to admit, I’m still taking them now, but hell, I sleep so well. Finally my counselling began, and they had all my notes from my previous adolescent counselling. I didn’t even need to tell them what had happened. Which was lucky, because I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. I think this was for three main reasons. Number 1: I knew that in re-attending counselling, I would have to endure an emotional breakdown. One that I was worried, I wouldn’t be able to control, and would therefore drive me back to my old ways. Number 2: Once you tell someone, it becomes real. I’d spent the majority of ten years running from this, and now I was going to have to face up to it. And Number 3: You can’t ever take it back once you’ve told someone, and with a lot of people, once you have, that’s all they will see. A rape victim.

My new counsellor (lovely lady) had complimented me many a time on my high-functioning abilities to cope with my disorder. She was pleasantly surprised that I had such a good relationship with my parents, and that I’d managed to hold down a relatively "normal" life for so long. But I knew I wasn’t normal, and part of the new counselling process was about me learning to accept that, and to be able to control my illness in a healthy and productive way. But first I had to get over the big hump.

After picking up on the fact that I frequently used code words such as "what happened", she asked why I wouldn’t say the words. I told her about my fear of having an emotional lapse back to what I was, but she stressed that I would be able to bring myself back from the edge, as I had done so many times. Having found the trigger she required, she then proceeded to commence dropping the word "rape" into the conversation wherever possible, and after about twenty minutes, I broke. I roared my heart out that day, and all my emotions concerning what had happened poured forth from me. And it felt so cleansing. I was finally honest about everything, and I wasn’t scared. I was proud. Proud at what I had endured and come through, and I knew I could finally finish my journey.

The next step was to confront my family. We had all tip-toed around the subject for so long, and in order to move past it, I needed to hear certain things from them. Things like my Dad telling me that he didn’t blame me, or that my Mother wished I’d have told her when it happened. And they also needed to hear from me that I would no longer let "him" win. My life had been geared so much by the rape for ten years, that he’d become this huge figure in my life. I realised that, when it came down to it, he just wasn’t that important. I was me, because of me. My parents love me, because I’m me. My friends care for me, because I’m me. And being a rape survivor figures very little into that equation.

I am finally more secure and confident than I ever have been, and through this last push of counselling, which ended approximately one month after my discussion with my parents, I can finally accept my depression for what it is; only a small part of me, and although it will be there every day, it’s who I am that people are going to most notice. And I feel petty okay about what they’re going to find.

Part 16 - Finally Coming Clean

"I’m A Fake" - The Used

When we got back to the house, my parents went straight into the reception office with Louise, to tell her what had happened, while I unpacked my things. My housemates were naturally curious as to the situation, but could see that I needed space at that moment. After what seemed like hours, Louise called me down to the office, sat me down in front of my parents, and told me, to tell them.

I had mentioned the rape briefly to Louise, while I was settling into the house, and although I brushed off any concerns she expressed, she was wise enough to understand that this event in my life was having huge ramifications on my behaviour. I only ever mentioned the incident as a passing comment, and had never really achieved closure on the rape, or really worked through my feelings about it. Ignoring it was just not working anymore. And Louise knew that this was probably a major contributing factor to my low sense of self-worth, and therefore, suicidal thoughts. I was vocal about the thoughts, probably too much of the time, but not about the cause.

Four years after the event, I finally told my parents. They were shocked, angry at the fact I had never told them, angry with the lad concerned (although they didn’t know him),and devastated. My Mom, being a woman, coped slightly better with the knowledge, and suddenly I knew that she understood the pain I had felt, and be dealing with, on my own, for years. The best thing I ever did was to tell her, and from there we had something to work on, and somewhere to go. There was an explanation for my behaviour, and that, she could handle. She still doesn’t always understand the depression, or the reasoning behind it, but having some knowledge gave her a foundation for a continuing relationship with me.

However, at the same time, one of the worst things I ever did, was tell my Father. Every irrational emotion I had experienced at the hands of this event, he seemed to feel too. I know now that he was in despair that he hadn’t been able to protect me during this time, and that I had struggled with this very adult situation on my own. He blamed himself, and this came out in the form of anger. It took me a long time to realise that he wasn’t angry with me, but at the time I had no sensible guide to lead me through this process, so I couldn’t come to terms with his anger.

That day, during this frank and open discussion, my parents agreed a few targets for me. If I achieved these aims, I would be able to return home, away from the bad influences that had drawn me further down into my depression. I was to re-start my further education, get a part time job, get clean, and stop self-harming. For the next few months, I did everything in my power to meet those demands. But happiness will still just out of my reach.

Part 9 - IT

"Hold On" - Good Charlotte

When I was fourteen years old, I was raped.

This is the major incident in my life that I was referring to in my Blog rules. The incident that was so incredibly painful to me. I’ll fill in a few of the details, but cannot write in too much depth. It’s just too hard, but I’ll try and be as open as I can.

My parents had left me home alone for the weekend, for the first time. I invited a casual acquaintance into the house, with a few other friends. I drank, for the first proper time in my life, and soon there was only a few people left at my house. I felt like I’d had a really good night, and was mostly just pleased that nothing had gone wrong, so my parents would never find out, and I wouldn’t get in trouble. I went upstairs to change, and was followed. I knew the person that raped me, and the whole thing was violent and horrific.

Afterwards, he left, as did the two remaining friends that had been down stairs during the whole episode.
I didn’t sleep that night, and wouldn’t again until my parents got home a few days later. I had no idea how to deal with what had happened, and had such a confusing mixture of thoughts and feelings, that I decided the best thing to do was to just ignore it. Pretend it never happened. It took me three years to tell my parents, and during this time, they never even suspected that something awful had happened to me that weekend.
I gradually became more distant and detached from everyone that knew me. I changed, and the depression began to take hold. For the first few months after the rape, all I could think about was what had happened.

Many people are surprised at some of the emotions I felt at this time, and although I know that some of these feelings were terribly irrational, it seems prudent to explain them as best I can:

Shame - It was my fault!
Fear - Is this what the world is like? Do people really treat other people this way? My parents are going to kill me if they find out. No one will ever believe me. I’ll be called a liar. Or they’ll make me go to the police, and I’ll have to tell them everything. What if he comes again?
Guilt - It was my fault!
Disgust - How could I let this happen.? No one will ever love me now.
Alone - It was my fault! And now I’ll have to live with this forever.
Grief - For my innocence, and for the shame and fear I felt.
Suicidal - It won’t hurt anymore.

When it happened, I lost every good part of me to a monster (made up of the perpetrator, and mostly my illness), and the only thing I really missed was my virginity.