By Anonymous
Transcript Contributor
I knew I was going to go to Take Back the Night. I knew I was going to speak there.
I dreaded it all the same.
Iām not a survivor of sexual assault. But what Iāve known ā and tried to forget ā for years is that my mother is a survivor. I guess you could say itās becoming something like an addiction for me, and that makes this editorial one of my own personal 12 steps.
When I left the stage at the end of Take Back the Night last week, I was in the same place I was last year when I shared my motherās story for the first time.
At last yearās event, I told the audience what I knew had happened to my mother and then I buried that pain so deep I forgot it still boiled, acid in my heart.
That worked ā for a while at least. But then The Vagina Monologues reminded me. A Memory, a Monologue, a Rant and a Prayer reminded me. Deep down I knew the pain was still there, though I didnāt feel it. Thatās why I went there ā I knew it would force me to let the pain out, to admit the truth ā not to the audience, but to myself.
This time, I had resolved, Iām not going to bury it again and try to forget. If I do that, Iāll be in the same place a year from now as I was a year ago. And while that place is a lot more comfortable, itās not the right place for me to be. Last Thursday I spoke out about my pain, now, this Thursday, I want to speak out about my recovery.
Those who were at Take Back the Night can probably tell who I am based off what Iāve written, but Iād appreciate it if you extend the confidentiality shared at the event to this piece.
The first step that pushed me forward wasnāt mine. It was those around me ā friends, people I knew of but hadnāt met, people I still canāt name ā who supported me afterwards; several were survivors themselves. To all of you, thank you so much ā without you pushing me to stay strong that night, Iād have fallen into the same place I was last year.
Sorry if Iāve been distant since then ā itās hard to share something like that and then act like it didnāt happen; even harder to act like it did.
It hasnāt been an easy week.
Friday morning was tough. I didnāt sleep much that night; for a while I just let the tears go as I remembered the night before. I grieved for my motherās story, and for all the other stories Iād heard.
There was so much pain poured out in that room last Thursday night, but there was so much healing shared afterward, both just from being able to tell your story ā or, in my case, my motherās story ā and from all the embraces of the many survivors present.
But throughout that weekend, as I tried to focus on something that night that wasnāt about my story, I remembered those embraces, and I felt guilty for getting them. At the speak-out, after I sat down and regained my composure, Iād begun to question whether I shouldāve spoken out in the first place.
This is an event for survivors, I told myself. Iām not one of them.
It wasnāt until another student came up and shared a story similar to mine, saying Iād inspired him to speak, that I realized the event was meant for secondhand stories like mine, too.
But when survivors came to thank me for speaking and hugged me in support, inwardly I struggled again. Why was I the one being supported? I wondered. Theyāre the survivors, not me.
It felt wrong, like the roles were mixed up; they were the ones who suffered, not me; they were the ones helping me through it.
At the time, all the support made me feel guilty for getting it, for being treated (as I saw it then) like I was some kind of hero for telling a story that wasnāt mine, or like I was a survivor myself.
Eventually, even as this was all still spinning around my head, I went to HamWill and walked into the Counseling Services office to make an appointment.
Iām now on a waitlist, and should meet with one of the counselors within two weeks. They told me not to focus on this too much, but I feared that not thinking about it at all would lead me back to forgetting.
So I talked to my father, and realized that it wasnāt the first time Iād done so; I had a hazy memory of considering how Iād like to discuss it with him but I never actually did it, or so I thought.
What actually happened, several years ago, was that I did talk to him, and then after heād confirmed that my mother had survived a sexual assault I wiped that memory from my mind, so I could still cling to the miniscule false hope that I was wrong, that it had not happened.
But it did.
Reflecting on my experience that night now, Iāve realized some things about myself and why I felt so guilty afterward from all the support. I told myself that my experience and pain sharing my motherās story was nothing compared to the others, the stories of real survivors, because I wanted to believe that, to avoid accepting the last bit of truth there was.
The story I shared, of learning that my mother was sexually assaulted, is not just her story.
It is my story too.
It was a lie I told myself: that I was not a survivor; that the story belonged to my mother, not to me as well.
Even though I was not alive when it happened, I am surviving it now, and the pain I feel is similar to that to that Iād feel if I had been the one assaulted. Itās not equal, but it is comparable, and I didnāt want to acknowledge that.
It makes me want to sob, to scream, to find a brick wall and punch it to pieces with my fists, to tear the pieces to bits with my fingernails until thereās nothing left, until the painās gone ā not that it ever will be, not completely.
It makes me want to stand atop the wall of patriarchy and shout for any man whoās ever thought of raping to listen to my story, to think of what it means to know that the woman who brought you into this world, who you love, to have survived such an assault.
Most of all, it makes me want to forget.
The moment last week that hit me the most wasnāt at Take Back the Night, or during The Vagina Monologues. No, that moment came during the Tuesday performance of A Memory, A Monologue, A Rant and A Prayer, during the reading of Mark Matousekās piece āRescueā when I heard the line āI was shocked myself, not because the information was new, but because Iād never said it out loud, which meant it only half-existed.ā
It was that line that struck me the most, especially given that it was delivered after the narrator has suddenly come to the realization that his mother and three sisters all survived rapes.
Last week was the second time, not the first, that Iād spoken out what happened to my mother, but I spent most of the year between the two declarations trying to forget that it existed.
I have no sisters, but I have friends here I love and care for who are survivors, too. Like the narrator of āRescue,ā I am a man with a broken heart, and like him Iāve spent much of my life hiding the truth from myself.
I donāt know where Iāll go from here, but I know two things: that the road Iām on will be painful, and that I am not alone on that road.
Thatās the most important thing Take Back the Night gave me: the support of so many of my peers on campus.
We have each otherās backs and will support each other on this road to recovery.
We will survive.