I sat there, in front of a brand-new therapist, for what I hoped would be the last “first” time. She was number six, and I was getting really exhausted from rehashing my childhood trauma to different faces over the years. This time, she was a psychologist. She was both young and beautiful, with a soft voice and a sweet smile that always put me to ease. She effortlessly validated my thoughts and concerns, which was something I was not merely familiar with at this time in my life.
I was 16 years old and insightful within myself, but so very undereducated on my own mental health. My psychological condition was rarely talked about, and when it was, it wasn’t amongst 16-year-old women in high school. I felt confined and puzzled, but eager and curious. I wanted to figure myself out and learn to take care of what was going on inside my mind, mostly because I knew my thoughts weren’t normal and none of my friends seemed to relate to my paranoia and anxieties. I was going through the motions, doing my best in school until some big change would come along (graduation). But as I got older, my symptoms worsened, and I felt more alone than I thought possible.
Unknowingly, I had grown unhealthily familiar with the symptomatic emotional reactions of my condition. I’d have nightmares of being sexually assaulted on a weekly, sometimes nightly basis, which resulted in my hesitation to leave my house some mornings. I was afraid the things in my dream would happen to me in real life. Then I didn’t sleep, because subconsciously, I was afraid to. I became overly anxious about my surroundings and nearly stopped going out most places by myself or staying home alone during the night. When my dad wasn’t home, I needed a friend to stay the night, or I went out somewhere else where there would be a lot of people around me. I needed to feel safe, not just physically but emotionally.
College was my heaven because I was living in a residence hall full of people, which made me feel safe. Our rooms were closely stacked together, which assured me that if I were to find myself in a dangerous situation and needed to scream, I’d be heard. I thought even the chances of being a target of danger were less because of the high occupancy of my building.
But, when I wasn’t in my dorm, I found myself feeling unavoidably petrified of being attacked or kidnapped, even in my own home. I struggled with something as little as letting my dog out to use the bathroom at night because I was so afraid of unlocking my front door for a mere five seconds. In my head, within those five seconds, someone was going to charge out of the woods and right through my front door and I’d be defenseless. It got worse, and eventually, I convinced myself that every creak in the floorboards was a person trying to break into my home. The icemaker in my freezer would send my heart rate through the roof on quieter nights. Sleeping with Netflix on in the background became my norm because I had to find things to distract my paranoia. This started happening on nights I wasn’t home alone, and I felt like I was truly losing my mind. Everybody made me feel like I was losing my mind.
As a small, 5’3” tall woman, I felt overwhelmingly unprotected and vulnerable. When I did go places alone, I was hypervigilant; constantly expecting danger and scanning my surroundings looking for a threat. I’d carry my car key between my knuckles when walking through a parking garage and walking to class. I’d ball my fists and hold my gaze straight in front of me, not making eye contact with anybody who passed me. I was afraid to provoke an attacker, and felt that if I made myself appear unapproachable, I wouldn’t be as much of an easy target.
The hardest thing for me to do was probably deliver pizzas to shady apartment complexes in reputationally unsafe towns which surrounded the restaurant I worked at a few summers back. I’d have the phone app open on my phone in case I needed to quickly call the cops, place my key between my knuckles and leave my car door unlocked in case I needed to make a run for it. Before I’d get out of my car, these scenarios raced through my mind and I expected the worst. I couldn’t help it; my brain operated this way and I knew not how to stop it.
As I got older, the symptoms worsened, and my world view became contorted. Everybody I didn’t know was a threat, and I even questioned some of those I knew very well, like family and close friends whom I trusted. I felt paranoid, anxious, exhausted, and vulnerable. The older I’d grown, the more aware I became about the dangers of the world, and just how many bad people really exist. Bad things happened to me, I saw bad things happen to my friends, I saw cases of sex trafficking on the news, I watched countless Netflix documentaries about serial killers and read memoirs about sexual trauma survivors. I was curious and wanted to educate myself on criminal cases and current affairs because I thought if I did, I wouldn’t have felt so fearful and helpless. Conversely, I began to feel more vulnerable to danger. I was triggering myself and creating a persistent sense of panic within my mind. My body was constantly in a state of fight-or-flight. I was tired. Not just emotionally but physically; especially physically.
After a few months of psychotherapy, my new therapist unveiled something that I had not yet known about myself, that she claimed to have picked up on immediately: I wasn’t simply depressed, but rather, my unspecified bouts of depression were a result of a deeper issue. I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of a childhood trauma that had been subtly poisoning my adolescent mind for years.
I was shocked. I didn’t realize survivors of sexual assault could suffer from PTSD. In fact, like many others, I thought the condition was confined to veterans who fought in combat, or police officers and medics.
As it turns out, about 50% of PTSD in the United States is a result of sexual or physical violence, and 30% alone is due to sexual violence. Unbeknownst to myself, I became a part of that statistic and I hadn’t the slightest idea. (https://www.hsph.harvard.edu/news/features/helping-victims-of-sexual-violence-overcome-ptsd/)
I’m still taking my sweet time to deeply understand this condition and how it affects my thought processes and my overall perspective on life. I now know that it’s normal to have bad days and better ones, just as it is to need social support from friends and family, rather than overburden myself with anxiety. I’ve chosen not to be bitter and angry, but to come to terms with my symptoms and learn personalized ways to cope with them. I have to.
Truthfully, I become more intrigued by this condition the more I learn about it and the people who suffer from it. I’ve taken psychology courses where PTSD is heavily discussed and I find myself surprised at how little people really understand it, and how it affects people beyond war veterans and medical/federal professionals. People are starting to acknowledge the largely unrepresented and growing demographic of people who have yet to feel validated for their condition that, realistically, they likely are unaware of.
Educating myself has helped me slowly recognize and address different kinds of trauma and inspire me to learn from them rather than feel inferior to them. For myself, I don’t believe in succumbing to the black hole of mental health (if I can help it), and I will always be making efforts to grow from my traumatic experiences by stimulating these conversations and helping and relating to others. If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout this transformative journey, it’s that I am not alone.
Realistically, I’m always going to struggle with my condition. Yet, I work every day to not let it limit my abilities as a woman, and more importantly, as a human being.
If I had given up on therapy at 16, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Easily. I was so discouraged from trying, but I’m forever grateful that I did. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been rewarding. I’ve never learned more about myself than I have in these past five chaotic, but wonderful years.
This topic (and therapy in general) is to be continued and will be elaborated at length in future posts. The conversation on sexual trauma and PTSD will always be evolving as more people share their experiences and research studies surface. Most importantly, we need to encourage people to peel back the layers of shame they carry with them due to their traumatic experiences. There’s no shame in surviving, just as there’s none in struggling.
If you relate to this in any way, I hear you, I see you, and I believe you. Email me if you need an ear, I will gladly listen.
With love,
Gill
Resources:
For more information on post-traumatic stress disorder and sexual violence, visit any of the following links:
Visit https://themighty.com to learn more about people’s personal experiences with trauma (or with any health-related issue, really!)
FACTS:
PTSD affects about 3.5% of US adults
About 1 in 11 people will be diagnosed in their lifetime
Women are twice as likely as men to have PTSD