The Indelible Ridicule of Sexual Assault Survivors

I was sexually assaulted as a little girl by my mother’s family. I don’t use the word “molested” because it’s too soft, and I’m tired of feeling responsible for the comfort of others. I never wanted to write this story, but it feels like the only one worth telling.

This is the reality: when survivors of assault come forward, we have to couch our traumas in delicate and vague words so as not to trigger other survivors. We also have to account for a wide spectrum of disturbing reactions inspired by dismissal, disbelief, and worse — ridicule. It’s exhausting. It’s systemically dehumanizing. And it feels insidious when re-enforced by the political majority.

As we’ve seen in the past week, a particular kind of ridicule is reserved for women who report assault. Trump has lamented the reality that mens’ actions can catch up with them in career-damaging ways, and supposes that men are likely to be ensnared in false allegations at any turn. His words are fueling an all-too familiar rage against women, and fanning the flames towards the most vulnerable. And we should all be scared.

F​or the better part of a decade I’ve been conflicted over how to handle my experiences. I swing wildly between different approaches. Mostly I’ve tried to quarantine the memories because they’re toxic, fragmented, and persistent. They play on a loop, even during the happiest moments of my life. Present moments feel fixed in pain, and it’s hard to imagine future joys. At best, I know the bittersweet. This may come off as melodramatic, but as I write these words I wonder if I’m dismissing myself. Have I internalized dismissal?

Memories come through tunnel vision, a scene arranged in my mind — and I’m reminded of the children’s game “what’s wrong with this picture?” A touch on the neck and I’m paralyzed. The smell of aftershave at the grocery store and panic sets in. Nightmares of a door creaking open in the dark. A male colleague looks my body up and down at work and I spiral into shame while projecting disgust. The familiar dilemma of…

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