#8 - That Time I Made People Uncomfortable Surviving Sexual Assault

“Nice tits.” Purred a man at a bar as he closely leered at my chest.

“You can fuck off,” I snapped back.

He looked at me with ice-cold hatred. “Stupid bitch.” He spat at me and then stalked off.

I had watched this man make women uncomfortable all night. He followed them around, made vulgar remarks, and got too close for comfort. All the women had been polite enough. They avoided eye contact, scurried away, or laughed politely until they found an excuse to leave his presence. Someone needed to tell this guy to fuck off, so I did. I felt empowered until I turned around.

My friends all gaped at me and then said the following -

“Amanda, you can’t say that!”

“That was harsh.”

“You should take it as a compliment.”

I went from anger to empowered to overwhelmed with shame in the span of 30 seconds. Why was it my responsibility to play nice with a predator? Why was I the bad guy for speaking up for myself? Why was others comfortability more important than mine?

At this time in my life, I was constantly making people uncomfortable. A few months earlier, my memories returned of being sexually assaulted in my childhood. It was one of the most overwhelming, disorienting, and confusing experiences I have ever gone through.

I had moved across the country to sunny Los Angeles with dreams of being an actress. I thought that in no time I would be on the TV living out my dreams. Instead, the universe had other plans for me. About a year into pursuing my Hollywood dreams, my repressed memories of being sexually assaulted as a child returned.

When my memories returned, they returned in layers. It’s a hard process to explain, but it was like I had opened Pandora’s box, and I couldn’t get the box closed. Suddenly images, sensations, emotions, and memories I had long shoved down in my psyche were coming to the surface of my awareness with no sign of stopping. I suffered from night terrors, and spent all my waking hours reliving the past while simultaneously grappling with my shattered reality.

Because this was an all-consuming process, I wanted to talk about it all the time. I wanted to talk about it because it was all I thought about, but also because it was crazy-making. I had only heard of one other person with repressed memories, and their experience was different than mine, so I judged myself and my process. I was searching for someone outside of me to validate me. I needed to know others believed me, that they didn’t think I was crazy, and that I wasn’t going insane. I was desperate to know I was going to be okay.

The more I talked about it, the more I saw how uncomfortable people became. These are some of the responses I received when trying to share for the first time what happened to me with friends and family –

“Ew, that’s disgusting, you shouldn’t talk about that.”

“I don’t remember it that way. You’re wrong.”

“Stop crying. You need to get your shit together.”

And another painful response… no response. The times I have shared the most vulnerable things I have survived and been met with a blank stare or a shift of conversation has also left me feeling like I was stabbed in the heart with a knife.

I was also surprised by the amount of people who said… me too. Wait, how did I not know how many people were sexually violated as children?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t like the movies where you say I was sexually assaulted and then the friend smiles at you and says, me too! You both hug and cry and feel better knowing you’re not alone. No. Many of these people got very angry with me for bringing it up. I had accidentally triggered them and made them uncomfortable. Others told me that you learned to stuff it in a box and forget about it. But, the problem with this was that I had “forgotten” about this for 20 years. I didn’t want to shove it back down. I wanted to be free of this, but I had no idea how.

I tried going to therapy at this time, but was met with professionals who were unqualified to help me deal with what I was going through. I still live with the pain of receiving the following responses from “professionals” at the time –

“Why are we still talking about this? You should be over this by now.”

“I don’t believe this happened to you.”

“You should have your boyfriend pretend to rape you. That will help you move forward.”

As I kept reaching out for help, and was met with painful, ignorant, and unhelpful advice, I began to feel I was too much, a belief I had picked up in childhood. As I processed healing from sexual violence and repressed memories, I saw how I was traumatized as a young girl. I exuded so many classic trauma responses, but since no one knew what happened to me, I was labeled things like overly dramatic, difficult, and too much. I carried these beliefs far into my adulthood, and as I processed being sexually assaulted and raped, I also began to see how devastating these experiences had truly been. There had been a massive ripple effect on every area of my life.

I thought everyone would be excited for me that I had finally begun to understand why I was the way I was. No, people were not excited, instead they were uncomfortable.

My process of healing was like peeling back the layers of an onion, and repressing child sexual assault was only the beginning of my journey healing from sexual violence. I also had to process healing from gang rape and strangulation in my teen years, but by the time these memories came up to be processed I had already learned that people were uncomfortable with my me and my story. I knew it was too much for people. But, I couldn’t help but wonder how no one had enough empathy to think about how all this trauma maybe felt like too much for me?

The more memories that returned, the more support I lost. It was like people could handle my truth for a little bit, and then as I continued to process, it became too much. This made it more shameful and isolating. Eventually I had no support. I was drowning and there was no one there.

I began to seek support from people outside my circle. I needed to find people who understood. So many days I felt insane, but deep down I knew I couldn’t have been going crazy for this many years, because though it was extremely painful, in other ways I was feeling better and I was beginning to love myself. It was liberating. It was hard, but I knew I was on the right path even if my outside world made me feel crazy and ashamed. I knew how I felt inside and that freedom was mine if I was willing to keep venturing down the rabbit hole.

I met other rape survivors and we discussed discernment and how to decide if someone is a safe person to share with. I suffered from PTSD as my repressed memories surfaced, and this kept me in constant pain. I could not handle more pain, so finding safe people became imperative for me and my healing.  

But, with that said, now that I’m on the other side of so much of my pain and am not fighting for my life on a daily basis anymore, I can’t help but ask, why is it my job to make others comfortable with my story? Where is the compassion and love in the aftermath of violence?

On the surface, I understand why. The times I disclosed and received shame, blame, anger, irritation, disgust, and more these people were not safe people. They are often wounded themselves and do not have the capacity to be there for others. It’s true what they say, you can only love others as much as you love yourself.

But, by making excuses for people and their lack of compassion and empathy, I ended up domesticating myself. Somewhere along the way I lost my voice and I caged myself. I only allowed myself to say certain things in certain rooms. I was afraid of making others uncomfortable. I began to water down my story so it was palatable for others, but overtime this became a disservice to me. Why is it my responsibility to make what I survived comfortable for others when it was unbearable for me to survive?

One of the hardest parts of healing from trauma and sexual violence was how isolated I felt. I felt like I was being punished and forced into solitary confinement because someone did something horrible to me. This feeling of isolation caused me to blame myself for years. But, again looking back, I can’t help but ask why as the victim of a crime, was I the one who felt locked up?

The hard truth for so much of this is that no one prepares anyone for the aftermath of sexual violence. I sure as hell was not prepared, and I know neither were the people in my life. No one knows what to say or how to act, and many times that leads to inaction. But, I look back, and I didn’t need much. I needed empathy and compassion, and it was hard and sometimes impossible to come by.

If I could tell someone supporting a survivor something today it would be that it’s okay not to know what to say. I don’t think you’re supposed to have the right thing to say, but I know I’m not alone in feeling like I ended up in a Hellish Prison. What would have helped is someone climbing into prison with me and saying  a version of  - “I don’t know what to say, but I am here for you. I know how hard this is for you, and I’m so sorry. You did not deserve this. It was not your fault.” I can’t tell you the amount of times I have had to be the one to say this to myself.

My prayer for the future is that people can get more comfortable with being uncomfortable. I used to wonder when I would feel like an adult, and recently I realized I may never have that “adult” moment. But to me, being an adult is taking responsibility, and many times that’s learning how to navigate discomfort rather than fight it or run from it.

I’m no longer afraid of making people uncomfortable, I don’t care how you feel about my story. You’re uncomfortable? Good, because it was really uncomfortable to survive. It’s not supposed to be comfortable. That’s why it’s trauma.