To Tell or Not to Tell

Which hell is worse?

While I was in the TBI program, my therapist would encourage me to talk about having been sexually assaulted. How it had made me feel. He encouraged me to “continue to peel back the layers”; to tell him about the worst thing I had ever done. I had never told anyone about the worst thing I had ever done – it was not to tell anyone that I had been sexually assaulted by a man I knew had sexually assaulted someone else. Not telling creates its own private hell. Knowing what I know now, I am not sure I would have been able to withstand the brutality and cruelty that can be inflicted on someone who reports rape back then. But now, knowing what pain it can cause another victim to not have her story believed, and knowing that he would probably do it again, I had no choice. No matter what was going to happen to me, I was determined to keep telling my story until I was heard.

One of the many things I resent about my therapist is that he put me in a position where I felt I had no choice but to tell what he had done. He had asked me about my sexual assault history, and then he reenacted my prior abuse without my consent. Every intuition that I had was telling me that I was not his only victim, and that if I did not tell, he would sexually assault more of his patients.

Not only did his abuse change who I am, but the process of telling has also created permanent changes to the core of the person that I used to be before he came into my life. Because of the nature of his abuse, when I turned him in, I not only had to be believed about what I said about what he had done, but also about my history of abuse. The silence that I had learned to use to protect myself in the past would now make one person after another question the integrity of everything that I said. Silence was how I had learned to handle what I then thought would bring me and my family shame. I also thought that most people understood that most victims carried their secrets, rarely revealing their pain. Since I believed that to be true, the fact that my prior silence could be questioned with such vehemence was confusing. I was being sent mixed messages, feeling mixed emotions and mixed up – to say the least.

Sadly enough, if my intuition had not proved to be correct, that there were other victims, nothing would ever have been done. He would not have lost his job, and he would not have been prosecuted.

Telling is like climbing a very steep set of stairs, at first it seemed impossible, but then I began the climb. During the climb, I would get scared and just want to run back to the bottom where I once felt comfortable. Silence can be comfortable. It helped to hide my shame. But then I realized shame is not an emotion I should have ever been made to feel. So I continued to climb. Someday, I will reach the top of the stairs and I will be able to breathe again.

Telling is difficult, it comes out piece by piece. Even as I write this I realize how much more there is to tell.

That brings me to my mixed emotions over being Jane Doe 02. I vacillate over the concern to protect my privacy and my desire to regain my dignity. Being told I cannot use my name makes me feel like I don’t count, that what happened to me is shameful. It also makes me feel like I am expected to continue to be silent about what happened to me. I already feel like my sadness is a burden to my friends, my family and to some extent my community. Feeling as though I must continue to keep my story secret is another burden I must bear. For me, I can no longer bear the burden of silence. I realize however, that wanting to use my real name is idealistic. I have seen firsthand how ignorant or cruel people can be to victims. I have been told that I was trying to ruin a good man’s life. I have been told that I should have left it up to God to determine his punishment. Yes, I have even been told that I asked for it, that it was my fault. Some of the insinuations as to my motives for telling were to primarily to protect the self-interest of the party making the insinuations; meant to reinforce myths that real rape only occurs by strangers that jump out from behind bushes. And some of the insinuations were merely an attempt at blame shifting – an attempt to focus the blame on me rather than having to look at themselves in the mirror. The ignorance and cruelty makes me sad. I also realize that there are very disturbed individuals that potentially would want to harm me if they knew my name.

Maybe someday I will regain my voice; be able to say my name and be given the respect and understanding that all victims of sexual assault deserve. The ignorance must end so that sexual assault can end. There is strength in numbers. Here is to hoping that one day, there will be more shame in having raped than being raped.

Wishing survivors freedom from shame. Jane Doe 02