Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.
- Dr. Martin Luther King
I wish I could say I felt instantly at ease with the women of my new support group but I didn’t. I knew I belonged of course, that I qualified simply based on my experiences. Discussing them with strangers was another matter entirely. Thankfully, no one forced me to speak. I was allowed to wade in as slowly as was comfortable for me. I introduced myself, said something vague about how I’d arrived there and why and then disappeared into my chair as best I could.
The one thing that struck me immediately, as the women began to reveal themselves, was that my sufferings – no matter how intense and frightening to me – were a cake walk compared to what some other women had endured in their minds since their abuse. Flashbacks were a given. Eating disorders, self mutilation, voices that told them horrible untruths about themselves, even multiple personalities and something called disassociation, when a victim of abuse leaves her body during the assault as a means of self-protection and survival. I later learned this, too, was a fairly common mental defense for victims of abuse. Maybe you were not able to protect your body but you did not have to give over your mind as well. If you went somewhere else mentally, you didn’t have to be present for the pain.
Body memories, depression, drug and alcohol abuse and suicide attempts – some far more serious and dangerously close to succeeding than anything I had tried – were realities the women shared as if they were discussing current events or the weather. That’s not to say there were not tears and fears. But to me, these women were scarred but strong, defiant in the face of their pain, determined to find a way to cope, to be survivors not victims. They never compared abuse histories; their focus was on today, the struggles of living they faced every day. If there were not this sense of hope, of optimism even, I don’t think I would have stuck it out. I was already depressed; I didn’t need more reason to be. Believing I could survive, even thrive, was a completely new concept to me. As I listened, I began to believe that the abuse was a part of me, not a definition of me, although it seemed that way at times.
For the first time in my life, I knew I was not alone in the pain and fear I had carried inside ever since I could remember. Eventually, I was able to describe my own reality – as sketchy and vague as it was. I shared the frustration of not knowing every detail – the who, what, why, where and when that the reporter inside of me demanded to know and understand. I wanted every question answered, every detail, no matter how ugly, revealed. Somehow, I believed that would make it all more bearable. The women nodded, smiled even, at the memory of their own early revelations. They assured me the flashbacks would, though perhaps not disappear entirely, most likely would recede in intensity and frequency, that I might discover more of the truth but not necessarily all of it. Most importantly, they told me I was already a survivor, not a victim. The abuse had scarred me, yes, but it did not – and would not - destroy me.