The first time I remember it happening, I was standing on the rooftop of the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I had just finished a 600-mile solo pilgrimage, in which I walked from Seville in the south of Spain to Santiago in the northwestern corner over the course of six weeks. I was taking a tour of the Cathedral of Santiago and on this tour you are permitted to walk along the rooftop and view the old city below. One minute, I am simply standing on top of this cathedral, the next, the building is crumbling around me and I am falling to my death.
I imagined this, of course, as I am still here to write this. The point is to illustrate what is called an “intrusive thought,” one of five diagnostic criteria for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a disorder I was diagnosed with in October 2015. This news came to me nearly four years after the first time I was raped, and only nine months after the most recent instance.
In total, I have been raped four times.
Only one of which happened while I was a student.
All of which happened with people I knew.
And not a single one happened in a dark alley behind a dumpster or while I was unconscious from drinking.
The truth is, this is the reality of rape. Sexual violence against women is largely not committed by strangers at gunpoint as the media would like us to believe. It is committed in the safety of our own homes by those we know and trust.
The truth is, not all of us have witnesses. The truth is, rape is a contest of “he said, she said” and more often than not, what she says is denied its own validity.
The truth is, though, that our suffering doesn’t end when the trauma stops, it is only the beginning. And, unfortunatley, we suffer in silence.
The ways in which rape can dismantle your identity, obstruct your sense of safety, and intrude on your relationships is simply not discussed. Rather it is suppressed and stigmatized by our society, culminating in a sense of shame that strips us of our humanity, leaving us without dignity or worthiness.
My story is about the aftermath of rape. What happens to survivors after the fact is so often ignored, minimized with a blanket statement or sensationalized when someone is brave enough to speak out about it (take the Stanford Rape Case).
PTSD is a mental disorder that I have to carry daily. For the six months after my pilgrimage, I lived (and still live) with intrusive thoughts, among other things. I envisioned myself being hit by a bus each time I crossed the road. I would walk into the bathroom and imagine that my roommate would be dead in the bathtub. Waiting at the bus stop, I expected to be shot down by a drive-by gunman. This was so common that I thought it was normal. I thought to myself, “the worst thing has already happened, so of course I imagine all these terrible things all the time.” I didn’t think I needed help; it just made sense that the world was a terrifying place.
These are the milder symptoms of PTSD; others include flashbacks, mind and body disassociation, avoidance of activities and places, hypervigilance, general disinterest, disabling panic attacks caused by severe anxiety and depression spotted with suicidal episodes.
I call PTSD my “invisible disability,” always there but never seen. I am able to function highly in daily life; I remain employed and in a healthy, long-term relationship, but my life is permeated with a constant feeling of fear and I struggle with a severe mental illness that only those closest to me witness.
In some sense, having PTSD is like living as though you are dying. Your body is constantly on high alert, ready to take action against any danger, triggering the fight, flight or freeze response almost constantly. However, this becomes exhausting and disabling when simply standing at the bus stop is perceived as a true threat.
I have been in a cognitive behavioral therapy program for a year now. I’ve tried three different medication cocktails, of which one made me deeply suicidal and another made me gain 45 pounds in six months. My mind and body have finally settled on a combination of Zoloft, Abilify and Wellbutrin. A medication cocktail they call “well-loft” because it works so well for those of us who need it to leave the house in the morning.
PTSD has severely impacted my relationship, draining us both and sending us to couples therapy to cope with the imbalance. It has taken away from my ability to explore the world on my own. When I was 19, I spent six weeks travelling Ecuador alone. A year and a half ago, I crossed the entire country of Spain on foot by myself. Now, I’m afraid of my own bathroom. It’s disorienting and disheartening to say the least.
I once heard someone who struggles with severe depression say, “I must remember that my track record with bad days is 100 percent.” I want to thank this girl for describing resilience so eloquently. No matter how hard things get, I stand and I face them. Every day, I get up and I shout out into the world, “You will not take me!” I am strong and I am determined to win my life back. This is a battle, a battle against the invisible demons someone else handed me when they took away my dignity. A battle I must fight when I did nothing wrong. A battle that is so incredibly unfair. That makes me angry; it fills me with grief. Some days it drains my will to live. But every day, I stand and I face the battle, determined to win.
**
Talking about rape is a shameful act in itself. Shame does not permit me to be these things: elegent and dignified. And that is what publishing my story is really about, bringing light to the topic in an elegent and dignified way.
Ariel Mallett is a 2014 UM alum and works at University of Michigan’s International Institute.