How I Dealt with Repetitive Sexual Assault

In today's world, most women are afraid to tell their sexual assault stories. For some, they have kept themselves in silence for so long, why would they talk now? For others, they fear the disbelief, or that others will blame them. A small percentage will say it's because of the celebrity misconduct happening, which is paired with the fear of disbelief.

For myself, I am afraid to be dubbed a liar. To be thrown in with the supposed fakes and frauds with my credibility being questioned. The problem with my stories of sexual assault is they seem so outrageous how could they be true? I am 19 and a half years old, and over the course of 12 of those years, I had been sexually assaulted by three men.

The memories of the first two are an impure blur that only becomes clear in my dreams. Most likely due to the age that the assaults occurred and the trauma, I imagine. The last one twists and turns in my thoughts daily. I can remember the day I told my mother about the incidents. I was sitting in a chair in the office of my assigned therapist at the psychiatric ward. My hands twisted and tugged at the bottom of my shirt as my mother read my journal which gave the dirty details of my molestation. It wasn't the words that left her mouth after she read but rather the disbelief written across her face.

"You're saying your brother did this."

I nodded.

"For nine years."

Another nod.

Then she left.

Since then I struggled with that relationship. She didn't protect me; she didn't believe me; she was toxic to me. I tried to set boundaries and limits that were never followed. I cut my older brother out of my life but kept her in so I could continue to see my younger siblings. I didn't press charges, but wish I had.

I cut myself. Deep, ugly gashes whose scars haunt me still. I went to the hospital again. Took medication, saw therapists, tried to learn coping mechanisms to stop cutting and tried not to scream when my mother brought my older brother around. Tried not to seem worn as my friends saw me slipping further from grace.

I met my current husband when I was 16. Still broken and not ready for a relationship, I told him about "what was wrong with me." He threatened to dismember my brother. I disagreed. He lifted me up, encouraged me to seek help, leave my bed to play pool with friends, and my cutting decreased. I got into therapy again, took medication again, tried not to dream of my trauma or let it affect my much-to-active-for-a-teen sex life. I broke things and screamed and cried and tried to avoid my mother and brother like the plague.

Getting pregnant was not on my to-do list at 17. I felt like my body had been taken over and my dreams were much more vivid. My husband and I agreed that our son shouldn't be raised around my family, so we relocated to Texas where I felt alone, scared, and hormonal.

The last place I expected to become healthier mentally was away from my support system in Washington in a new environment where everything and everyone was unfamiliar.

December 2016 at 7:26 PM, my son was born. I cried when I held him, worried if he was breathing okay. I tried not to think about everyone who missed out on this, I tried not to miss my mom, and I tried not to punch my nurse in the face as she massaged my uterus so it would shrink down.

For me, my son was my salvation. He is my motivation to wake up every day. He is the one I think of when it gets tough. I don't think that we should jump into relationships and have babies when times get tough, but making the best of an accident despite my past has helped.

When I wake up in a sweat, terrified of my past, I remember that I am a new and better person. I am not ruined, because something ruined couldn't have made something so amazing.