Survivors of an Invisible War

I am moved to think about my personal hell of sexual violence and physical violence as a collective trauma. 

Sexual violence is a collective trauma where the victims find each other by chance, through recovery groups, music, or art. It is a trauma so prevalent but not discussed and where we who survive it have been taught to carry shame that was not ours to carry. Those responsible mostly go unseen and unpunished. Those of us that survive try strategies that are sometimes just as, if not more harmful than the pain we carry from the trauma itself. Drinking, drugging, burning, cutting, binging, starving, reckless endangerment of all sorts, workaholism, just to name a few. We use these until they don’t work anymore or until someone wades into the swirling waters to pull us out. 

Then we have to learn tools to cope. I believed at first that enough therapy and recovery would ‘make it all go away’ but what I know now is that I just have learned to cope better. DBT, ACT, AA, NA, and lots of other acronyms. Lots of good therapy if you are lucky enough to have insurance that pays, to find someone who takes your insurance or provide a sliding scale, and someone with whom you gel. Recovery is hard. Living with flashbacks, triggers of smells, sounds, sights, sensations. I always hate using restrooms in public for many reasons but one is that sometimes they use thick, cream-colored soap. It reminds me and I shudder to use it to wash my hands. And you can’t tell when it is in the container what it is going to be. So, it is a crapshoot. And often it really is crappy. 

Veterans of wars are celebrated and have ways of finding each other and bonding. But for those of us who have survived the war of sexual violence and abuse, there is not a Memorial Day or veterans’ day. I am grateful for the teal ribbon. My tattoo is a way of saying to others…I’ve survived. I am a veteran of our unseen war. It is a teal ribbon with the word ‘warrior’ in it with a semicolon for the dot of the ‘i’. It took a long time to be willing to get it because I still carried their shame. But now I wear it proudly and I appreciate those moments when someone else says knowingly, “I like your tattoo.” I am sad that they recognize it but glad they feel seen. 

I wonder what it would be like if we all got tattoos of teal ribbons or something by which we could recognize each other. The world would see how very many of us there are. I wonder what it would be like to have something akin to Transgender Day of Remembrance and Resilience or a Survivors Day. How powerful might it be to stand with a group of people who have lived through a silent, solitary hell. How healing it might have been for me at 21 years old to have gone to a survivor’s march in the same way I went to a Pride march. 

I remember my first psychiatrist giving me the quote “your silence will not protect you.” I believe that now. And my silence will not protect others. I speak about my trauma because it is a collective trauma and maybe my voice will help another break their silence. Maybe they will get their own version of my teal ribbon. Maybe one day we will have a Survivor’s Day. Or better yet, maybe one day we won’t need one.