There is no way to un-rape yourself. But you can find a way to make it through life.
Photo by Nothing Ahead from Pexels
There is no way to un-rape yourself. There is no closure from your abusers, no prizes to win when you don’t actively need therapy, and no bouquet of roses that greet you for surviving and doing your best. However, pursuing the path of recovery, and reconciling with myself has helped me to pick up the pieces and build a narrative of my own — one that I control.
A Brief Case History
I grew up in a posh locality in Delhi, 10 minutes away from where the Nirbhaya case, the horrific gang rape of a woman in her early 20s, took place. The case shook the nation as a whole, and even had multiple documentaries on it such as India’s Daughter.
Even now, 12 years later, I avoid taking public transport at night regardless of where I’m living. I’m no stranger to being sexually abused. My daily commute to work at 18 would require me to use the metro, and I would be molested if I accidentally entered the general coach. One evening, at a metro station, I cried for an hour because a man ejaculated on my thighs. But the beginning of these crimes started much earlier.
At 13, I was groomed and repeatedly assaulted by an older man who took pleasure in making me bleed. The sexual and somewhat physical abuse took place over a period of 9 years. 9 painful years of existing as an object — an object meant to rape, break, scream at, and mentally bend. How did I end up there in the first place?
I was brought into this world by a woman who nonchalantly ripped apart my childhood and a man who ensured I wouldn’t have much to begin with.
Soft. Babyish. Kind. Innocent. I’m called these words by the people who love me now, and I feel like my lungs compress into my core every time I hear them.
Innocent. I felt unfit for that word for so, so long. How can one define it if not in terms of purity? I was not allowed the concept of virginity, even as a child.
My first memory is of me barely holding on to my mattress, with eyes that shut before the fear could register in my brain. I was sedated with muscle relaxants, and opioid medications for most of the incidents, so these parts remain a haze. What I do vividly remember is my grandmother making me take HPV medications for the warts.
For survivors of long-term sexual assault, not being attacked on the daily feels like a blessing. The last time I was molested was in 2023, when an auto driver decided to grab me as I was carrying back items for my grandmother’s funeral. But I’m not even upset about that.
That’s just two months shy of 2 years since I was last sexually assaulted, and this relief makes me feel like I’m in the afterlife.
If you’re in the after like me, and you don’t know what to make of it, I hope this article gives you some peace. I’ve added some bits here that I’ve learnt over the course of my healing journey, including:
Misery Loves Company
If you’re someone who’s survived assault and you’ve found yourself depressed or re-enacting the C-PTSD edition of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave recently, you’re not alone.
PTSD, especially Complex PTSD, can often make you feel like the world is out to get you, like a washing machine with razor blades itching to shred an heirloom cardigan.
It’s been two years and 38 days since I escaped, but sometimes when I close my eyes, I come face-to-face with my abusers. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of familiar hostile figures or hear a laugh I want to block out. This has resulted in a slurry of symptoms, from flashbacks and panic attacks to dissociation and hypervigilance. Living with C-PTSD can make you feel like the inverse of Alex DeLarge — having to rewatch mental tapes of your traumatic experiences on repeat, endlessly, until you rotate between being desensitized or overwhelmed.
For a lot of people with C-PTSD, including me, the temporary fix to this conundrum is to isolate. This, for me, gives way for depressive spirals and intense levels of brain fog that can prevent me from having any cohesive thoughts apart from those stemming from fear.
Rewind, Retraumatize, Repeat
In the paragraph above, I had used past tense while writing the first draft. To be completely honest, I snapped out of this recurring spiral last night after weeks of being in emotional turmoil.
These sorts of repeating spirals are quite common, especially if they begin when you’re exposed to a variety of triggers. Funnily, social media censorship has played a part in the formation of new triggers due to the random words used in place of actual abuse.
For example, when users opt for terms like ‘grape victim’, it can make for confusing and oddly emotional experiences in the fresh fruits aisle at the supermarket. If you try handing in a work document, even the term ‘PDF file’ comically becomes trauma-related.
When I’m facing emotional flashbacks due to these, I’ve noticed that it helps to feel what I truly feel, but to also laugh at the absurdity of it all. Thinking of my not-so-old suicidal tendencies as attempts to ‘unalive’ can add some sparkle to the otherwise drab and painful experience of healing.
These, of course, are not fixes. When I find myself back to bed at 2 PM on a weekday, I know crying and laughing simultaneously won’t provide a magical cure to my pain. However, the lightness can take away a bit of the anxiety and serve as a step to getting better.
Write to Reflect
The common advice for someone who hates their appearance is to strip off their clothing, gaze into a mirror, and to just observe. This, in my opinion, is similar to writing on a piece of paper, or journaling.
As a former journaling hater, I first found it incredibly difficult to word any of what I was feeling. My first few pages included profanity in all caps, or squiggles of doom. However, it became a lot easier to write once I’d cleared out the rust.
When you’re journaling, you allow your mind to take over a blank canvas instead of clogging up your brain. I’ve filled six journals in the past two years, and it still amazes me. In the same mundane way one would observe their reflection, you begin the process of looking at your thoughts through a different lens, perhaps one of neutrality, and sometimes even self-compassion.
Compassion Compounds Just Like Self Hatred
Self-deprecating humour has been my go-to since I was a child. When being cruel to me was unofficially deemed the family bonding exercise, it became much easier to hate myself. To hate myself was to prove my love, like how a potential partner sometimes learns trivia about your favourite movie or sports team to get in your favour.
This resulted in an inner voice so highly critical of me, it would be soul crushing to make a single mistake.
When my therapist and my close friends would beg me to show some kindness and compassion towards myself, it would sound ridiculous or plain confusing. What does it mean to practice self-compassion? Where do you draw the line between being justifiably upset with yourself and of accepting that it’s just been one of those days?
I’ve found that this question doesn’t arise if I were to treat myself like another person, or like a cute animal. Would I get angry if a stray dog were to whimper at the sound of fireworks? Yes, but not at the dog.
Treating myself with this kindness, even if not as regularly, has helped me gain a sense of confidence. When my self-hatred compounded, I became a recluse afraid of embarrassing my friends with my mere presence. Ever since my self-confidence has begun to sprout, it’s enjoyable to now embarrass my friends on purpose. Self compassion has allowed me to laugh as loudly as I do without feeling the need to shrink myself.
New Environment, Actual Identity
When I was younger, I found solace in embracing the traits of a grimdark, YA dystopian fantasy protagonist, like Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games. I considered myself cold, sarcastic, even too dark and edgy.
Turns out it was a phase, and that was trauma. Now, I cry at emotional scenes in movie theatres, and I’m often compared to Baymax.
It made me realize that despite the perpetrators and the abusive environment’s best efforts, I am still somehow a happy-go-lucky person. This rift in my old, supposed identity and my actual self becomes disorienting when I feel sad because of the multiple perspectives. This can even extend to my actions, some of which have now become habits.
A few minutes of lying down can turn to days, a moment on social media can turn to hours, and I’m often left contemplating why I left in the first place if all I had to do was recreate my past.
One way I try dealing with this dissonance is by treating myself like a judge. The perspectives have their say in front of me, but ultimately, I make a decision and pick a side. This is, again, a work in progress, but it helps me learn the ins and outs of every internal argument.
On a side note, this also makes me killer at pointless debates with my friends.
The Future™
It’s been particularly difficult to navigate normal world anxieties like global warming and geopolitical issues ever since I began to reintegrate fully into society.
It feels overwhelming to think about the actions and inactions of those in power, and of the nonchalance needed to function in the corporate world. The current political scenario works wonders for my nightmares, too. In a way, it feels like escaping a pointed method of torture to head into a generalized sense of distress and horror.
I’ve been trying to learn acceptance in this matter. But with misogynists and predators in power, letting go feels like admitting defeat. I have no answers for this yet, apart from doing the best I can for what I want. For an emotion that I shunned entirely in the past, hope now feels like a cane that helps me get my footing.
In my worst times, I’ve likened myself to a dismembered body at a crime scene. When I head out into the world, I sometimes drag myself down by my chalk outline. But this mental leash breaks my skin, and whatever will to live I’ve grown. Here, hope helps me to stitch myself together with veins, adjust sinews and scar tissues, and keep my joints in place.
As a survivor, I can’t help but notice and fear the dark, ominous clouds that crowd the skies. But hope exists in the silver linings that tag along, or in the moments of shelter from the rain.
Not-so Final Thoughts
I don’t think there is a conclusion to this. I’m shitscared, and I’m trying to live life anyway. I don’t know anything, and I now know that most people don’t know anything, and that brings me a little peace.
This story is mine, but also of millions across the world. If you’re struggling with recovering from the Great Beating of Life like me, I think it helps to know that you’re not alone.
I used to feel guilty when I felt better knowing that a lot of people have traumatic experiences similar to mine. Now I know that is just how to survive the human condition.
If you’re currently wrapped in a blanket and trying to find a way to recover faster, please just remember that the only way out is through. You’ll get there. We all will.
Living in the Aftermaths of Sexual Abuse: A Complex PTSD Survivor’s Guide to Daily Life was originally published in Invisible Illness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.