Remarks from Survivors, Activists, & Healers Speak Out Against Sexual Violence

I am a survivor of child sexual abuse (CSA). 

My capacity to say that is the result of nearly two decades of work.

The first time I acknowledged what had happened to me as a child, seven years had passed since the last violent incident. I remember the moment with exceptional clarity, a rarity for my trauma-developed brain with its large gaps in memory and rerouted neural pathways adapted for optimal survival and preservation of sanity (that is, avoidance at all costs). It was a hot day, maybe August or September. I had a brand new journal with a watercolor bouquet of green and yellow flowers on the cover, gifted by a friend on my birthday. I wrote and wrote, pages and pages of memories and admissions. When I finished, I felt terrified that someone would discover it and tore it all up. 

A year later, I started college. In my dorm room, I watched Monsoon Wedding, unaware of the CSA storyline about to unfold. As Ria confronted her abuser and protected a child from the same fate she’d experienced, I sobbed. Never had I seen anyone South Asian address CSA or sexual violence so directly; it was an acknowledgement I didn’t know I needed. 

The third time was later that same year, this time to another person: a university health professional. I had always been terrified of carrying some sort of STI or illness from the abuse, so I got myself checked out the first chance I had to private, bodily autonomy and healthcare--something that young people are not afforded, especially in desi communities/cultures where we are taught that our bodies are not our own, that they are to be controlled by the adults around us, and if we’re born with female anatomy, then they are always subject to the male gaze and our treatment always in response to male intentions. When asked why I was asking for all these tests when I wasn’t sexually active, I told the truth. The doctor may have made a note. She may have asked me if I’d sought counseling (I hadn’t and wouldn’t for years). She may have asked if I had contact with my abuser (I hadn’t, not since it stopped. I was lucky that way. Many other survivors aren’t as fortunate).  

After this initial visit, it would be another seven or eight years till I started consciously dealing with it. I use the word consciously deliberately because at the subconscious level, I was experiencing a host of things. I was hypervigilant. I couldn’t stand quiet or solitude. I had learned early on how to keep busy from the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep--reading, studying, talking with friends, working, watching hundreds if not thousands of hours of TV, immersing myself in online communities. I had trouble being emotionally close to people, often keeping a facade in place, however unintentionally. One friend memorably accused me of being incapable of being close to people. I’m sure there were other things, like low-grade anxiety and PTSD and depression, all of which I was diagnosed with later in therapy.

What prompted me to seriously pursue help was a personal crisis. I found myself with only one or two close friendships, strained as they were. I faced a personal loss, and suddenly found myself having to grieve, be alone, think about my life. In a lot of ways, I was at a precipice and I finally let gravity and momentum carry me over.

I spent the next four years doing active healing work, two and a half years with a therapist who specialized in EMDR (Eye Movement Data Reprocessing, a type of therapy that uses auditory, tactile, or visual stimulation to ease the process of trauma recovery). I committed my whole self to it. I had the privilege of doing this. I had great health insurance through my employer, an apartment of my own, lots of time to myself. I had built a strong support system, friends and colleagues who would take long walks with me, talk to me about the things I was learning about myself in therapy, the things I was processing. Helping me have fun and stay connected to the present in the midst of a deep dive into my past. Survivors need access to mental health resources, a network of supportive people, time and space to undo the harm that was done to them.

I guess I’m sharing all of this because I want people to understand how devastating and long lasting the impact of sexual violence is. It stays with us, even when we do our best to let it go and move forward. Just because I went to therapy and spent four years actively doing healing work doesn’t mean I am all better. I am more integrated, my mind less compartmentalized. It is easier for me to be in solitude. It is easier for me to disclose my survivor status with others. I can trace the threads of trauma in how I respond to people or events. But I live with it every day. I think about it any time I meet or go on a date with someone. I wonder if they’ve Googled me and learned of my story since I’ve publicly written about it. And if they haven’t, I think about when and how and how much to disclose. I think about it when I watch TV, read a book, listen to a podcast, sign on to social media. I think about it when I spend time with my niblings, worrying about how to keep them safe. I think about it any time I go back to Bangladesh because I have to mentally plan for the (unlikely) eventuality that I might run into the perpetrators. It is something that has permanently discolored my vision. 

In therapy, I developed a relationship with the little girl version of me who was hurt. Imagine a child who has been traumatized, ignored, uncared for. She hasn’t had anyone comfort her, acknowledge her trauma. How hard would it be to reach her and gain her trust? The adult me had to spend hours and days and weeks and months to build trust with her, to allow me to help her, to get her forgiveness for taking so long to find her in the place where she was trapped, to rescue her and take her someplace safe with me. I talk to her regularly now, ask her: what do you need? What would you like to do? What would be fun for you? And then we do those things. Sometimes, that’s taking a detour on our walks. Other times, it’s wearing a fun nail polish color, playing on the swings in a playground, singing at the top of our lungs in the car. I spend time with her as a mother would with her child. I love her the way she deserves to be loved. I protect her. I honor her. I acknowledge her strength, her bravery, her courage. I tell her she’s perfect and lovable and that I will never leave her side. I am always actively soothing her because she wasn’t given that as a child.

Surviving sexual violence has a lifelong impact. I don’t know what new way I’ll have to reprocess the trauma. All I know is that I’ll live with it my entire life, and that we have a responsibility to make sure no one else has to. We must actively root out this violence by having difficult conversations, by challenging rape culture, by unlearning the misogynist, heteropatriarchal frameworks we’ve been taught from day one, by advocating for preventive education, by learning about and carrying out transformative justice and community accountability for existing survivors, by giving survivors access to the tools and resources they need to engage in healing work. It is our duty to create a safer world for all those who reside here and all who are yet to be born.