I Went Back to My Abuser...

BY HANNAH DAKIN

More Than Once

I’ve blamed myself and made excuses for the men that have hurt me. I was drunk; he was drunk. I wasn’t wearing a lot of clothes. I was being flirty with him, begging for attention. Not once did I recognise the abuse when I shared details of what had happened to me with friends because I never saw any fault. Instead, I’ve held myself accountable far too many times for the actions of someone else. I have felt ashamed of myself for letting things happen because I was intoxicated with no control, ashamed that I was unable to fight back, and most ashamed that I was the one putting myself in these positions.

There is something that always shocks people when I confess it to them. It is this: I decided to go on a date with the boy who sexually assaulted me. It happened at a party. While I was passed out drunk on a friend’s sofa, he put his hands inside my pants and tongue down my throat. He was the older brother of someone there. Later, he would say that the assault was a drunken mistake and apologise. Even so, many would question why I would go on a date with this boy. The answer is that mutual friends called him a nice guy, and I wanted to disassociate his actions from that night and get to know him, for him. I wanted to give someone like him a second chance. I thought he deserved a second chance.

On the date, I was uncomfortable and anxious. I couldn’t allow myself to drink or have a good time just in case something was to happen again. The thought of him touching me made my whole body shiver with nausea. After the date, I continued to talk to him. I was in denial and, in all honesty, felt bad for him. I felt bad for him because a part of me really hoped he was a good person, but the other part knew that I would never see past what had happened. I am grateful that I let that part win.

Turns out that something like this would happen again with another boy. Well, more of a man this time. Friends of mine would all joke about the time I got woken up on the floor of one of their rooms with all my clothes off. I would laugh along and make jokes myself. However, the sad reality is that all I can remember from that night was trying to be sick, laying down and then him being on top of me. I yelled a string of words as I tried weakly to push him off. No. I can’t. I feel sick. I don’t want to.

When I was woken up, naked and alone on the floor, there was no sign of him. Sometimes I try to recall what happened, but I can’t. Maybe my brain has blocked it from my memory to protect me, but it frustrates me. I have so many unanswered questions. He told me that we tried, but I asked him to stop and so we did. But I think back to my friend hearing noises from the other room and the image of me opening my eyes to see him on top of me, and I question my reality.

After the assault, I went back to him. It was around a month later. At the time, I didn’t feel worthy enough to be respected. I felt that I wasn’t important enough to have my own feelings considered and get what I wanted. So, I went back, despite how he left me feeling. I thought that feeling was all I deserved; I was punishing myself.

It turns out that victims going back to their abusers is more common than people might think. In a documentary based on survivors of sexual assault, I listened to one woman explain that she went back to her abuser to take back control. Her story made me begin to reflect on mine. I never thought about it in that way, although I do feel, in retrospect, that a part of me went back to these men and searched for other men under my own terms because I wanted to feel that I still had control and power over what was happening to me.

Sometimes when I share my story, I feel stupid. I question whether the fact that I went back to my abuser makes the abuse less believable. You experienced something so awful, but you still went back. It can’t have been that bad if you went back to them for more. They must have been doing something right if you stayed. I know in my heart that

I shouldn’t feel stupid and that the abuse I suffered was very real. It can be hard for others to understand why we do certain things; it can be hard for ourselves to understand why we do the things we do. But it isn’t about questioning the whys or the whats. It is about hearing a person tell their story and listening without judgement.

This isn’t the easiest topic to write about. Sometimes there aren’t any words to explain how it makes you feel, how it affects you or how one day you could be going about your day and have a flashback out of nowhere. There aren’t any words to describe the nights you can’t sleep, the neverending dreams, the fear of losing control, the mention of their name, the interior of a place you wish you could forget. There aren’t words for the questions you are faced with, the thoughts you have, the what ifs – wondering what it was you did, if you could have avoided it had you done something differently. The frustration, anger, embarrassment, and guilt. The shame.

I thought that I could run away from my trauma. Joking about it was easier than confronting it. But it is never that simple. There were many things I tried to help myself move on. One such attempt was writing a letter to the second person who assaulted me in the hope that it would bring peace. In it, I explained the night and what I recalled, how it made me feel at the time and how it still makes me feel. I wrote ten pages altogether, crying throughout and taking plenty of breaks. I did feel lighter once it was all written down on paper, but it was still extremely heavy. I set the letter on fire and watched it burn. This was my way of letting go of my trauma – or so I thought.

The truth is that I’ve been running away from my trauma, and it’s catching up with me. It’s not something that just disappears. My past continues to affect my present regardless of how much time passes. It affects my anxiety, my trust in others, and my sex life. I struggle to sleep in a room with someone, and I can’t sleep naked alone because of how vulnerable it makes me feel. I struggle with closing my eyes and not knowing what is going on in my surroundings. There are numerous things that trigger me.

I refuse to let my assault define the woman that I am and that I am becoming. This is just the beginning of my healing process. I may be perceived as strong for writing this. I know a lot of women that are not ready to share their stories, but please do not see me as an example of a way to be strong because I can tell you from the bottom of my heart, that is not the case.

For those who have gone through this, I want you to know that how you want to feel and how you deal with your trauma is for you and you only. Nobody can tell you how you should be coping or what you should be doing. There is no right or wrong way of dealing with it and when the time is right for you, I do hope that you are able to seek the help that you deserve. I also want to say that talking about it can be extremely difficult and can bring up so many emotions that you never even knew you felt, but when you feel like you can, please do talk about it and allow yourself to process and heal. I do not recommend the ways I dealt with my trauma, nor do I encourage it, but it was my way, and I can’t go back and change everything I did. What I can do is look forward and learn that there are healthier coping mechanisms.

This essay is dedicated (with a big fat massive Fuck You) to those who used me for their own benefit when I was at my most vulnerable.

To the boy who locked me in a room when I was fifteen.

To the boy who followed me home in broad daylight on a Sunday morning.

To the boy who took pictures of me on the train.

To the boy who put his hands on me whilst I was passed out on a friend’s sofa.

To the boy who grabbed my arm when I tried to leave to find my friends in a club.

To the man who ignored my cries and left me passed out on a floor, naked, not remembering a thing.

To the man who heard my safe word and chose to ignore it.

To the man who heard I was on my period and didn’t feel comfortable having sex, who forced me to do it anyway.

To the one who reassured me that sex wasn’t what they were looking for but slowly started taking advantage.

To the one who watched me cry until I couldn’t breathe but still tried to have sex with me to ‘make me feel better’.

To the one who tried to guilt trip me into sending explicit photos when I was suicidal.

To the ones who have made me doubt myself.

To the ones who have questioned my story.

FUCK. YOU.

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