Why talking about sexual assault is so damn hard

First, a Story

Almost a year after my family break up, I was camping outside of Jackson Hole for a friend’s 30th birthday. Jackson is one of my favorite places on earth. My mom and stepdad live there, and it’s the only family home I still belong to. On Saturday morning, I drove to visit my stepdad, a brief moment alone before an afternoon of adventuring with my friends.  

It was August and it was hot. Town was bursting with tourists, my Subaru putzed through swarms of pedestrians on Main Street while Scarf drooled through the open passenger window.

My gaze caught on a woman passing by. Brunette, petite, remarkable dimples, she looked identical to my uncle’s wife, a photographer. Could it be her? There was no known link between them and Jackson, but when the woman raised a large black camera with an oversized lens, I was certain. I looked around for my uncle, my dad’s brother. When I spotted him a few paces ahead of her, inexplicably, I yelled his name and waved my hand from my open window.

When he looked back at me, puzzled–I was wearing sunglasses and a hat– I pointed to myself foolishly and yelled, “It’s Claire!”  

“Oh, hi!”

His mouth fell open and then into a smile, a look of disbelief blooming across his face. 

Then, even more inexplicably, I yelled, “I’ll park and come say hi!”

My heart was beating out of my chest. What was I thinking? I knew everything that was being said about me, and I knew the main headline was that I wasn’t well. That I was unhinged, crazy, and that my siblings were too. My perpetrator had hardly waited a breath before he was campaigning to the larger family about who I was and why what I was saying was wrong. It was incredibly painful how many people chose to believe him at face value, stood by him, took photos with him that they posted to the internet. How could they jump to his side without ever wondering how I was or if what he was saying was accurate? It had caused many sleepless nights. It had caused rage, sadness, tremendous grief.

And now, here was one of the uncles. One of the men who stood by my perpetrator. Why did I want to interact with this guy? In all this time, he hadn’t reached out to me, had clearly chosen to stand against me under the name of neutrality. (It has always reminded me of the Desmond Tutu quote: “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”)  I had said hi so quickly, instinctually, he was my uncle after all. But maybe, deep down, I had wanted him to see my face. To look me in the eye. 

I looked for a parking spot, they were hard to come by. My hands were shaking over the steering wheel as I navigated the sea of people walking happily from shop to shop, my flip-flopped foot shaking on the pedal. Scarf drooled cluelessly, her classic Aussie smile plastered to her face. (Scarf is a lot of things, but intuitive and empathic are not two of them.)

It took me almost ten minutes to find a spot. Perhaps they just walked away, I thought. Perhaps I don’t actually have to do this.  But as I walked from the random side street, there they were, uncle, wife, and two teenage kids, right where I’d seen them, waiting for me. 

“Claire,” he said, hugging me and laughing incredulously. “It’s so good to see you.”

I hugged them one by one, and like a true old lady, commented on how old the kids looked. I introduced them to my only family member at the time– Scarf.

I updated them on my life–living in Denver, a thriving career, my continued love for the outdoors. I pointed to my friends at the farmer’s market in the town square and they waved back. I smiled. I had nothing to hide.

I could almost see behind my uncle’s eyes, the calculations he was making. How what he saw with his own eyes didn’t add up to what he’d heard. He couldn’t seem to wipe the look of shock off his face. Was it surprising to him that I was still out there in the world, alive? That my life had continued? That I wasn’t a nameless, voiceless stand-in, but a real, live person? That those lies being said had meant something, that they had an impact, that they were about me, a human being? And more so, that my life was actually going pretty well? How do you explain how much healthier I got after getting distance from my perpetrator, if he wasn’t actually toxic to me? After I came out to my family, one of my siblings said, we need to remove the cancer. Was it hard to go through chemo? Hell yes. HELL YES. But were we all so much healthier on the other side? Hell, hell yes. 

After our brief surface level catch up, Scarf and I walked back to the car, the tears immediately rolling from my cheeks. I called my brother Drew. I was still accepting it all. How they were gone. How they didn’t believe me. How they didn’t love me, how they probably never did. How one day I had this family, and then the next day, I didn’t. My gratitude for my continued relationship with my siblings was incomprehensible, but there was still so much loss.

 I told Drew about the dream I’d had, just the night before, how it woke me in my tent overlooking the Jackson Hole valley. How I peered out the zippered door, witnessing a sky full of stars, to remind myself where I was and that I was okay. I dreamt I’d met my perpetrator for breakfast at a diner. We sat side by side at the bar and ordered eggs. He told me he was sorry, that it was all a mistake. And that somehow, it was all going to be okay. That he was good again, and I could keep the good version, throw out the bad, nothing had to change.

“He’s never going to say sorry,” I cried to Drew. “None of them are.”

 Drew’s voice broke on the other end of the line.  

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’m proud of you for not hiding.”  

That afternoon, I met my friends for a hike in Teton National Park. We climbed five miles up a mountain to a lake nestled behind the Grand. It was so beautiful I almost tore my clothes off and jumped in. But after feeling the ice-cold mountain water, I was satisfied to sit on a rock in the sun, splitting a beer between three of us while a few brave others took the plunge. I was where I belonged, with people I belonged to. People who didn’t judge me or make me feel like I had anything to prove. Chosen family.  

Almost a year after my family break up, I was camping outside of Jackson Hole for a friend’s 30th birthday. Jackson is one of my favorite places on earth. My mom and stepdad live there, and it’s the only family home I still belong to. On Saturday morning, I drove to visit my stepdad, a brief moment alone before an afternoon of adventuring with my friends.  

It was August and it was hot. Town was bursting with tourists, my Subaru putzed through swarms of pedestrians on Main Street while Scarf drooled through the open passenger window.

My gaze caught on a woman passing by. Brunette, petite, remarkable dimples, she looked identical to my uncle’s wife, a photographer. Could it be her? There was no known link between them and Jackson, but when the woman raised a large black camera with an oversized lens, I was certain. I looked around for my uncle, my dad’s brother. When I spotted him a few paces ahead of her, inexplicably, I yelled his name and waved my hand from my open window.

When he looked back at me, puzzled–I was wearing sunglasses and a hat– I pointed to myself foolishly and yelled, “It’s Claire!”  

“Oh, hi!”

His mouth fell open and then into a smile, a look of disbelief blooming across his face. 

Then, even more inexplicably, I yelled, “I’ll park and come say hi!”

My heart was beating out of my chest. What was I thinking? I knew everything that was being said about me, and I knew the main headline was that I wasn’t well. That I was unhinged, crazy, and that my siblings were too. My perpetrator had hardly waited a breath before he was campaigning to the larger family about who I was and why what I was saying was wrong. It was incredibly painful how many people chose to believe him at face value, stood by him, took photos with him that they posted to the internet. How could they jump to his side without ever wondering how I was or if what he was saying was accurate? It had caused many sleepless nights. It had caused rage, sadness, tremendous grief.

And now, here was one of the uncles. One of the men who stood by my perpetrator. Why did I want to interact with this guy? In all this time, he hadn’t reached out to me, had clearly chosen to stand against me under the name of neutrality. (It has always reminded me of the Desmond Tutu quote: “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”)  I had said hi so quickly, instinctually, he was my uncle after all. But maybe, deep down, I had wanted him to see my face. To look me in the eye. 

I looked for a parking spot, they were hard to come by. My hands were shaking over the steering wheel as I navigated the sea of people walking happily from shop to shop, my flip-flopped foot shaking on the pedal. Scarf drooled cluelessly, her classic Aussie smile plastered to her face. (Scarf is a lot of things, but intuitive and empathic are not two of them.)

It took me almost ten minutes to find a spot. Perhaps they just walked away, I thought. Perhaps I don’t actually have to do this.  But as I walked from the random side street, there they were, uncle, wife, and two teenage kids, right where I’d seen them, waiting for me. 

“Claire,” he said, hugging me and laughing incredulously. “It’s so good to see you.”

I hugged them one by one, and like a true old lady, commented on how old the kids looked. I introduced them to my only family member at the time– Scarf.

I updated them on my life–living in Denver, a thriving career, my continued love for the outdoors. I pointed to my friends at the farmer’s market in the town square and they waved back. I smiled. I had nothing to hide.

I could almost see behind my uncle’s eyes, the calculations he was making. How what he saw with his own eyes didn’t add up to what he’d heard. He couldn’t seem to wipe the look of shock off his face. Was it surprising to him that I was still out there in the world, alive? That my life had continued? That I wasn’t a nameless, voiceless stand-in, but a real, live person? That those lies being said had meant something, that they had an impact, that they were about me, a human being? And more so, that my life was actually going pretty well? How do you explain how much healthier I got after getting distance from my perpetrator, if he wasn’t actually toxic to me? After I came out to my family, one of my siblings said, we need to remove the cancer. Was it hard to go through chemo? Hell yes. HELL YES. But were we all so much healthier on the other side? Hell, hell yes. 

After our brief surface level catch up, Scarf and I walked back to the car, the tears immediately rolling from my cheeks. I called my brother Drew. I was still accepting it all. How they were gone. How they didn’t believe me. How they didn’t love me, how they probably never did. How one day I had this family, and then the next day, I didn’t. My gratitude for my continued relationship with my siblings was incomprehensible, but there was still so much loss.

 I told Drew about the dream I’d had, just the night before, how it woke me in my tent overlooking the Jackson Hole valley. How I peered out the zippered door, witnessing a sky full of stars, to remind myself where I was and that I was okay. I dreamt I’d met my perpetrator for breakfast at a diner. We sat side by side at the bar and ordered eggs. He told me he was sorry, that it was all a mistake. And that somehow, it was all going to be okay. That he was good again, and I could keep the good version, throw out the bad, nothing had to change.

“He’s never going to say sorry,” I cried to Drew. “None of them are.”

 Drew’s voice broke on the other end of the line.  

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’m proud of you for not hiding.”  

That afternoon, I met my friends for a hike in Teton National Park. We climbed five miles up a mountain to a lake nestled behind the Grand. It was so beautiful I almost tore my clothes off and jumped in. But after feeling the ice-cold mountain water, I was satisfied to sit on a rock in the sun, splitting a beer between three of us while a few brave others took the plunge. I was where I belonged, with people I belonged to. People who didn’t judge me or make me feel like I had anything to prove. Chosen family.  

When we got back to the parking lot, we opened snacks and set up our camping chairs. We let the dogs run. I felt pretty happy. When my phone returned to service, several texts came through from my uncle, asking to meet for dinner. It was already 5:30 by then, I’d assumed our interaction was over.

This was my chance to show them all the truth, I thought. I took a deep breath and suggested we meet for a drink, and he accepted. It will be worth it. In all this time, nobody in my extended family had bothered to hear my side.

You can do this, I told myself as I walked into the bar. Over the course of three hours, I wore my psychologist slash politician hat, explaining my case and trying to impart a broader perspective on what I’d gone through and of trauma in general. Why it had taken so long to come out. Why I could no longer have contact with my perpetrator.

I wanted to show him that I was reliable, credible. That my suffering was real. That I wasn’t trying to punish anyone, that I was simply no longer able to be in a relationship with my perpetrator without losing my own chance for a healthy life. That I had made the only choice available to me if I wanted to find any sort of happiness. That the consequences that fell onto him were just that–consequences of wrong actions. Just because I had stated the truth, didn’t mean that I had created that truth. I was not the perpetrator in his dismays.

I wanted to be freed from the villain role they had cast me in, to show him that this was incredibly difficult for me too. I had only been seen as a perpetrator; I hadn’t heard anything by way of them feeling for my pain. Part of not believing me meant not having to carry one ounce of the weight of what I’d been through. They were only empathic toward him.

My uncle was ignorant about trauma, but he was attempting to be kind. He asked many questions that had obvious answers for anyone who knew me at all. (Why didn’t you just choose to live with your mom? Why didn’t you tell anyone when you were a kid? Where was the evidence of this?) But I hung in there, stayed calm, only cried a tiny bit one time, and felt truly proud of myself afterwards.

When I got back to my car, my brothers Johnny and Drew were waiting by their phones. The three of us talked as I drove back up the mountain to my campsite, the two of them hooting and hollering in support of me. I couldn’t believe how bold I’d been, how honest and courageous. I felt a deep swell of gratitude for how far I’d come. I felt empowered for being able to speak my truth to someone who was not in my corner, who was claiming neutrality, but was still in close contact with my perpetrator. Someone who had more compassion for him than for me. I hadn’t had that courage before.   

I was sure I’d made a dent and I waited to see the tides shift in my extended family. Maybe they’d support me now. Maybe they’d call me and ask, what happened. Our encounter was relayed like hot gossip through a phone tree, and I received a text or two from other uncles about how “healthy” I looked. I wasn’t sure what they meant by “healthy.” Thin? Happy? Dressed in suitable clothing for the time of year? Not drooling from the corners of my mouth due to a recent lobotomy? 

And then, it came back around, like a boomerang. The new narrative. The way I looked and acted didn’t fit the old story that I was crazy and mentally unstable. The claim then shifted that I must be really unwell to go through this amount of “supposed” trauma and subsequent loss and appear so happy and normal. Something was clearly amiss.    

I took that in. At first, I was enraged. But then, as my emotions calmed, I came to a realization that helped me tremendously. I couldn’t win with them. No matter how I was, or how I acted, or what I said, or how believable I was, it didn’t matter. If I’m struggling, then I’m seen as unreliable. If I’m doing well, then this couldn’t have happened, or somehow, I’m still crazy for being okay.  

All they wanted was reconciliation, to brush this under the rug. It didn’t matter what happened to one girl, they only wanted to preserve the whole. But what they failed to see or care about, was that one example of abuse in a system is part of something larger. Something systemic. And that other girls are watching how I’m being treated. And the boys are watching too.

Suddenly I could see it for what it was–a strategy. A bogus one. It really had nothing to do with me, it was just a trap to try to catch me whichever way I turned. And knowing myself, and who I am, none of it fit. I could finally see the ridiculousness of it all.      

After that, I stopped trying to prove myself to them, or anyone else. I let go of trying to be the perfect victim, or show that I was credible. I let go of showing that I had suffered just the right amount. I had the truth, and it was no longer my job to make others see, feel and sit with that truth.  

And damn, wasn’t that a slice of freedom.

Talking about sexual assault is very, very difficult. We know this, and yet, our society still puts the burden on victims to come forward, to disclose and report, as if it’s an easy task. Why didn’t you tell someone sooner? Why didn’t you report it? It’s often a first line of questioning when someone comes forward, a societal and legal strategy used against victims. I’d like to share some psychological reasons why talking about sexual assault is so difficult. (In my next post I’ll discuss why reporting is so difficult).  

Why Talking About Sexual Assault is so Damn Hard

1) Lack of Memory

Forgetting aspects or the entirety of a trauma is a symptom of PTSD and is listed as such in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders -5 (DSM-V). It is part of traumatic memory, and many survivors experience some difficulty remembering what happened.

There are several neurobiological reasons why this happens. During a life-threatening situation, the brain enacts an unconscious (i.e: automatic) strategy of dissociation, putting someone in a different state of consciousness, which helps the person survive. This can make it difficult or impossible to retrieve the memory when you’re in a “normal” state of consciousness. Until someone remembers what happened to them, they are simply unable to talk about it.

2) Denial

Most sexual trauma survivors spend months or years minimizing or denying what happened because of how painful and de-stabilizing it is to see it for what it is. It’s also difficult to believe acts of sexual abuse and assault because of their shockingly horrific and taboo nature. Nobody wants to believe that humans are capable of doing this to one another, and nobody wants to believe that it happened to them.

Denial can be both an unconscious and conscious process. Getting to the other side of denial in order to accept what happened can be a long, harrowing road. It takes a lot of conscious re-working to believe yourself and accept what happened after years of actively working to deny it. Similar to remembering, if you don’t accept what’s happened, it’s impossible to tell anyone about it.

3) Distrust in Others

Trauma fundamentally shatters one’s trust in others. It makes it difficult to know who to trust, and how to trust. Survivors often struggle with boundaries, sometimes oversharing with the wrong people, and then going back into self-protection mode where no one can access them, which can reinforce distrust in others. When someone violates your trust on all levels –mind, body, & spirit–it’s a tall ask to then share your most vulnerable and painful experience.

4) Distrust in Self

Traumatic memory and the subsequent reactions can lead to a lack of self-trust.

Traumatic memory is unique. Unlike other types of memory (semantic or episodic, let’s say), traumatic memory is by its definition fragmented and can therefore be difficult to trust. Often, aspects of the trauma (or all of the trauma) are missing in one’s memory.  As opposed to the normal experience we have with memory, like let’s say, thinking about what you did for your birthday last year, traumatic memory can reappear unexpectedly in flashes, like a freeze frame, or in flashback form, which shows up as re-experiencing aspects of the past in the present moment.

Flashbacks, or re-experiencing, isn’t really how we see it in the movies, where you get a full visual of the trauma playing out before your eyes. Instead, it’s often purely emotional, where a survivor experiences in the present the emotions she was unable to process during the trauma. It can be difficult to trust memories when they arrive in fragments or show up as raw emotion.

It takes time for survivors to understand this process, and it is common for survivors to first experience these incredibly difficult emotions (horror, life threatening fear, disgust, rage, suicidality) without yet understanding their connection to the past. Talk about confusing. By better understanding that this is the very nature of trauma, and traumatic memory, a survivor can build trust in herself.

Additionally, post-traumatic stress can lead to erratic behavior or reactions that can make a survivor further lose trust in herself. In an effort to regulate one’s traumatized nervous system, many people turn to substance abuse, self-harm, impulsive behaviors, thrill seeking behavior, sexual promiscuity, bingeing, the list goes on. She is trying to survive, after all. Anything to get out of one’s body and into a place of manufactured safety becomes essential. But it sure doesn’t help build self-esteem or self-trust.

So, think about a survivor re-living her trauma, but this time years later with all the emotion she was unable to experience during the main event. She’s having emotional flashbacks, maybe feeling suicidal, and behaving erratically in an effort to survive. Her memories feel bizarre and come in flashes of emotion like horror, disgust, and terror. She doesn’t yet understand what’s happening to her or what it all means. She feels crazy. Yet, in order to talk about her assault, she needs to trust her memory and herself, and understand the process she’s enduring. It’s an uphill climb for sure. One that needs to be taken step by step and with a whole lot of self-compassion.

5) Lack of Language

This is more geared to those who have experienced childhood sexual abuse. When a child is being abused, they don’t typically have the language to describe anything sexual, and often don’t even have correct language for their body parts. If they don’t have the words for what happened, they can’t understand it themselves and they certainly aren’t able to tell anyone. This is one reason why it’s imperative to provide age-appropriate sex education, body awareness, and conversations about consent from a young age.

6) Minimization

If you are minimizing the severity of something, you are less likely to feel like it’s important for others to know.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t really assault.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

All these ways our beautiful brains help us tolerate what happened so that we can keep on living or keep on depending on our abuser, or just make it through the day. But they also lead to feeling like it’s not important for others to know. If it wasn’t really assault or it wasn’t that bad, why do I need to tell anyone?

7) Threats & Fear

Threats from a perpetrator (and/or the system) can be explicit or implicit, and can include manipulation, fostering dependence, humiliation, or instilling fear in the victim.

“I will kill you if you tell.”

“I will hurt your sister if you tell.”

“If your mom finds out, she won’t love you anymore.”

“If your family finds out, you will be kicked out.”

“If anyone finds out about this, they will know how bad you are and you will get in big trouble.”

If you were given threats like these, depended on your perpetrator for anything, or felt humiliated throughout the abuse (duh), you likely have a deep, primal fear of ever speaking a word. Being threatened during the most terrifying moments of your life, encodes the threat with a primal, life or death terror. You may believe your life literally depends on staying silent and keeping this secret.

Biologically speaking, we aren’t going to speak out against someone we depend on because we have a basic need to live. I mean, Hallelujah for the drive to survive, but this becomes very confusing when you are depending on an abuser for said survival.

8) Self-Blame & Shame

Oh man, doesn’t everything get flipped when you undergo trauma? Black is white and up is down. Somehow the brain is adamant to declare that it’s our fault, that we asked for it, and that others will see it that way too. This is one way we are wired to feel like we have some control (i.e.: If it was my fault, I can change my ways and make it stop.) It’s also a way we stay attached to our perpetrators in situations in which we are dependent. (i.e.: “If it’s my fault, the perpetrator can still be good and I can still depend on him/her and stay alive/safe/financially secure, etc.”

Many survivors go through a period (or lifetime) of believing the trauma was their fault, thinking others will see them as gross, unworthy, damaged, broken, disgusting, the list goes on. If she believes it’s her fault, and the trauma defines her in a negative way, she sure as hell doesn’t want anyone to know about it.

The difference between shame and guilt, is that when you feel guilty, you feel bad about something you did. When you feel ashamed, you feel bad about who you are. Trauma can create a self-concept rooted in shame.

9) Worries About Rejection and How Others Will See You

This includes worries about being believed, losing people you love, people calling you names (crazy, unwell, delusional, histrionic, borderline).

Disclosure to someone you love can mean losing the relationship or breaking their heart.

 Let me say that one again.

Disclosure to someone you love can mean losing the relationship or breaking their heart. What a barrier to coming forward.

Many people come out and find their experiences met with rejection. Coming forward can mean losing important relationships. Alternatively, being believed by people you love means they have to hold your pain too.

We frequently see victims get shamed and blamed publicly, so these worries get constantly reinforced. Many people aren’t believed, and their accusations aren’t taken seriously. Accusers get called terrible names, and when Trump was president, we saw it more clearly than ever. When you come forward, you open yourself up to criticism, and that in and of itself is more than some are willing or able to endure.

10) Worries About Damaging a System and/or Losing Your Place/Ranking in That System

This can include a family, organization, friend group, university, company, sports team, church, the list goes on.

The tides have started to change on this one, but historically, coming out against a perpetrator usually meant that you, the accuser, would be kicked out of a system. If you’ve climbed the corporate ladder, or trained for a gold medal, or still want relationships with the friends and family you love, you may not be willing to risk these precious things due to talking about your sexual assault.

So, in order to talk about your sexual assault or abuse (let alone report) a survivor has to: remember, stop minimizing and denying in order to accept an atrocity, trust themselves and their traumatic memory (when they’ve been conditioned not to), overcome their debilitating shame, push back against life-or-death fear, risk losing their place in valued system, and trust others with the most personal and painful thing you can share after someone has fundamentally shattered their trust in humans. When you think about it this way, it’s surprising anyone comes forward. And these are just the internal barriers at play.

But all that being said, talking about sexual assault in the right way and at the right time for you can be one of the most healing actions you can take. In my next few posts, I’ll look at why reporting sexual assault is so difficult, and also, why disclosure can be deeply healing.   

What have been your experiences with talking about sexual assault? What’s been challenging? What have you overcome? Leave me a note. And remember, you’re not alone. 

Resources for additional help & support:

For resources, self-care tools, and information visit RAINN, the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization https://www.rainn.org

To find therapists, support groups and resources visit the WINGS Foundation: https://www.wingsfound.org