One of the most misunderstood aspects of abuse, other than why it happens, is why most people never report their experience.  Silence in the presence of persistent horror is a difficult concept to understand.  Each story is different. Each perspective is skewed. Each person is left wondering what they could possibly do to bring an end to the trauma at hand. Most are left with the hopeless realization it would be easier to never say anything all. 

I can only give my perspective.  

The abuse I lived through began at a very young age.  When I first started becoming aware of my trauma and PTSD, in about the 7th grade, I had already been fighting my OCD monster for years.  The number one rule of OCD is that you can’t tell anyone the thoughts you have in your head.  If you do, not only will they see how horrible you are, but also, all of those worst-case scenario events you are trying to stop from happening will happen.  And it will be all your fault. 

So, I had already realized I couldn’t trust my own mind.  These memories, flashbacks, and nightmares, how did I even know they were real? Yet I knew because they fit me in the same way a body forms to a well-worn mattress.  These memories were old friends parading in masks.  My memories were formed by people I knew, trusted, and loved. When the ones closest to you are creating your trauma, it is better to allow their faces to remain behind masks in your mind.  I had begun to see these faces, these familiar people, for who they really were. Yet when I was given a catalyst to open up, I was met with discomfort, fear, denial, and shame.  

So, I shoved it down.

My OCD had already been telling me for years not to speak of my own pain and fear.  I had to shove it down. Be the strong one. Take one for the team.  It became my identity, to “protect” those I cared about. My idea of protection was set to my OCD's expectations, though.  I didn’t talk about my own traumas, because my OCD told me that my family already had too much trauma. I didn’t need to add to it. I performed mental rituals before bed each night, starting at a very young age.  Playing out horrible scenes of worst-case scenarios featuring the people I love most, and praying until I felt content enough that it wouldn’t happen. This only got worse as I got older, until the dissociation got so bad that I became numb.  

When I met Matt, my husband, he forced me to face my OCD demon and start saying things out loud.  It was hard, but we eventually got to the depths of my trauma, and I finally, at age 26 told my family the things I had endured as a child.  

I started therapy about 4 years after opening up to them.  Therapy helped me delve deeper into becoming me. I began the process of discarding all of the masks I had donned to try to hide who I knew I really was inside, an evil, hideous, awful little girl who couldn’t do anything.  The shame I have accumulated over the long years of living with the demon in my head is monumental.  Overcoming that is not easy no matter how illogical it is to anyone else.  Opening up different levels of myself during therapy helped me realize although I have had many traumas, and been hurt in horrific ways by more people than I care to tell you about, there’s only one of those traumas, one of those people, who hurt me the very most.  I don’t like to compare traumas, especially my own, because they have all affected, shaped, and taught me, but certain betrayals cut deeper than others.  I remember reaching a point in my early to mid-30s, so not too long ago, in which I felt I MIGHT be able to face and accuse this person who cut me the deepest.  I went to seek advice and guidance and was met this time with support, but also discomfort and the inability to handle such situations.  It’s hard to know where to turn or what to do.  I was searching for a way to answer a question it turns out only I have the answer to.  

I recently brought up the idea again……..of just writing their names here on the blog…..for the world to see.  

But now, I am almost 37 years old.  The flashbacks and nightmares and memories I worried about being true when I was in 7th grade, although more vivid now in some ways because of therapy, aren’t proof of sexual assault.  My word isn’t proof.  The OCD monster and the PTSD demon that have plagued me for my entire life, or at least as far back as I can remember, aren’t proof.  It’s my word against theirs.  & if I do think I have enough guts to say their name out loud….they could sue me, for defamation of character unless I can somehow prove something I have never been able to completely understand myself.  Many other details contribute to my not speaking out, but these are the ones that have my mind jumping mental hoops.

So the struggle to decide to speak out isn’t an easy one to come to for many reasons.  Maybe, someday, I will open up about the people who hurt me.  Until then, I will carry enough shame, guilt, and responsibility for not having said anything publicly yet to last several lifetimes and then some, as well as the shame, guilt, and responsibility I already feel for what happened to me. Questioning a person on why they haven’t spoken out is just adding to their shame.   

My family knows.  My close friends know.  My therapist knows.  I know.

& the people who hurt me, THEY definitely know who they are.