Post-Traumatic Stress
11-Sep-02
I realized during my commute this morning why I’m not crying (yet), and why I’m not going to some remembrance thing tonight. And also why I don’t feel “fed up” with all the 9/11 stories and hype.
I’m already a survivor. I’ve been through this before. I know this music, have danced these very same steps, and know that today will still be followed by tomorrow.
On October 4, 1991, I was kidnapped and raped at gunpoint from a spot next to my high school that, while technically off of school grounds, would have had me busted by school security if I’d been smoking on that corner.
On October 4, 1992, I was a freshman at Hampshire College. I went to classes and then to fencing practice for 3 hours in the evening. On the way back to my dorm, I mentioned it to my fellow fencers, because I didn’t know what I should do to mark the day, but knew that it was an anniversary.
On October 4, 1993, I came home from classes at Cabrillo College, where I was a student. There were several phone messages from my mom and my sister, urging me to call them back. I called Mom first. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Hi, Mom. What’s up?
Mom: How are you? Are you okay? What did you do today?
Me (wondering if she knows I ditched class yesterday, and how on Earth she could, living 1500 miles away): Um, I went to class. I came home. I had all these messages. . . . Are you okay? Is something wrong?
Mom : You– don’t remember?
Me, suddenly realizing what anniversary this is: Oh, my god, no. I’d forgotten. Oh, wow– that’s a great feeling!
On October 4, 1994, Mom was the one who forgot. She got to realize what an incredible feeling it was, and to rejoice.
On October 4, 1996, not much happened. I was working on a few projects, including my first tech writing job.
On October 4, 1997, my sister was the one who forgot the day. She bought her house that day, effectively turning it into an occassion to rejoice for her family forever. [Note: I may have that mixed up with the previous year, but I think it was '97.] I also did a walk-a-thon to raise money for Diabetes research with my friends.
In the last 4 years since then, I haven’t known how to mark the date, and haven’t really chosen to do so in any remarkable way. I should have done something big last year– it was 10 years, after all. But it was also 3 weeks after 9/11, and I was so far behind on grading papers and homework, I just didn’t have the energy last year.
I used to describe the recovery process after being raped as being like your brain had come apart, and you had to put it all back together again. It’s never quite the same as before, but you can still use it, and function, and survive, and live.
I like the analogy my friend Amanda used: Being raped is like having a limb amputated. You always know that it’s gone, and you can go on and live, but you’re never the same again and there’s always going to be something missing. This, by the way, is why I believe rapists should be castrated– because they cut something very tender and vulnerable off of their victims, and should know how life-altering that is.
It took me 6 months to be able to walk from the parking space behind my house up to my front door (in daylight) alone. It took me 7 years to finally have a subconscious construction that would be my champion during my nightmares.
Incidentally, I know my experience, and how I handled it, has helped at least 5 other rape and sexual assault survivors, two of whom went on to volunteer in rape counseling. I’ve never hidden what happened, I’ve never been ashamed, and I’ve always acknowledged my emotions about it, even when I knew those emotions were irrational and unacceptable in civilized society (such as the many many many ways we wanted to get revenge). And no, they never caught the bastard.
Today is one year since America had its limb cut off, since we were all assaulted terribly. It is time for us to walk to the car alone. It is time for us to straighten up and say “Tomorrow will come.” Tomorrow isn’t just another day– it’s the one that comes next. It’s the one we have to plan and hope for. It’s the one that is just like today, only different.
Last year, I had to teach on September 12, and I tried to teach my students how to write about emotion. I couldn’t write about what I was feeling about Sept. 11, so instead I wrote about my feelings regarding the first 3 weeks of classes. It helped, I think, to separate my feelings and address the ones that weren’t being immediately assaulted by the media and by the social world we live in. It helped me today to write what I have written here, now.