We Will Not Go Quietly - Centre Against Sexual Assault

LIZ
DEAR ANDREW
Liz is a 25-year-old social worker
from Chicago, IL who specializes
in working with children and
adolescents. She has volunteered
on a rape crisis hotline, worked on
a youth-friendly crisis helpline, and
received her Master of Social Work
this past year. In her free time, Liz
enjoys yoga, reading, baking, and
doing crafts.
For Liz’s full story see:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com
59
Dear Andrew,
Today is June 25, 2011, exactly 1.5 years since you raped me. Does the
word rape sting for you as much as it does for me? Does it make your heart
drop... feel like someone punched you in the stomach... make you clench your
teeth? Probably not.
As easy as it is to say, “the rape was YOUR fault, Andrew,” it’s much more
dificult for me to actually believe those words. When you raped me, you
took away my sense of self. It was like I was transported to an isolated island,
watching everything I once knew loat past me and disappear. My self-esteem
plummeted and left me wondering, who am I?
I have spent the last 18 months confronting the fact that you raped me. I
have had lashbacks, nightmares, uncontrollable crying spells, so much anxiety
that I started seeing a psychiatrist, muscle twitches, guilt, self-blame, low
self-esteem, and avoidance of places or people who remind me of you. When
you raped me, you took away my ability to trust, to let people in, to feel like I
had control over my body and my life. You instilled fear in me... fear of anyone
named Andrew, fear of raspy voices, fear of drinking alcohol, fear of losing
control, fear of dating and intimacy, fear of what to tell my future daughter,
fear of being vulnerable, fear of blond men, fear of reporting the rape to the
police, fear of being judged, fear that you will never be caught, fear of being
raped again.
As dificult as it was, confronting the symptoms of PTSD helped me to
become stronger than I ever imagined. Healing from a sexual assault is a
lifelong process, and I’m never sure when something will creep up on me and
remind me of that night, or of you. However, the supports I have found and
my ability to turn pain into strength give me hope for the future.