but still, like air, i’ll rise

20160503-IMG_1088in the immediate aftermath of my rape, i climbed into my bed and pulled the duvet over my head. my rapist was still in my flat, fast asleep in the next room on the sofa where he’d raped me. (i should probably throw in an ‘allegedly’ here given that the cps decided – after nearly two years of considering it – that there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute him). nearly a decade on, i still have a tendency to retreat to my bed when the outside world feels all too overwhelming. it’s where i’ve spent most of the weekend alternately bingeing and trying to lose myself in a crappy thriller that i picked up in the supermarket yesterday.

i have lived and re-lived the hours and minutes and seconds leading up to the rape a million times. every time, i identify the moments where i think i could have changed the outcome. i torture myself with those moments and then punish myself for what i did and didn’t do. i know this is a common trap that people fall into (‘hindsight bias’, i am told) but that doesn’t make it any easier to move on from. i crave being told that it wasn’t my fault (which is what i would tell anyone else) and that i am not responsible for what my rapist did (which i know is true) but acknowledging that means that i also have to acknowledge that i had no control over the situation. and so i still spend every hour of every day, trying to exert control over the only aspect of my life that i can; food.

for the last six months, it’s been very effective. in the first meeting with my new (although not so new anymore) psychiatrist at the start of february, i said that i was pretty sure i was over the trauma and the ptsd. i think we both know now that’s very far from the case. i may be able to get on the tube without freaking out these days but there are far more insidious manifestations of the trauma that i’m only just beginning to understand.

over the past few weeks both my psychiatrist and therapist have talked often about the anorexic-me vs the healthy-me. we’ve done some schema work where the two different parts of me talk to each other (and i get very confused – it’s the kind of thing that i am terrible at; when i started doing cbt work with my old therapist, i got very hung up on whether i was using the right form of the present tense and got myself tangled in all sorts of linguistic knots). clearly, the idea is that the healthy-me is supposed to (eventually) tell the anorexic-me to fuck off.

yesterday, as i burrowed under the duvet to try and hide from the relentless flashbacks that were assaulting me, i realised something. the anorexic-me wasn’t raped. the healthy-me was. when i’m anorexic-me – by which i mean, that me that is eating a couple of hundred calories a day, doing hours of yoga/as many steps as possible and seeing the scale go down every day – i’m not a rape victim / survivor / whatever you want to call it. but when i eat, either a healthy three meals a day or the bingeing which i’ve often used to block out my feelings about the rape, i’m all of those things. and i don’t want to be any of them. but somehow, i’m going to need to accept that i am.

{title quotation from still i rise by maya angelou}

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