I will not beat around the bush. This is my story of healing after being sexually assaulted—raped—and finding joy again. Not a popular topic to discuss—uncomfortable, even—but relevant. Too many of us have experienced assault and quietly try to move on without acknowledging the effects.
Without describing details, I can say that rape, or any sexual violation, is feeling utter and complete loss of yourself, your soul. It is being hollowed out with little to nothing remaining—value stripped, shame overwhelming, fear crippling. It was a triple rape in one: body, mind, and soul. The life I had built was stained by violation.
I spent my days shrinking in fear. A trip to the grocery store meant constantly checking over my shoulder, terrified that I would see my assailant. My nights were spent lying awake, heart pounding, thinking that I could hear those sickening footsteps coming up the stairwell. I would wake from nightmares in the early months of recovery, sweat pouring off my body.
Life has a way of aging some of us quickly. Grief steals marks of youthfulness, leaving footprints of wrinkles on our faces. I felt defeated, used up, listless. I was too tired to engage with another human. Blame and bitterness eventually gave way to exhausted surrender. I had to think about forgiveness—but I hated the thought. It meant a humbling of self. It meant a maturing of self. I had to give up the justification of hating my life.
Recently I described forgiveness to a friend as a choking hazard, at least it has been for me. It is painful, difficult. The word “forgiveness” is so cliché, too. When does anyone really get down on the threshing floor and bare those raw, dark areas anyway (1 Chron. 21:28)? Too often I have justified avoiding the pain of exposure. For a time, I think that is normal—needed, even. We are human, after all, and must process emotions as humans. But we are also spiritual. There comes a time when the next level of healing must be addressed head on.
While in the midst of my grieving, I visited a friend in NYC. She wanted to go to a worship service—I did not. We went. I was stiff at the beginning of the service, but then something broke in me and I went up front to join others in worship. I went from arms wrapped around my torso in protection to arms outstretched—exposed in a stance of openness. From there, I offered what little I had to God. I gave Him every morsel of joy left in that moment—which was not much (Ps. 27:6).
Jesus met me that night, and I cannot fathom ever going back to the grayed-out life before it. It’s funny, some of us go about our entire lives being mellow Christians and suddenly in one moment, like when Saul became Paul, we are transformed by a radical appearance of Jesus (Acts 9:1-22). I cannot say for certain that healing comes for us all—certainly not in the same ways or same degrees. We are all created differently and our stories are like scrambled pen lines scattered across hundreds of journals. It may take years. It may take a single moment.
However healing comes, it is good. And however healing comes, trauma still has memories. Treat yourself the way you would treat someone you love if they were going through this. Be kind. Be patient. Seek help. We still have life to live and things to do and people to love. We have forgiveness to extend—including to ourselves.
One thing I have is a support system. I have an amazing, strong family and a small network of friends who stuck closer to me during that time than ever before. There was no pushiness to share, only openness to listen. It’s difficult, though, sharing details, exposing thoughts and emotions with people so close to you. I attended therapy with a wonderful woman on top of having my support team, and it cleared up a lot of self-blame and guilt-ridden thoughts.
Additionally, I met my husband during this time of healing. He was an unexpected light to my shadows, bringing safety, smiles, and laughter back into my world. Slowly, but surely, I chose to unclench my fists and let go of the fear after he gained my trust with surprising gentleness. This now sounds all too fairytale-like—I don’t know why God chose to ease my story with such kind people, but from the depths of my being I am grateful to Him.
Too often victims have minimal or nonexistent support systems, and our recoveries look vastly different because of our unique lives. I desire now to be a person who is trusted by others so that when the time comes there will be no hesitation or fear of reaching out for help. Being a listening ear, giving a comforting hug, or providing a safe place is a solid way to help someone going through trauma of the soul.
The one truth to remember in all turmoil is the kindness of God. He is not demanding our pain; He desires our communication. He is a gentleman! There is no force on you, no taxing of what little you have left, because all you really have left is relying on His kindness. So, communicate in whatever form is possible to you in the moment: scream, sob, write, paint, hit a punching bag. Communication is our gateway to begin healing and restore joy.
This is not a fairytale, there is no guarantee of life becoming easier or of my healing story looking exactly like someone else’s. Some walls are made of steel, some fear is debilitating and hardly relenting, and some hurt never is overcome. But maybe, slowly, there will be a rekindling, a reconnection, a moment—one moment—that breaks through and allows you to continue walking this scribbled journey called life.
~ By Jillian Phillips States
