I Hate That Word… Survivor

Decades have passed, but what happened still lives in me. The fear and shame do not feel historical. They feel present. Sometimes the anger surfaces without warning. I am angry that it happened to me. I was sexually abused as a young girl for quite some time.

By the time I told my parents, it had already stopped. Years had passed. I was told never to tell anyone else because it would ruin the abuser’s life. That instruction damaged me in ways I still struggle to forgive. I walk a narrow line between love and resentment. I love my parents. I also resent them. Sometimes that resentment shows itself as indifference.

I hate that word… survivor. Simply put, I haven’t survived it.

Photo by Paul Kapischka on Unsplash

It has been nearly three decades since my first suicide attempt. My parents ensured I would not receive psychiatric treatment at that time. Nearly two decades later came the second attempt, followed by a diagnosis of severe depression. There were more attempts. Intensive Care Units. Hospitalizations. They feared I would share the secret.

For a very long time, I gave everything to keeping that secret. It fractured me in the process. Depression. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Anxiety. I lived as though something were always chasing me. I would be caught and punished for not being good enough.

It was more than fear. I believed I was wrong. Not that something wrong had been done to me, but that I was wrong. The terror was not only exposure. It was abandonment.

Oddly, an abusive relationship during the pandemic became the beginning of healing. I am no longer that little girl. The abuse still lives within me, but I am learning that it does not define me. As I gather the shattered pieces of myself, I am beginning to understand that anger has its place. Even hatred has its place. Not everyone can be loved. Not everything can be forgiven.

This is not a grudge. It is an acknowledgment that some damage cannot be undone.

It was never my shame.

It took decades to say that without hesitation. That acknowledgment has released much of the anger while also forcing me to confront my own reactions. There have been setbacks, moments of self-sabotage, but I am learning to forgive myself.

I have been slowly replacing anger with comfort. Not confidence. Comfort. There are moments now of unexpected serenity, when I can break down a situation, de-escalate anxiety, and choose steadiness instead of chaos.

I am not a survivor yet because I am still gathering and fitting together the shattered pieces of myself. Some pieces are missing. Some refuse to settle into place. I am a jigsaw puzzle in progress, and for now, I am comfortable with that.

When I find all the pieces of me, then perhaps I will be able to embrace that word… survivor.

_____

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