This is the page for friends of survivors, and the one with which I have the most personal connection. Since grade school, I can remember encountering victims and survivors of sexual violence, and my reactions to them.
At first, I was able to dismiss the pain of friends who had been attacked because they either never spoke of it, or, when they did, did so in terms that said it was "no big deal". I know now that it was of grave importance to them, but they were ashamed and still dealing with issues on their own, and not yet ready to talk about what they had gone through.
I, for my part, became fascinated by rape and sexual violence on my own. I studied it, statistics, affects on the victim, efforts against it. I did reports in school on the subject, trying to educate and learn as much as I could about a taboo subject. Somehow, I was able to believe that though the books said it had such strong affects on the victim and her life, when it came to my own friends, it had not been traumatizing, only upsetting.
Why I had this obsession with rape, I still don't know. In a way, I think, it was a form of protecting myself. I would read about pain so I wouldn't have to experience it. I knew enough people and enough statistics to realize it wasn't (and still isn't) unlikely that I myself would be raped, so I prepared myself for the inevitable intellectually, perhaps hoping that in this way it's occurence wouldn't be nearly so shattering. First thing I would do was call 911 and go to the hospital without changing or showering so there would be plenty of evidence. I would prosecute to as full an extent of law as I could, and was at a loss as to why more men and women didn't. If they wanted rape to stop, why weren't victims doing all they could to prosecute their attackers? That was before I came face to face with what rape and sexual assault was, on a personal level.
When I was fifteen, I took an amateur acting class in which I met a girl I gradually became better and better friends with. As my own perspective on life and myself matured, we grew closer, and she confided in me that she had been sexually abused as a little girl. My reaction was much as it had been before when such a secret was confided in me. I dismissed it as not too important to her life now, especially if it had occurred so many years ago. I smiled, said "I thought so" since she had dropped hints in the past toward that idea, and basically forgot about it.
When I was sixteen, we became "officially" best friends, and I was closer to her than I had ever been with anyone else in my life. I fell platonically in love with what I knew of her and enchanted with her charm. Slowly, though, as I began to comprehend more of her, I became more aware of the pain she had suffered in her life. I got emotionally in touch with what had happened to my friend. Someone had hurt her, and it became impossible for me to deny this fact to myself.
She started a website using the name "butterfly", and it was through that site that I came into contact with other sites similar, reading victims' stories from their point of view, instead of through dispassionate books. I read her story online, and saw myself as failing her.
I obsessed over helping her. Being the friend I hadn't been to the point in which I didn't hear her say there was nothing I could do that she needed. When it did hit home that I was doing neither her nor myself any good, I became depressed and disappointed in myself. The fact that I couldn't help her translated into my being useless and harmful to my ears. I hated my perceived inadequacies, and this feeling of incompetentness became destructive to my life. I began having nightmares, that slowly progressed so that some days I felt as though I couldn't breathe. I couldn't talk to her about it, not wanting her to be angry with me for assuming her pain, and instead spent days writing poems, drawing or painting pictures, and listening to the radio for a song regarding the issue to come on. I remember an entire weekend spent in my room, radio playing, barely moving. Waiting for songs they never aired and sobbing because I felt alone in this pain.
I never knew pain before then, and don't regret my discovery of it. It shook me, changed me, and continues to change me as I adjust to it's knowledge. For the first time in my life, I handled something on my own, with no one to share it with.
Then, I did tell.
A beautiful person who Butterfly and I had both been friends with once, and with whom I was still well acquainted were talking and somehow, Butterfly came up in conversation. I spoke lovingly of her, as always, but bit my lip and tears came to my eyes. The friend asked if this had to do with something bad that had happened to Butterfly, and I told her nearly everything. I betrayed my closest friend's trust.
This was around last April, spring, and the blossoms were just beginning to fully bloom. I confessed my betrayal to Butterfly, and she told me what it is important for all people close to survivors to remember: this is THEIR pain, not yours, and you can help by caring, and being there for what they need, but you need to remember you are separate, and you cannot take someone else's trauma as your own for them. I tried to do so, and it hampered me as I encountered other individuals who were also survivors of sexual violence. Instead of being a steady support, I became a flimsy and fragile figure. I have dealt with, and am dealing with, understanding my role as a prosurvivor in the lives of these courageous individuals. We are their friends, our support, and the very act of our caring can be enough.
This is the survivor's pain to tell, to whomever he or she chooses, and it is our job to remember that. Butterfly and I remain friends, but, for various reasons, are no longer so close. She continues to inspire me, though, and I hope my own experiences can help others in similar situations.
Thank you, and if you have any comments you'd like to share, please, e-mail me.