On carrying something unspoken for nearly thirty years

For many years, I carried a story I couldn't find the words to tell. This is a reflection on what it means to live with the unspoken, and how healing can begin when we no longer have to carry it alone.

Please be mindful, this piece may evoke some difficult memories. If so, I gently invite you to take time. Move your body; soothe yourself; turn to nature, music, or dance. Repeat: I am safe. Do what you need to do to help yourself feel safe.

I know as I write this, I am not alone in telling this story. Sadly, this is a collective narrative. The details of our experiences may be very different, but the violation remains the same.

I can’t remember exactly how old I was. I believe I was fourteen, but maybe just turned fifteen. I was still quite immature and, if I’m honest, still playful, with a childlike imagination.

A disturbing consequence of trauma is the impact it can have on memory. For years, I thought I simply had a bad memory. I didn’t understand that traumatic events can affect the way memories are stored and recalled.

The thing is, I didn’t stop it. I didn’t say no, but I didn’t say yes either.

I don’t remember exactly how it started or ended, but I do remember being left by my friend in a horrible, dirty caravan with an older man who smelt of oil and grease.

I felt repulsed.

Afterwards, he yelled at me because of the blood stain, and I remember thinking…

Really? Have you seen how filthy this place is?

I felt confused and uncertain. I knew I didn’t want to be there.

My friend wouldn’t leave with me, even though I begged her to. I remember feeling numb and shocked throughout the train journey home.

On arrival at the station, I locked myself in a toilet cubicle, pulled down my blood-stained underwear, and sat shaking and crying as I stared in disbelief.

I felt so confused.

I also remember the feeling of dread as I realised I was going to be late for Sunday dinner, which meant I was in trouble. There was no way I could tell Mum and Dad what had happened. The punishment didn’t bear thinking about.

I still haven’t told my parents.

Mainly because they’re older now, and I don’t want them to feel that they didn’t protect me. At the time, though, it was because I was doing everything I could to avoid their disapproval.

It never once occurred to me that I hadn’t done anything wrong. As far as I was concerned, I was to blame.

So, I pulled up my underwear, wiped the tears from my eyes, took a deep breath, and told myself: No one is going to hurt me again.

And Angry Annie came forth.

For years, anger was my friend. My support network. She stood up for me and made sure no one else would ever hurt me.

Though that wasn’t quite true either.

It’s strange how you can believe you are in control, yet still feel completely powerless.

And somehow, abusive men seemed able to see through the armour to the trauma underneath.

I never spoke about my first experience.

I tried not to think about it.

There was a deep lack of awareness and a huge amount of self-blame. Holding this inside, never telling a single soul, was exhausting.

The shame I carried was too threatening to face.

The feelings of how I truly felt were suppressed and hidden. The sadness and pain were held underneath anger, directed towards myself and the outside world.

No one could keep me safe, not even myself.

Facing the hurt, shock and fear would mean going to places I wasn’t ready to face and, honestly, had no awareness of.

I lived with constant confusion, a lack of self-understanding, dissociation without knowing it, never feeling as though I fitted in, feeling alienated, and never feeling fully at ease in my body or mind.

It felt like I was completely misaligned, or that I was somehow missing the joke everyone else understood.

I was living in constant fight, flight, and survival mode. Completely vulnerable, but with no understanding, because this was my normal.

It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that a friend asked me how I lost my virginity. I didn’t want to discuss it, but she was astute enough to gently insist.

That was the first time rape was ever considered.

I was in counselling at the time for infertility, another trauma unfolding from that same incident. I asked my counsellor, “for a friend”:

Is this scenario rape?

He told me it was and asked if I was talking about myself.

It took until I was in my forties, listening to a Radio 4 program about the freeze response during rape, that I finally absorbed the reality that I truly had been raped.

I remember pulling the car over in complete shock as the truth penetrated my whole being.

It was such an “ah ha” moment.

Of course I froze.

This wasn’t my fault.

I later learned this was known as tonic immobility—a recognised nervous system response where the body can become unable to move during extreme threat.

That was nearly thirty years after the actual event.

The journey of self-integration and growth has not been an easy one, but it has been the most worthwhile and enriching experience of my life.

From who I was back then to who I am now, I could never have dreamed of.

Am I healed?

It depends on your definition of healed.

Are any of us fully healed? I’m not sure.

Do I feel safer in my body and more integrated?

Most definitely.

Within my connection to something greater than myself, which has been the one constant in my life, what I know is this: when I began to find new ways of relating to myself, I could hear the echoes of so many others.

It feels as if our collective consciousness holds the memory of female violation.

In a strange way, there was comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone. That mine is a vibration that sings with so many others, and knowing this provided some solace.

Understanding the freeze response

Please know that if you froze during sexual assault, you are not alone.

For many years, I believed my inability to move meant I had somehow agreed to what happened. Learning about the freeze response and tonic immobility helped me understand that my body had responded in a way that was outside of my conscious control.

The nervous system has powerful survival responses when faced with overwhelming threat. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we run. Sometimes, when neither feels possible, the body enters a state of involuntary immobility.

This is known as tonic immobility, sometimes historically referred to as “rape-induced paralysis”.

Research has shown:

• Tonic immobility is a recognised involuntary survival response that can occur during sexual assault and other traumatic experiences.

• Studies have found that a significant proportion of survivors experience tonic immobility, with some research reporting rates of over 50% among survivors of childhood sexual abuse. (Heidt et al., 2005)

• Experiencing tonic immobility is associated with increased PTSD symptoms, with post-traumatic guilt appearing to contribute to this relationship. (Bovin et al., 2014)

If this is something you recognise in yourself, please know this:

Your body was not failing you.

Your body was trying to protect you.

Helplines and Support:

Rape Crisis – 0808 500 2222 - https://rapecrisis.org.uk/get-help/want-to-talk/​

The Survivors Trust – 0808 801 0818 https://thesurvivorstrust.org/our-helpline/ ​

Survivors Network – Male Survivors 01273 720 110 - https://survivorsnetwork.org.uk/male-survivors/