From December 2009:
One of the many things that has worried me since starting therapy is that, as I've allowed myself to think about and remember the rape, I would "remember" things that didn't actually happen. In my journaling, I tend to put all sorts of disclaimers such as "I think what happened is..." or "Maybe..." whenever I'm writing about something that seems like a new memory. Also, I tend to go into some sort of detective mode, looking for things that will serve as evidence for that memory.
The gaps in memory have been frustrating to me as I've been trying to process the rape. The fact that I was so drunk has made some of the memories shaky at best. But there are things that I've always remembered clearly...sometimes, it seems, too clearly.
All that is conflicting: I want to remember, but I want to forget.
There was a long time when I thought that the whole secret to healing from rape was to try to forget...that the less one remembered, the better it was. I think that's a common belief. My husband was shocked that, in therapy, I've been dredging up every little detail of the rape that I could. "Isn't the whole point to forget about it?" he asked.
Sometimes it's hard to trust in the therapeutic process when a lifetime of "Why dig up the past?" is ringing in my ears and when that digging up is so damn painful. And scary.
Then there are the body memories, the times when I can literally feel physical sensations of the rape. I didn't expect that. It made me feel like I was going crazy or that, in some sort of bizarre way, I was being dragged back to the rape and would never be able to return to now. My therapist has explained that I'm finally allowing myself to feel things that I have supressed for so many years. After the rape, I felt numb...very separated from my body...to the point that I have no idea how injured I may have been, other than the bruises on my upper body, which I saw but didn't really feel.
There was something in that long night that Randy, my therapist, has always thought significant. It was after both of my rapists had fucked me in the bedroom, separately, and then dragged me out into the living room and dumped me on the couch. At first, all I told Randy is that I asked them to let me go home. I knew that the old guy had said things I found upsetting, and then they had poured more alcohol down me. One of my huge stuck points was that I didn't resist my rapists...didn't scream...etc.
I knew there was more to what happened at that point than I was remembering. In fact, I was remembering more than that, but didn't want to think about it, didn't want to put the feelings into words. I would describe that part of the rape in almost completely unemotional terms, as if I had calmly asked, "May I please go home now?" and they had answered, "Sorry, no" and that had been that. Randy, mindreader that he is, wasn't satisfied with that version. One day during therapy, he said, "I think you did more than just ask to go home. I think you cried. I think you begged. I think you pleaded."
He was right. It was then that I had done everything I could think of to get them to stop...and it was then that I had felt utterly defeated by them...had realized that there was nothing that I could do to stop them. That part of the rape was significant in many ways. I did say no. I did try to get them to stop. But, more than that, I expressed my feelings about the rape, about what was happening, in a way that I would not do again for many years, until therapy.
Gradually I've been allowing myself to think about it more, to allow the memories to surface. I couldn't remember what the old guy said to me, but I could remember how I felt in reaction to his words, and how I felt completely defeated and hopeless. I sort of knew the gist of what he said.
Last night I remembered more. I remembered more clearly some of the things that were only ghost memories before. Something triggered the memories and I grabbed my journal and poured it all out on paper, while I was remembering, while I was feeling. It was all there...the fear, shock, sadness, sense of betrayal, disbelief, helplessness, hopelessness, even self-blame...I remembered some of the things I had said when I was weeping and pleading with him...I remembered some of the ugly, cruel things he said to me in return, and I realize that I had actually remembered them before, carried those messages with me, used those very words in therapy to blame and accuse myself.
I was alone in my office last night while all this came crashing in on me. I had the sense to stop journaling twice, when things got too intense. I took a break. But then it was like some barrier had been removed and all those vague ghost memories suddenly took form and I had to let them out, had to get them on paper.
This whole process is still so strange to me. People have told me, "You will remember when you are ready to remember." Last night, during one of my breaks from journaling, I thought of how thankful I was that I didn't have such specific, detailed memories before...that I was glad I'd already worked through some of this stuff in therapy. Last night was hard enough.
This feels like yet another piece of the puzzle has been put in place...I've been able to make more sense of what happened...why I reacted the way I did...and why Randy always sensed that was such a significant part of what happened that night.
Finally, after I'd written all I could, I went home, feeling completely shaken and undone. I forced myself to hang out with Sheldon, to choke down a late dinner, to act as if I didn't feel on the verge of complete craziness and panic and emotional breakdown. Everyone finally went to bed. It was just me and the dog, watching some stupid, mindless TV. Then I walked downstairs, paused at the liquor cabinet...and kept on walking, straight to my bed. It felt like a victory.
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