Safety, Trust & Silence : Through the Lens of a Survivor

I've been working on some writing for a while now that feels important to share as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Not all understand what it's like seeing the world through this lens, but it's applicable to a lot more people than any of us realize.

I'm honestly terrified to share this, but I'm at a point in my life where I care a lot more about advocacy than I do about potentially embarrassing myself or not getting the words exactly right.

If you prefer to listen, here's the full audioCristianna

21:03

I've noticed myself pulling away from people I love – from friends and family.

That freeze and fade reaction repeating itself, threatening my sense of safety and trust in others.

It's a huge wall in my way right now.

I'm less inclined to reach out.

Less inclined to respond.

Less willing to invite people into my home. Less willing to let people near.

Less willing to speak.

I stay pretty quiet.

Frozen.

Faded.

So instead, I'm here. Writing. Thank you for sitting with me. I know you might want to look away as I get into this. If you're able, I ask that you try to stay.

I've always questioned my safety with others and how much I can actually trust another. This is no new concept for me. As a rape survivor, I've always known that evil sits beside us and hides behind closed doors. It lives within familiar faces. It can be deceptive and charming. It thrives in secrecy and silence. It's inconspicuous, and obvious. Hiding, and in plain sight. It's all around us.

I've been in a support group for five years now. It's a therapist led support group for adult survivors of childhood sexual trauma. We're part of the club no one wants to be in. We often welcome new members with that motto because it makes them laugh, which is needed, but also lets them know right away that they're not alone. We have each other.

Over the years, I've gotten to know many women from different backgrounds, who have ranged in age from thirty years old to mid eighties. I was 27 when I joined the group. At the time, I was the youngest member by over a decade. The vast majority of women don't seek support for their experiences with rape until later in life, often when they're in their forties or fifties. More than one in five women in the U.S. have experienced attempted or completed rape in her lifetime (NISVS, 2011). I hope you take a moment to let that sink in.

In my support group, the majority of us were being raped in our homes at a very early age by a family member, with sexual abuse beginning between the ages of one and six. Some are survivors of child sex trafficking. Some of us, myself included, had experiences with revictimization during teenage years.

Each of us experienced things that never should've happened to us. Things that no person deserves. For most members of our group, another family member knew about the abuse at the time, but overlooked it or contributed to it. For only a few, the abuse was not known about by another. Those who open up to other family members about the abuse later in life often have their experiences minimized or invalidated rather than acknowledged with unwavering support.

Estrangement with one or more family members is very common for this reason, as is opting out of family functions altogether. In each of our cases, none of our perpetrators were held accountable or faced charges–though some began the agonizing process only to be told that statue of limitations prevents prosecution.

We listen to each others experiences, past and present. We share and relate to the struggles we're each living through in our daily lives–things that people around us don't struggle with unless they're also part of our club. When a child grows up in an environment in which love, trust, and sexual abuse cross over, it becomes really confusing to know who or what is safe and reliable. As adults, we grapple with trust issues, which makes interpersonal relationships, intimacy, and sex especially challenging. Feeling safe and disarmed by the presence of others is rare, so we keep the majority of people at a comfortable distance. Solitude becomes a necessary sanctuary, albeit a lonely one at times.

When you live with an invisible illness or condition, it can be really difficult to relate to those around you. Much of the time, we look like normally functioning people. I'm learning to be more open with my wife and those around me about my triggers and what exactly happens in my brain and body. It can be hard though to describe how I'm pulled away from myself and the present moment, and what exactly caused it. I live within fragments of myself as individual parts of a whole. In a matter of seconds, I can go from being a rational thinking adult to a small, confused child. It takes time and effort to come back to myself–to convince my younger self that I'm safe in the present moment.

Many of us grew up in volatile environments riddled with sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. Things could go from good to bad very quickly, which made us hyperaware of body language and changes in demeanor. For myself and these women, we live in fight or flight. Rather than coming up only when needed, it's more of an active state that remains to perceive threat levels. Our amygdala's are on overdrive, which release hormones that repeatedly bring us to heightened states of fear, anxiety, or hypervigilance. It's like an internal smoke detector that goes off all the time–even when viable threats aren't present. This can make it really overstimulating to be around others depending on our current mental state. It becomes exhausting to work through triggers and grounding practices, especially without others knowing.

An overactive amygdala is what heightens anxiety, flashbacks, and emotional reactivity. For myself and these women, we put in intentional effort every day to manage the symptoms of complex PTSD, anxiety, and depression. We move in and out of the present moment, regularly working through dysregulation and dissociation. Many of us have been suicidal in the past or still struggle with suicidal ideation.

These aren't things we can simply snap out of. It takes years of disciplined practice to rewire neural pathways to bring the amygdala back to baseline functioning. We do that through various therapies such as neurofeedback and EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing), mindfulness practices like yoga and meditation, alternative medicines, and the aid of medications that reduce emotional reactivity of the amygdala. One therapy or modality won't work for all. We can cross them over and use them in conjunction with one another, but ultimately we each have to find our proper mix of what we respond well to.

Even with the myriad of interventions available, I still don't know if I believe a baseline functioning is actually possible. When a child endures trauma and abuse at such a young age, the brain begins to prioritize survival over development. This means a healthy baseline isn't properly established through childhood.

But for myself and these other women, we keep showing up. We keep doing the work. We manage our symptoms. And many of you don't know that we're here doing this or how debilitating it can be at times. Many of you don't know who we are–that we're not strangers in headlines or from files that some question the validity of. We're the women in your families, in your friend groups, right here in town. One of the women in my group could be your mom, your sister, your co-worker, your friend, and you might never know. We're the women walking beside you every day and sitting with you at the table – often silent about our experiences because we don't know who we can truly trust. We're here. And we're very real. 

The women in my support group feel honored to know that I'm writing this about them. About us. About the reality of adults who were raped as children, and revictimized in adolescence. This is where we get into current events–the hard topics that I've struggled to find the words to confront. 

Many survivors can't look at anything relating to the Epstein files or know the details. It's too much, but it's not just what was happening to the children that's the problem. It's the collective behavior of adults–the active participants in conjunction with the passive bystanders. The protection of abusers hits too close to home for many to stomach. Allowing known abusers to remain in positions of trust or power hits too close to home. Not holding them accountable hits too close to home. Seeing those around us dismiss the reality of it all hits too close to home. Me personally, I look at what I can until I'm too dysregulated to continue. I have to take days away from it to reintegrate before I can return.

As we're seeing on a mass scale, survivors have to fight to be seen, heard, and believed while perpetrators are protected. Their "bad behavior" is often defended, excused, shrugged off, or covered up. Our experiences are questioned and analyzed mercilessly, the details ripped to agonizing shreds as if what's on the surface isn't bad enough. How bad does bad have to be though?

I've had a blog for six years now where I write about navigating my experiences with Trauma, and I've grown accustomed to silence as a response to my sharing. One, maybe two likes. A comment if I'm real lucky. I light up if there's more engagement than that. Most have been uninterested, unwilling, or unable to look at my writing. I think many of the willing don't know how to respond or know what to do with the information, whether it resonates or not. Silence is often the result, which I will admit, always stings a bit.

It's easy for lots of people to scroll past posts of mine and not react to them. I'm just one person. Just one survivor. Just one voice trying to be heard. But when lots of heinous information is being shared openly and silence is still the response, I can't help but begin to question the moral integrity of those around me. I can't help but question their silence.

I don't think people realize how much silence hurts. Not only in the initial moments when an assault or abuse takes place. Not only within the immediate aftermath. Silence hurts long after. I'm taking about right now. In the moments around your tables and within your circles. In your conversations with friends and family. In your interactions online. In the things you choose to say and share, acknowledge, or not. Survivors are seeing and hearing how you show up and respond. We notice the comments made that minimize or invalidate our experiences. We notice who belittles or degrades women, and who laughs alongside them. We also notice avoidance and silence. It cuts through the noise. And it's deafening. It's terrifying. For me, it sets off that internal smoke detector.

The longer people overlook and ignore, excuse and justify, or sit silently, the more enraged and disheartened I become. The more I want to scream at the top of my lungs WE ARE NOT ANGRY ENOUGH. YOU are not angry enough. The more I question who is a perpetrator, who is a bystander, who is a survivor, and who is a protector. Perpetrators and bystanders both feel unsafe to me, so I start to get confused and unsure–the way I felt when I was little. Little me can't comprehend why more people don't show that they care when it's obvious that something bad or wrong is happening. She can't understand their silence and inaction.

There are many reasons people choose to stay silent in the face of injustice. I find it necessary to take into account those who need to stay silent and removed for their own safety or well being. Growing up in my home, silence was often the best response when met with my dad's volatility, hostility, and rage. There are instances in which silence is necessary for immediate safety. In most any instance though, silence perpetuates harmful behavior. It enables it. It condones it. Silence shows acceptance and indifference even if that's not the intention behind it.

Silence, passivity, or apathy in the face of injustice is what allows abuse to go unchecked. Minimizing the traumatic experiences of others and excusing or overlooking injustices is what allows abuse to go unchecked. That's what keeps people from being held accountable for their actions. That's what keeps people from facing proper consequences. That's what keeps people in positions of trust or power. That's what keeps survivors from feeling safe–from coming forward sooner, let alone at all.

I wish every day that this evil hadn't been done to me or the women I know, to the children we were. To the countless children, teens, and women preyed upon, and to those who need protection right now–including those being captured and detained. Raped by agents who are paid by our government. I wish every day that this evil hadn't warped the minds of men to think that their power and consent reigns supreme over all. I wish their evil hadn't permeated the air around them to make others so unassuming and numb.

There is evil all around us. Now in plain sight before our eyes for those who couldn't see it before. Names. Pictures. Detailed information. Literally millions of pages. There's more proof of it every day. A disgusting amount of evidence linking person after person together. Every one of which should be held accountable for their connection to such treachery.

The flood of information that we've been seeing is intended to shock the system–to overwhelm people to the point that they become desensitized and subconsciously normalize the behavior. Then they begin to look away. This level of cognitive overwhelm causes that same freeze and fade reaction that I know so well. It exacerbates silence. As action isn't taken, the shock fades and it all slowly becomes permissible. Accountability shifts from a place of importance and required consequence to one of passivity. This is how abuse happens in our homes and in our communities.

This isn't just about sexual violence or the Epstein ring anymore. It's about everything that evil touches as silence continues to normalize, veil, and cover up. Power feeds off silence and complacency. It quite literally takes lives and starts wars.

These things aren't solely about politics–left vs right. It's much bigger than that. It's about right vs wrong. Good vs evil. Accountability vs dismissal. It's about power protecting power over people, and the people having to protect one another in a system that has completely failed us. We can't let this fade into the background. We can't bury our heads in the sand and hope that the overwhelming presence of evil and tyrannical leadership is gone by the time we emerge. We can't pick and choose what's digestible while ignoring the rest. We can't settle into comfort in that self-serving bubble of cognitive dissonance. We can't be quiet about it. Each of us have to find the humanity within ourselves to care enough to speak up, and take action in whatever ways we can.

It's perplexing that we're living in a time when we have to remind others that we don't protect predators and rapists. We don't protect people who perpetuate abuse. We don't protect people who prey on others or intentionally cause harm. We don't protect people in positions of trust or power who abuse others or the systems put in place to protect us–and we sure as hell don't support them or enable their behavior. We hold them accountable while supporting the people sitting beside us who are questioning their safety and importance. We support survivors. We protect those who are marginalized. We protect children and those who don't have the cognitive functioning or vocabulary necessary to advocate for themselves.

I don't know how to read the silence of some right now, especially those I know who voted for Trump. I have a hard time writing this part specifically–acknowledging that they voted for him in good conscience. I've never been able to vocalize how unsafe that actually feels. So many people chose to overlook and stay silent about the evil they knew was present. Many put him on a pedestal for being a character and speaking his mind–a man who boasted openly about grabbing women by the pussy and being able to get away with it because he's famous. They laughed at his inappropriate rhetoric and dehumanizing remarks, regardless of how insulting, minimizing, or invalidating they were. They chose to support and praise him. His despicable behavior is what many abuse survivors grew up with in some form or came to know later in life–the man who thought he could make up his own rules, mistreat or abuse others, and take what he wanted without consequence.

Why some voted for or supported Trump in the first place is in the past. What matters now is where people currently stand, what they choose to support and who they choose to protect. To me, it's not as simple as asking if people still support Trump.

I don't know how to ask if they've separated their humanity from their politics. I don't know how to ask if their loyalty stands with a man who finds it acceptable to blatantly abuse his power. To cause intentional harm. To lie excessively and unabashedly. I don't know how to ask if they care about him being a pedophile or rapist who abuses little girls and women. I don't know how to ask if they care about people being racially profiled and taken by excessive and violent force–killing people in the process. I don't know how to ask if they care about children being raped or people of any age being trafficked. I don't know how to ask if they care about our systems being dismantled and privatized, or about marginalized communities having their rights stripped away as if they're subhuman. I don't know how to ask if they care about an attack on foreign land, starting a war that's turning allies against us and threatening to end civilizations–literal war crimes and crimes against humanity. I don't know how to ask if they care about one injustice after another unfolding in an attempt to distract and cover up the biggest sex trafficking operation known to date. Or is it just the rising gas prices that infuriate them?

If people do care about those things, which I pray they do, I don't know how to ask why they're still being silent–why they still choose apathy or passivity. Why they still refuse to rise up. I hate that it took me this long to write this because I was and am scared of the responses I might get. Many will remain silent and removed. Some will either confirm what I've feared, or they'll disarm my fears. I won't know until I use my voice and give others a chance to use theirs. We have to be loud. Every voice matters. The less people show that they care, the more complicit we become as a whole to mistreatment and abuse, the more it's normalized and accepted within our homes and communities.

Privilege protects peace. When a person's individual peace isn't disturbed or threatened, many chose silence and inaction. Self-preservation. This is the bystander effect–one of the most contagious chain reactions of human behavior. It's one of the biggest drivers in perpetuating abuse in our homes, communities, and now our country as a whole. When those in our immediate proximity choose to stay removed, it subconsciously tells others it's okay to stay removed. It branches out more and more. Silence and inaction protects the individuals holding the peace. It does nothing to protect or support those who truly need it.

I refuse to be a bystander. I refuse to be like so many people who see something, but don't say something. I will always use my voice to advocate, even when shaking, even when standing alone and surrounded by silence.

If you're silent, I'm skeptical. My hackles are raised. I can no longer remain frozen and questioning where you stand.

And so, I say again :

I've noticed myself pulling away from people I love – from friends and family.

That freeze and fade reaction repeating itself, threatening my sense of safety and trust in others.

It's a huge wall in my way right now.

And so, I'm here. Writing this.

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I want to be clear, this won't be true for all survivors. Not all are adults still having to deal with wounds from childhood. Not all battle things like depression, anxiety, PTSD, or dissociation. Trauma doesn't cut as deep when we're properly supported through it. When others make space to acknowledge and hold our pain, to bear witness to it, it makes it smaller for us internally. It helps the wounds heal faster. It leaves a smaller scar. Many have moved through their trauma(s) feeling silenced and alone, bearing the pain of a wound that won't stop breaking open. That can make healing and recovery feel impossible.

For the fellow survivors out there who get where I'm coming from, whether it was one experience you endured or many, I'm with you. You're not alone. Regardless if you've done the work or not, it's completely normal to be thrown back into survival mode, especially when the environment around us becomes unsteady. You're having normal reactions to the abnormal things that happened to you (DSM-5, 2013). Adult you is never going to let those things happen to you again. Deep, grounding breaths.

To the rest of you, whether you've been silent or shouting from the rooftops, I implore you to rise up and continue doing so. To use your voice. To advocate. To show that you care. Even in the smallest of ways. Just one comment, one action has the potential to start a ripple effect. You have more power as an individual than you might realize.

If you or someone you know is experiencing sexual violence, RAINN's national sexual assault hotline can help. Call 800.656.HOPE or text HOPE to 64673.

On a local level, the SAVA (Sexual Assault Victim Advocate) Center has locations in Fort Collins and Greeley. Call the SAVA Center hotline at (970) 472-4200 to receive support.

If you or someone you know experienced sexual trauma as a child, ChildSafe provides support for survivors and their families through therapy and support groups. They're located right here in Fort Collins. See what they offer by visiting their website at https://www.childsafecolorado.org