Trigger Warning: sexual assault, rape, sexual violence

I’m writing this while I sit in my bed, my hair in a ponytail, barefaced, and happy. I’m writing this and I’m at peace. I’m writing this and I finally feel like I have grappled long enough with my body and my story that I am finally starting to feel like home. Somedays trauma stays quiet, an almost invisible companion; like a shadow. Other days trauma shows up like a child, screaming, angry, and sad. We all carry this in our own way; some days we can stow it safely away in a box in the back of our brain, and other days it demands to be worn like a cloak, heavy and thick. But in the end, in the wake of trauma, at the funeral of our former self, we all must learn to rebuild the home that is both our mind and our body.

It took a lot to write this. For years I had no control over my story, and consistently had it told, changed, and shared on my behalf. But I am reclaiming my story, and telling it the way it should be told. My first sexual experience was when I was 15 and a boy locked me in a bathroom with him at a party and tried to force me to give him a blowjob. I was raped for the first time on the eve of my 16th birthday when I was passed out at a party in a backyard. I was a virgin. My body was marked with bruises for weeks, handprints on my neck and thighs; like a house after a break and entering. For the next two years my assault followed me like a ball and chain, like a thick cloud of smoke. Not a week went by where I wasn’t peppered with intrusive questions, accusations of lying, and having to restate my truth and own my story. He was popular, he was an athlete, he was liked; they all said boys like that don’t need to rape girls. I became a story, a joke, and a lesson in my hometown. In my frosh week of first year university I was raped at a frat party, and this was an assault that took a long time for me to fully reckon with. I did not report any of my assaults, I never got rape kits, and whenever I had to face my assailants I did so with shame and guilt, because I somehow felt bad for telling people about what they had done to me. I learned to hate myself, and that at the end of the day the only thing I was good for was men’s sexual gratification. I spent much of 16-20, when I wasn’t in a relationship, constantly seeking out male attention in the form of sex; purely as a means to validate that I was pretty and wanted. It can be deeply uncomfortable and upsetting to read about the honest, raw violence that another human being has experienced; it is its own form of trauma porn. But I can assure you, as uncomfortable as it may be to read this, it is much worse to experience it. 

It wasn’t until recently that I was able to connect my hypersexuality and my constant need for male validation to my assaults; my foundation for sex was founded on violence, objectification, and disrespect. My relationship with sex was, and is, deeply complicated. Hypersexuality, in the aftermath of sexual assault, is something that goes frequently untalked about, but is the reality for many folx who have experienced sexual violence. Hypersexuality is loosely defined as someone who frequently engages in casual/non-intimate sex, someone with “casual” views surrounding sex etc.. However, as with most things, it often shows up differently in people, and there isn’t one true defining trait. Due to my constant need for male validation, whether it was in the form of boyfriends, guys I was snapchatting, or just a meaningless one night stand, I often second guessed my story. How could I be reacting so inappropriately to my sexual trauma that it felt as if I was numb to the trauma completely? It's easy to confuse hypersexuality with merely being comfortable with both your body and sexuality as a young woman; we live in a society where women who have a healthy, open relationship with sex and pleasure are demonized and slut shamed. I didn’t have any framework for what my grief should look like; but what I was unaware of at the time was that this was a reaction rooted in needing to simultaneously reclaim my power as well as a subconscious reflection of my self esteem through internalized self loathing. This was masked by the feminist veil of being comfortable with my body and sexual pleasure. And to be frank, I very rarely, if at all, found any pleasure in these encounters. 

When we talk about rape culture, we often neglect to acknowledge that there is no right way to be a survivor, and that the healing process isn’t static. Sometimes there is no healing process, only a silent, lifelong denial. Sometimes the healing is orderly; full of appointments, crying on warm shoulders, and lots of journals. Sometimes the healing is messy; explosive tears, fits of rage, ruining of relationships, and left to clean up not only your trauma, but the ensuing mess scattered throughout the rest of your life. There is no right way to react, and there is no right way to heal; every journey is unique. 

My sexuality is rooted in my trauma. But I can also simultaneously recognize that, and choose to find the joy and celebrate my body, and how empowering it can be to own your sexuality. The other day I stumbled across a very insightful piece describing the difference between being sexualized and being sexual. Being sexualized is something that all womxn experience, via a byproduct of existing in a patriarchal, cishetero, colonial, white society. Under the male gaze, all womxn are turned into sexual objects, placed on this earth purely for male consumption and sexual gratification. Being sexual refers to the ownership of one's sexuality, as well as the way(s) in which an individual expresses this. By reclaiming your sexuality, you are empowering yourself; the process of sexualization seeks to both demonize womxn for finding pleasure in their sexuality, and thus shames womxn for being agents of their own sexuality. It is only deemed acceptable when the patriarchy/male gaze is behind the wheel. While acknowledging that I will always be viewed as a sexual object under the male gaze, I can still own my body and my pleasure; which for me is a revolutionary act of healing. 

My body is my home, and I have found a deep rooted power in sharing my truth, being gentle with myself, learning to celebrate my body, but most importantly through recognizing that I am not to blame for what happened to me. I still have my moments - and I’m sure I always will - where I grieve the loss of my former self. It was a version of me that I never got to know, but I am thankful for the women I’ve become. My body is not an open house, and it is no longer able to be claimed by other people. It is my home, and my home only.