A Love Letter to Myself, and Other ‘Bad Survivors’
By Katie Lotz
Content Warning: Sexual assault. The following work contains sensitive content. Please be advised.
This piece was inspired by a Sunstroke reader suggestion. Thank you for inspiring us.
There were maybe six of us, all girls, crowded into a bathroom at a party. On the surface, it must have looked like such a stereotypical scene: someone peeing, most of us waiting to pee, a few taking pictures in the mirror. But somewhere in the midst of this overlook-able scene, a conversation started. One girl brought up the abuse she suffered at the hands of an ex; another girl had a similar story. A hush fell over the tiny bathroom, and a church-like solemnity crept in as we gathered closer to each other, as if the scuffed center tile on that linoleum floor was a sacred altar. After a few moments of internal deliberation, I told them about what had happened to me a few months prior: a confusing incident that I didn’t know what to call. I described the incident casually, as if I hadn’t spent months trying to erase the memory of it, trying to minimize it to myself so it would be easier to live with. I had convinced myself that it wasn’t a big deal; I held my breath and waited for them to do the same.
Instead, I was met with an overwhelming wave of support, of validation, of outrage on my behalf. To my surprise, I was near tears that were a confusing mix of sadness and relief. After spending months telling myself I was overreacting, having a bathroom full of girls confirm what I knew to be true was as frightening as it was freeing. One girl grabbed me by the shoulders and gently told me, “You understand that that was sexual assault.” It wasn’t a question. Her voice was soft, but firm. She saw through my weak attempt to seem off-hand; she knew I needed to understand. I needed to accurately name my experience. Those two scary words that I had tried so hard to avoid had been spoken into existence, and suddenly I had to face up to what I had been hiding from.
With the growing number of public conversations surrounding sexual assault and harassment, it might be easy to assume that it’s no longer difficult for survivors to come forward, share their stories, and obtain justice. So many movements have united survivors of sexual assault, and provided them with a platform to share their stories and support one another, that coming forward may seem simple nowadays. Even commonplace.
But it’s not. Trauma is still a complicated thing to unpack. Despite the increase in conversations surrounding sexual assault, the stigma of coming forward still lingers. After my assault, the #MeToo movement gained mainstream media attention and quickly went viral; everywhere I looked I saw survivors speaking out, I saw real change being made, and yet all I could think was: “Why can’t I be that strong?”
Don’t get me wrong, these survivors gave me hope, too. Every new story on the news, every new voice brave enough to speak out reminded me that I was far from alone. So many people had been through what I had experienced, or far worse, and had still come out the other side ready to fight. It didn’t matter if it had been weeks or years since they were assaulted, their stories were listened to; their stories were valid.
But can anyone really blame me for not wanting to deal with the social backlash of coming forward? For not wanting my own reputation called into question? After my assault, coping with the trauma of what happened was all I could bring myself to do. I had tests to take, practices to attend, assignments to turn in. I had a life to live; all I had the strength to do was compartmentalize what had happened so I could try to move forward.
After the incident, most of the guilt that I felt made sense to me. As I caught myself agonizing over whether I had done something to invite that type of behavior, I would remind myself that the guilt and shame I felt was normal, but unfounded nonetheless.
What I didn’t anticipate was another source of guilt. As the weeks passed, my mind felt constantly occupied with one thought: “what am I going to do about this?” But the more time that I put between myself and the incident, I felt like my options grew slimmer and slimmer. How could I, months after the fact, suddenly want to press charges? Or begin an investigation? I felt like my credibility was drifting away from me, growing smaller and smaller by the second. Of course, these feelings were not accurate. There is no wrong time or wrong way to come forward about an assault, but I couldn’t help feeling that I was too late.
With this feeling came an unshakable guilt about doing nothing. I don’t know if my own flawed coping mechanisms make me complacent in the actions of the person who hurt me. I don’t know what I owe to other people, other women, other potential targets for assault in this situation. I don’t know if I have betrayed a greater movement, or myself, by choosing to remain silent in the face of sexual assault. But it certainly feels that way sometimes. Even now, on occasion, I’m confronted by an odd feeling of inferiority, and shame. I hear stories of other people speaking out in a timely manner, of other survivors pressing charges, initiating investigations, and while I’m so grateful for them, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the feeling that I’m a Bad Survivor.
I am not the coy, chaste, ideal archetype of a victim of sexual assault; no one really is. I am not an outspoken, brave, justice seeking survivor. I am simply a person who doesn’t know how to ethically handle her trauma. I am constantly struck by the feeling that I am doing this whole thing wrong, as if there is any “right” way to be a survivor.
Once, I confided about my experience to a friend who, after the initial obligatory sympathetic remarks, blurted out, “Why didn’t you report it? What if he does this to another girl?” That familiar feeling of guilt crept back into my stomach as I offered a weak “I think about that almost every day.” And I do. It’s the heaviest burden I carry, yet possibly a poor excuse for my inaction. I can’t blame her for asking.
Beyond not reporting, I feel a strange, guilt-riddled sense of sympathy for the person who assaulted me. The first few times I confided in someone about what happened, I made sure to emphasize over and over again, “but I don’t want you to hate him”, “I don’t think he’s a terrible person”, “you don’t have to pick a side or anything.” Perhaps I’ve internalized the notion that as a survivor, I shouldn’t ruin my assailants life over “just one mistake.” Or maybe my apologetic demeanor around sharing my experience stems from the fear that people will turn against me instead.
Regardless of the reasons, it’s just another piece of what makes me feel like a Bad Survivor. I spent so long trying to decide what to “do” about my assault. If I came forward, what if no one believed me? What if I took him to court, and lost? Or worse, what if I won, and had to watch my own untranslatable trauma be resolved with a weak slap on the wrist? But if I did nothing, what if he does it to someone else? Am I a traitor to the countless other survivors who were brave enough to come forward and seek justice?
I really do not know. These are just the rhetorical questions that pinball around my brain sometimes as I try to sleep. These are just the thoughts that I type into the void of my computer screen in more specific essays that I may never publish out of fear that he might read them.
Because, let’s be honest with one another, part of the reason you made it this far into my article is curiosity, right? Not that there's anything wrong with that; we have been conditioned to expect the graphic details of an assault in order to validate it. Sadly, once again I have to disappoint the both of us, because those details I am still not ready to share far and wide.
So why am I writing this, if not to take action or to get the weight of my assault off of my shoulders? Partially, I am writing this because I am angry that survivors are policed on every aspect of their assault. From “what were you wearing?” to “why didn’t you speak out sooner?”, or “why didn’t you press charges?”: there is simply no right way to be a survivor. We are all damned to be bad in someone’s eyes.
I am not ashamed to call myself a Bad Survivor anymore. That’s what I am. In this game of surviving after an assault, no matter who’s rules you abide by, there is just simply no winning. And that is ok. It’s not about winning, it’s about healing. For some, that may look like pressing charges, or making public statements. For others, it may look like therapy, or confiding in friends. It may look like a mix of all or none of these things, and it can take however much time is necessary.
It has taken me a long time to love the person that I am post-assault. She is so different from how I used to be.
To all of the other Bad Survivors out there, I love you. I love you if you reported; I love you if you didn’t. I love you if you shouted your abuser’s name from the rooftops; I love you if you whispered it to a group of girls in a crowded bathroom. I love you if your assault is still a burden you’re carrying alone; I love you if your assault graces headlines and topples systems of oppression.