Who Am I?

            Once upon a time, there was a girl; she was kind and strange. She was goofy, and she loved everyone around her. She loved people with everything she had; she loved people in a deep, unconditional way that is rare, even in fully developed relationships. Her downfall was the fact that she loved too deeply, and she saw the good in people, even when there was no good to be seen. One day, her world fell apart due to unparalleled tragedy. Her life spiraled out of control as she sat and watched, paralyzed and unable to prevent the intense damage that would occur.

            I’ll give you a little hint about this story: I was this girl.

            I came to college naïve and optimistic. I genuinely believed that there was good in everyone, and I loved the people around me too deeply. Even two years later and after events that permanently changed my life, I still see the good in people and love far too deeply.

            In February of 2015, I was sexually assaulted. It wasn’t like a scene from a movie, where an unfamiliar man snatched me off of the street and assaulted me. It was a person who I knew and trusted.

            After it happened, I knew that he did something wrong, but I didn’t know how to define what occurred. Since I didn’t have a name for it, I assumed that I was over-reacting. When people asked me what was wrong, I brushed them off and said I was fine. They seemed to believe me, despite the fact that I collapsed into a heap on the kitchen floor and cried, ignoring the people who attempted to console me.

            In the days and even months that followed, I plastered a smile on my face and painted on a facade; I tried to pretend that I was okay. I didn’t realize at the time that my facade was cracked, like a windshield that had been hit by a baseball. Everyone could tell that something was wrong, but no one could figure out what that something was.

            Everyone – including myself – sat by helplessly as I spiraled out of control. I began self-destructive habits to manage my pain, and the ugly monsters of mental illness reared their heads. As a result of the assault, I acquired depression and anxiety, which led to a striking mixture of numbness and throbbing pain. The anxiety developed into panic attacks, which left me frozen and defenseless, drowning in my own emotions. In order to control these horrible monsters, I began to drink. People didn’t realize that I generally spent three to five nights of the week drinking to try to numb the throbbing pain that didn’t seem fixable. I stopped eating as a result of the anxiety, and in a few short months, I lost eighteen pounds: transforming my body, which was already very skinny, into what seemed like a walking skeleton. I also stopped sleeping due to the anxiety, which left me constantly exhausted.

            When summer came, I thought that this horrible spiral would come to an end, but it only became worse. I would spend all day lying in my bed, often crying silently in an attempt to keep my family from noticing. My abstinence from food became worse, until I was barely eating once a day: I had to stay seated or laying down to prevent myself from passing out. My depression worsened; I was left tragically and utterly defenseless.

            One day, I decided that I didn’t want to feel the pain anymore. I didn’t want to face this overwhelming sense of hopelessness anymore. Something within me snapped. My mother noticed all summer that something was profoundly wrong with me, but I finally disclosed that I wanted to physically harm myself in an attempt to stop my pain.

            My family automatically brought me to the hospital, where I was involuntarily admitted to the behavioral health unit. I spent the next two days there, surrounded by people battling schizophrenia and raging drug addictions. While I was in the hospital, I finally disclosed what happened to me to my doctor. I felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. He told me that in order to be released, I had to tell my parents.

            My parents came to the hospital the next day for our “group therapy session”. I reluctantly told them about what happened to me. The looks on their faces are burned onto my brain: looks riddled with shock and pain. I will never forget the way my mom cried, or the way that my dad looked utterly heartbroken. Despite the sadness of the situation, I felt like I was finally free from the ghost that had been haunting me for months.

            I began the healing process, which started slowly at first, but became easier with each day. Every day was a new battle. That’s the strange thing about grief: some days are happy, some are numb, some are sad, and some are angry. Even over a year later, there are still days that are difficult, days where I cry, and days when I don’t want to get out of bed.

            Being sexually assaulted was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It shattered my world into a pile of unrecognizable shards. It also, however, turned me into a much stronger person. With the love and support of my friends and family, I picked up the broken pieces of my life and put them back together. They slowly but surely assembled into a steadfast, new being.

            Through tragedy, I learned to be a stronger person. I learned that nobody -- no matter what they do to you -- can break you. I learned that some friendships could not handle the strain of something so painful, but the ones that can survive it become so much stronger and beautiful.

            I still believe that people are good; I just learned not to create goodness where it doesn’t belong. I still love people too deeply; that will probably never change.

            In the past year and a half, I went to hell and back. I danced with the devil, and I think he enjoyed my company, seeing he didn’t want to let me go or escape the pain I was feeling.

            I survived.

            Yes, I survived.

            You see, I learned that people are truly resilient, and they can handle anything that life throws at them. No matter what you are going through, you can survive. No, you will survive.  You will become a stronger version of yourself than you ever thought possible.

            So go on. Fight. Face your demons head on. Go down swinging. Even when you feel like you’re losing or you’re not going anywhere, remember that you are becoming stronger. You are becoming strong and brave and fearless. When the battle seems tough, don’t forget about the people who love and support you; they will be your greatest allies.

            Above all, remember that you will survive.