Anger After Assault

I was angry.  Angry at who attacked me, at who failed me, and at myself.  The anger sat as a hot heap in my stomach, pinning me to the couch and sputtering ash every time I spoke.  Conversation left a bitter aftertaste that burned my gums.  I clenched my jaw and braced my fists whenever leaving the house.  I felt self loathing interminable, confrontation inevitable, and acceptance impossible.  This fury was absolutely constant, penetrating every aspect of my life.  I knew it was negatively affecting me, but I did not want to get rid of my anger because it was justified.  People’s choices hurt me physically and emotionally, and they did so without consequence or remorse. 

If I was to move on from my anger, it felt like I would be letting them off the hook.  But holding onto it, thereby letting them ruin and guide my life, felt like letting them better me.  Either way, I couldn’t win.  I couldn’t escape the persistent rumination.  I hated myself for, in my eyes, failing to stop the attack.  I hated myself for getting stuck in unhealthy thought spirals.  I hated myself for hating myself.  I knew, rationally, that I did nothing to deserve my situation, but blamed myself regardless.  I had had a huge pile of turmoil dropped onto my back like a cartoon anvil.  It was the cruel actions of others that built this weight, and yet I had to carry it.  I had to decide whether or not to come forward, to weigh the mental and financial costs, to face further trauma from a failing and uncaring system, all while trying to study and heal.  

This burden of emotional responsibility was maddening.  

I had agreed to act as witness for a related incident when the prospect of opening my own case came forward.  My parents warned against it, wondering if the additional time and money spent on these people was worth it.  That’s when I realised there would be no additional time involved.  This anger I felt was not going to leave, ever.  I would feel this hate-fire no matter what I did.  So I decided not to resent it or fight it, but to use it.  I would fan this ball of flames into fuel. 

I started my own case. We went public with our names and stories.  I was loud on social media, which led to other students messaging me about their issues. I wondered about those who may want to speak but remain anonymous, and those who want to be loud but have no platform. So, I began an Instagram account for people from my university to share their negative experiences.  They could submit stories, anonymously if preferred, to be posted, and they could message just to talk.  Starting this page led to the finding of dozens of similar accounts.  It was encouraging to hear and see so many people like me.  I felt and knew I was not alone.  But that realisation was also incredibly upsetting.  How can there be so many?  And with similar patterns emerging, having not only been pained by their perpetrators, but by those in positions to help?

I learned what I could about the system in place at my university that allowed unqualified people to run incompetent investigations.  Then, about the legal system that allows universities freedom to squash survivors for self serving purposes.  

This must and will be changed.  

Speaking with administrators of platforms and those that use them I have faith that that the many are more powerful than the few, especially when we connect.  

As a way to lighten my mood, I had pictured my burden as a fruitcake: stodgy, sticky, and unwanted.  To be seen as a “powerful” survivor, I felt that this apparently ugly emotion must be shed.  It’s unimaginative or petty to be unable to simply throw it in the bin.  But that is not true.  My caloric anger gave me the energy to fight for others and fight for myself.  My fire burned the fat and left behind angel cake.  The load was still present, but much sweeter.  To share it lines the stomachs of those beside me and gives us strength.  Emotion is power and can spread, slice by slice.

The hardest anger to shift has been the anger towards myself.  It was easy to be loud when I knew doing so would help others, but I didn’t believe it was worth it if I was the only one affected.  I was fighting for those who came before and after me, and I deserved to include myself.  Supporting others is a gift.  It can change the life of those you give it to, it can change the world.  We are worthy of giving that same empathy and energy to ourselves.  Everything you feel and to the degree you feel it after trauma is valid, and you can use it.  Make friends with your anger, it’s a reminder that you are alive and worth the fight.  

You can read this post on I am Arla’s website.