Laura’s Story
I will stand tall and shout the name of the man who inspired it all. I’m ready for it.
This summer I caught covid. I thought I knew what to expect; shortness of breath, fatigue, fever, but what I had not prepared for was the sudden unwinding of my mental state. The inability to undertake any of my-well used coping mechanisms left me, quite literally crying, on the floor. You see, I’d been hiding a secret from everyone for over 2 years. Quite successfully too, until I could no longer exercise, no longer distract myself from the PTSD symptoms or keep busy to silence the voices in my head.
My coping mechanisms ceased overnight and with it went my ability to keep my secret.
Over a period of 18 months, I was abused at the hands of my boss; a high-profile figure in the financial services industry. I was coerced, controlled and gaslit, convinced I was worthless, and assaulted and raped. I simply couldn’t comprehend what had happened to me, and tried to survive and block it all out. I threw myself into my work and my studies, distanced myself from those closest to me and allowed a previously-dormant eating disorder to ravage my body.
One quiet night in August, at my lowest adult weight and physically shaking from the complex PTSD, I knew I couldn’t continue.
I knew I had a choice; either give in, allow myself to feel the release of suicide or tell my husband about the abuse.
Fortunately, I chose the former, but for a long time I fully believed the latter would have been easier, and still do from time to time.
It’s a perverse cruelty, perhaps worse than the rape itself, to have to tell the person you love the most in the world that you were abused whilst you were with them. I had never intended on doing it, I knew it would break his heart; he’d see it as a failure to protect me, he’d want revenge, how could he ever be the same with me again?
Those types of thoughts, I’ve since learned, are exactly what abusers use to keep their victims under control.
It took a few attempts for me to get the words out, hysterical and mid-panic attack I began to recall the events that had occurred. I chain smoked the entire time, lighting a new cigarette with each bombshell I threw at my husband, into our lives. I watched his heart break as I recounted the events I remembered (there were – and are – still many more I have blocked out), truly blaming myself for not being stronger. Not being able to push it to one side, to fully block it out.
I was angry at myself. I am a rationale, highly educated professional who literally studies women’s equality – how did I let this happen, and how did I let this go on so long? How had I not protected myself?
Why did I not tell anyone?
I was consumed by my inability to act, to speak up – and attributed all the blame on myself.
I quickly realised that telling my husband was not the end point, rather it was the beginning of a very difficult journey, which I am still going through. There is a shocking amount of admin for a rape survivor to attend to: the search for professional help, disclosing your ‘secret’ to others around you and making decisions - huge, incomprehensible decisions such as whether or not to report the abuse to the police.
As I study women’s equality for my PhD, I am acutely aware of the legal process for survivors and the chances of conviction. The assaults are now historic, with no forensic evidence available. The defendant has an incomprehensible wealth, and a well-used team of lawyers at his disposal. I would have to recount events through my haze of PTSD, and gather evidence to defend myself, my inability to act and prove his guilt.
At the moment, I am simply not strong enough. I am in absolute awe of those who report their assaults to police and go through the legal process, but I just cannot see how I would manage it. At the moment, I am still struggling with PTSD (the physical symptoms are very real) and my eating disorder has reared its ugly head again.
I cannot take on someone who has the ability, mentally and financially, to quash any legal problem which comes his way.
