***Trigger Warning – contains potentially distressing material pertaining to sexual assault
Our Bodies, Ourselves
Of all the things that I made a connection with through my dissociation from sexual assault, it was through the attachment I had with a book I found while browsing through my aunt’s collection. The book I bonded with was a huge book that I often read for hours – sometimes reading particular passages over and over again.
The title of the book is Our Bodies, Ourselves written by Maggie Pingolt and the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective. It is a book that details the anatomy and physiology of reproductive and sexual health and contains an array of topics mainly pertaining to women. Since I was already interested in subjects pertaining to health and psychology, I found this book to be one of the most engrossing books for reading. I would frequently read this book at night because it was strangely calming to me, but I did not know the reason.
As I think back upon that time, the dissociation with me was strong. I suffered from amnesia when it came to the details about the sexual assault against me. I would have thought that anything regarding the topic of sexual assault or rape would seemingly trigger me into not wanting to read the book, but that was the topic I studied up on the most. There was not one place in the area of my working mind that ever alerted me to be triggered by what I was reading. The part of my brain that had stored and filed away the memories of what had happened to me was locked and would never be reopened again.
At first, my aunt would think nothing of my book interests. She saw me as incredibly bright and precocious. My topics for conversations always fascinated her, but like my parents, she preferred that I be like most kids, and go somewhere to play. My form of playing was reading a good book, and my idea of a good book did not in the slightest have to do with any topics that adults thought were appropriate for me. After a while, my aunt became annoyed with my interests and would often say, “Put that book away. It’s too mature for you.”
However, her thoughts about this particular book (Our Bodies, Ourselves) changed when she saw the corners of the pages that I had folded back to keep the pages bookmarked. One night before I turned in for sleep, my aunt came and sat next to me. I remember the pensive look in her eyes. She asked me if I was okay, and I nonchalantly responded “yes, but I’d be better if I could read before I go to sleep”.
My aunt was curious. “What is it about that book you like so much?” To be honest, I did not really know apart from the fact that it had a lot of information, and it was a big book which sort of reminded me of the huge Bible my family had back home. Otherwise, I remember my mind drawing a blank as I stared at her. Yet, I felt strangely uncomfortable because she seemed to be prying as if to insinuate something. “Does the book put you at ease or something?”
I remember staring blankly at my aunt. I was now standing back within myself. My brain could not comprehend her question, but somewhere deep inside of me, I knew the answer. I was very aware that the book had a calming effect on me, but I did not know why. By my aunt’s facial expression, I think that I was supposed to know why. “I noticed that you bookmarked some pages. Do you want to tell me why?” At that moment, my aunt got up and walked into her bedroom. When she came back out to me, she had the book under her arm.
When my aunt sat back down next to me, she opened the book to the pages I had folded by the corners. I stared at the pages and immediately felt my face flush, but I was not embarrassed, I was confused. The pages were sectioned into the topics regarding violence against women, sexual assault, and rape. When I looked at my aunt’s face, she had an expression of adamant concern, but I was drawing a blank. “I’m just reading,” I recalled sayin to her. I honestly did not know what to say, but my body was wracked with anxiety and an unexplainable feeling that I can only describe now as a need to disappear or run.
I was becoming upset, but I did not know the reason. I felt the need to panic, and when my aunt realized this, she tried to calm me. “Okay, okay, okay. Here’s the book. You can have it. I’m giving it to you. I don’t need it anymore.” For whatever reason, I could no longer look my aunt in the eye at this point. I wanted to cry. I remember trying to speak through a voice I knew might be shaky from the need to cry. I stammered out, “Thank you.” Then I sat still as I gripped the book in both hands. My aunt did not say anything else, but she sat with me in the moment and waited for me to calm down.
That was the first time [since the sexual assault] in a long time that my aunt seemed to sit by my side and share what appeared to be an intimate moment with me. Instead of teasing me like she usually would or condemning me about something, she was the cool aunt that I needed her to be in that moment. “I’m so sorry” she uttered, and then she kissed me on my forehead and said “Goodnight. Try not to stay up too late.” When she walked back to her bedroom, I remember not being able to regain my composure until I released the emotions. So I let the hot tears fall down my cheeks, and I continued reading the pages that I had booked-marked – pages I had read over and over again.
In retrospect, I believe that my aunt may have realized the damaging effects that the sexual assault had caused me. I think the fact that I was reading a specific topic related to what happened to me must have been a red flag of concern to her – enough so that even when she sometimes behaved narcissistically towards me, she stopped that behavior long enough to attend to my psychological needs in that moment. At the same time, I had not yet learned of her own personal battle with a terminal illness, and I do not know what she may have been thinking in terms of all of it. Yet, it was a moment that I held onto for a long time.
During my states of dissociation, I somehow made a connection to book that I kept around for years – never quite fully understanding how much the book related to a course of events in my life that changed me in some traumatic ways. Yet, through this book, I would learn a lot of information about my body and about myself. It would become a focal point years later when I would again be encountered by the effects of that brutal assault.
Stay tuned for more posts.
My Voice Unchained 