‘Victim’ is not my identity

My abuse as a convenient scapegoat was utilised again not so long ago by another serious partner. Weeks after I said I wanted space, I received a letter from him. He kindly explained that he understood that I wasn’t over “what happened”. He compassionately offered to continue as we were, without sex. I thought to myself “Why on earth would I want that?” He then went on to recommend that I get back into therapy.

Unfortunately for him, I didn’t realise that not wanting to be with him was so strongly indicative of severe mental abnormality. So I also didn’t realise that I was in desperate need of treatment. I was over my childhood as I was over the relationship. But he too had been indoctrinated with the idea that all problems stem from upbringing and that consequently childhood trauma explains away any other problems later in life.

I love that my abuse was not an issue that achieved even a minute of conversation time in the three years of regular sex but was the fundamental cause of my relationship endings. Quite oxymoronic really.

Enduring an abusive childhood does not play fate with one’s future. Influences it? Yes, enormously; but determining it? No.

Each person’s choices are as limited or as vast as their circumstances allow. However, I do not contend that any life event determines one’s future. You cannot find cause and effect relationships between particular experiences and life outcomes. While it may be easy to explain away my bad moods, sad days, or seemingly disinterest in sex; it can be just as easy to blame PMS, sleep deprivation, the frustrations of everyday life or the possibility that I’m “just not that into you”.

Filtering me through the lens of “victim” applies to my good moods too. Many of my friends tell me that I am “amazing” and that I am their “inspiration”. I can’t help but wonder if I was just as impressive before I told them that I was abused. Or is their admiration perhaps because they would expect me to be full of self- pity and with needle in arm? I contemplate that perhaps my friends shower me with so much praise not because it is warranted, but for each day that I do not fulfil the role of victim, I am fulfilling another - that of the person working against adversity.

You know the one - their bio normally reads like this:

Overcame traumatic childhood, depression in adolescence, dissociative symptoms and self destructive behaviour patterns. Ridiculously high level of school truancy and thus, subsequent failure. Shifted schools several times and strung from one unlikely boyfriend to another with a peculiarly large number of men twice her age proposing marriage. Overcame unstable working class upbringing and self-sabotaging tendencies to study at university and turn her life around.

In reality I am neither of these characters. I am me, Kathryn. My life is not intriguing and I am in no need of pity. I do not want to be any identity that society presumes me to be because of something that I experienced 20 years ago. I am trying to pave my own path - not walk one that has been laid out for me.

Rape is a tough issue for anyone to discuss, but not discussing it doesn’t take away its existence. If I am able to speak to you about my life I am leaving the door open for questioning. You don’t ask because in all of this new age counselling rubbish, we, as a society, have at some point become too polite to ask questions.

But this is illogical. What can you say that could hurt me more than I have already been hurt? Nothing. But logic rarely prevails. If I made this disclosure verbally, you would look at me hoping that your face gave off no expression. You would continue as though it weren’t mentioned and you will act as though you only heard it in passing. But you remember. Because never again will you speak of rape in front of me and should you, it will be phrased in a way to sympathise and will epitomise political correctness. I am no longer another girl; I am that girl - the one who was molested by her father.

I do not take away that sex crimes, incest and child abuse are abhorrent, but merely suggesting that childhood trauma doesn’t determine personality. My mother endured my maladjustment. She tolerated my violent outbursts and held me through my tears. I mention this as I do not want to be seen to be trivialising these events. I do not want anyone to think that any sort of reaction is over the top or that I can sit here and write that victimhood is a “choice” and it is that simple.

I am writing this almost 20 years after the event, and after many years of therapy. But at no point have I felt that my life has been terrible by any stretch of the imagination, so I therefore refuse to be prescribed to the cult that is victimhood.