Only a Whisper
Content Warning: This piece includes discussions of sexual violence. Title IX and other resources can be found at the end of the article.
“Falling (Icarus).” Painting by Luca Sára Rozsa.
I never spoke much as a kid. I was painfully shy and struggled to raise my voice above a whisper, terrified that someone would hear my nervous stutter or the improper way I pronounced my “T”s. But years of my mother’s makeshift speech therapy and read-aloud practices gave me the skill and courage to speak with conviction. Once I realized how powerful my voice was, I couldn’t stop talking. I spoke at protests and marches, led meetings and discussions—I spoke, and people listened.
Until he didn’t. Until I said “I don’t want to,” and he heard “yes.” Until he drowned out my “stop”s with reassurances of “it’s okay” and “you’re beautiful.” Until I finally stopped speaking and he took it as an invitation for more. I had no voice and, in that moment, there was nothing for me left to say.
Except “no.” I never technically said “no.” It was like I was eleven-years-old again, refusing to speak unless spoken to, fearful of what might happen when I do. I let my words die in my throat, let my vocal chords turn to ash. I let this happen to me because I wasn’t strong enough to make it stop. I spent the first few months after that night desperately trying to convince myself that I did something wrong. That it was my fault. That I drank too much that night, I let him in the door, I talked to him. How could anyone be to blame but me? If he were responsible, then he would be in pain, not me. He would have to pick up every piece that was shattered, not me. He ruined me, ruined my body—if I didn’t deserve it, then why do I have to live with it?
There were days when I couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing the places that he touched. I wanted to peel my skin off, scrub at it until it was raw and bleeding because that was the only way I could possibly feel clean again.
But blood stains and flesh heal in jagged lines and I’d be damned if I let him mark me in red one more time. Instead, I tried to find my voice again. I was the feminist and activist of my hometown community: I organized women’s marches and advocated for justice for sexual assault survivors. I could speak up. I made the report, I did the interviews, talked to the counselors—and I had never felt more silenced. The narrative was ripped from my hands, twisted to make me out to be a liar. Nobody was listening, nobody believed me, and, frankly, I was exhausted. So I gave up.
I dropped my case and spent months berating myself for being so weak. What happened to all of my inner strength? I told myself that I should’ve tried harder, that I did all the wrong things. People would believe me if what happened was true, wouldn’t they? Clearly it must have been my fault.
Sometimes, I would hold my breath until I couldn’t any longer. I needed my chest to ache, my lungs to scream desperately for air, to scream just like I wanted to. I was drowning, but I was content to swim deeper into the water. That’s the thing about self-destruction—it hurts beyond belief, but at least I was the one doing the hurting. Not him. This time, I could place the blame on myself and I could justify my emotions. If I refused to get out of bed, refused to take my medication, or refused to eat for days, that was on me. I tore myself apart so that I could have the responsibility of building myself back up again. So that I could be the one in control.
I was in control, but I lived each day waiting to be claimed by the ground where I stood, rotting. And yet, he existed untouched, unmarred by the consequences of his actions. How cruel it was that he could have every college experience he wanted while I stood on the sidelines and watched. I spent my first semester of college terrified of running into him, avoiding campus life at all costs. Each building was marked with yellow caution tape—neon barriers blocked off the dinning hall, the library, the gym. I forbade myself from existing outside of class and my dorm, for months stumbling through an agoraphobic dance. How could I summon the courage to go outside when I might see his curly hair, his graphic tees, his faux-feminist persona that made me believe that he was safe? I couldn’t go about my day with the crushing weight of knowing that his hands have touched my own, that he entered my space and broke me; I couldn’t let that happen again.
But I was doing myself a disservice. I paid my dues; a singular person could not dictate my presence on this campus. He may have hurt me once, but he could not kill me. No, I couldn’t let him win. Aren’t I allowed to exist? He’s only a man. He doesn’t get to be a god, to tell me where I can and cannot be. I am my own savior, I will speak my own gospel, and I will cast light where I choose.
I suppose that’s how I wished it to be. In painting this image of empowerment, I can say that it’s no more than a facade, a simple false reality that I must now taint with the truth. The callouses on the palms of hands, my ragged cuticles, and nervous finger tapping—they remind me of my mortality. I’m not equipped to be a savior; my strength evades me in times of need. The only thing I can do is swallow my fear and cross the line that divides me and him. There’s no grand show of power, only the simple permission to be present in places even if I am afraid—even if he’s there. He cannot haunt me forever and I cannot haunt myself with the ghosts of “what if”s. That’s the thing about self-destruction: when I finally stopped drowning and I lifted my head above water, I experienced the sweetest relief. I deserved to breathe, I deserved to heal, to be happy again.
Over half a year has passed since that night. I always imagined that there was a deadline for healing. It’s irrational, I know, but I have this belief that once enough time has elapsed, I have to get over it. I kept falling into a cycle of thinking that I’m strong and confident, on top of the world, and then the very next day, I’m tumbling out of the sky, wax and feathers trailing behind me as I plummet to the ground. My mind tells me that I don’t want to be a broken body on the floor because, eventually, people stop caring. I won’t be an object of concern, only an inconvenience that needs to be sidestepped. There can be no more wallowing in pity, or else I would only be dramatizing the situation more and dragging others down with me. This is a burden of my own that I should not and cannot keep talking about. And yet I do.
Sometimes, I feel like a fraud for saying that I’m recovering. It’s been said that there are five stages of grief, but I only really know the second and third. Acceptance and I are only brief acquaintances—it appears for a fleeting moment then disappears just as fast. I’d consider myself to be much closer with anger and sadness. They boil my blood, make me want to scream at the top of my lungs, and sob until my throat is raw, but in a twisted way, I love it. I know them; I understand them. To leave anger and sadness behind is to leave my comfort zone.
But comfort is not growth—and I want to grow. I have a long journey ahead of me on the road to acceptance, but I can take another step. I will learn to use my voice again. I will sit in the same bed that he hurt me in and I will take back the words he stole from my mouth. I will write, shrouded in my cloak of anonymity, and I will go back to how it all started: with a whisper.
Resources
Swarthmore Title IX Office — 610-690-3720 | titleix@swarthmore.edu
RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) — 1-800-656-4673