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It was during a snowstorm in December a few years back that I was called in for my first sexual assault case at Bellevue hospital. I put my phone volume on loud before I got into bed and quietly murmured to my partner at the time how nervous I was about possibly working my first case that night. She reassured me as I fell asleep and the next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sound of my phone ringing. I shot up from my sleep and answered, knowing that on the other end of the line was a nurse who was going to tell me that someone had been sexually assaulted. I rushed to grab all of my materials and note cards before I called a cab to Manhattan. As I sat in the back of the car, I illuminated the scribbled notes I had taken during volunteer orientation to make sure that I could be the best possible advocate to the patient in the ER awaiting my arrival. But it wasn’t the notes on those cards that prepared me for that night.
What I didn’t yet realize was what made me, and so many other advocates, uniquely prepared for this role was my own history as a sexual assault survivor. As I walked up to introduce myself to this patient, I found that I knew exactly how to connect with and walk alongside them in the beginning stages of their healing because it was the support I never received after my assaults.
As an advocate, my role is to be on call at the hospital if a sexual assault or domestic violence survivor comes into the ER. Advocates are there to guide patients through their hospital visit and ensure they get the support they need. That means I explain all the medication options they have (which could include STI prevention meds or Plan B), I talk to them about their reporting options, I’m there to listen if they need to vent or process, I’m there to answer questions that nurses or doctors might not have time to cover, I get them snacks, or ensure their tests aren’t being forgotten about (which can happen in a busy hospital). At times, I have to step in and advocate for a patient with an SVU detective or hospital staff who may be asking inappropriate questions (like what were you wearing?), but usually I’m there to simply walk alongside the survivor to ensure they aren’t going through any of this alone. One of the first things I do when I’m called in is let the patient know what happened wasn’t their fault and affirm their right to say “no” to any of the options being offered to them by hospital staff.
In this work of touching trauma and moving towards healing — both for myself and the patients I walk alongside — I often come back to this quote by Camille Roy in Sisters, Sexperts, Queers: “The body and language intersect.” It’s simple and succinct, yet it gets to the core of how deeply rape culture continues to impact people who have experienced sexual violence even after the impetus of harm. Language is such a powerful tool, which, in the moments after trauma, has the ability to either dig deeper into the wounds or begin to provide small amounts of pain relief. Affirming someone’s autonomy and right to choose what’s best for them in the moment can provide a foundation for healing. In fact, it’s been noted that positive support or advocacy after trauma could reduce symptoms of PTSD later on. However, it’s still our stark reality that as many as 94% of women who are sexually assaulted may experience PTSD symptoms within the first two weeks after an assault. So many survivors don’t have access to the kind of support they need and deserve — they’re isolated and hearing messages of victim blaming reverberate through our society. Advocacy programs like the one I’m part of are far from the norm.
After my assault, I would take hour-long showers, roughly digging bars of soap into my skin because I felt endlessly dirty from what had happened to me. I imagine if someone had been there to tell me it wasn’t my fault, or that my body was a good place to be, or that I had every right to have my boundaries respected, I would’ve been kinder to myself and my body. I offer those affirmations to the patients I work with, restoring their right to not only choose all of the medical options they have for their physical health — but also the language they identify with. Some people don’t want to use the term survivor because it can feel inherently non-consensual; they weren’t given a decision of whether or not they survived the assault. Others may never call what happened to them sexual assault or rape. That’s absolutely okay, because everyone deserves to use language that reflects their truths. People who experience sexual violence are forced to witness the reflexive responses our society has to sexual assault — which usually includes not believing or supporting survivors. Language and the body intersect. How we speak about sexual violence impacts the bodies of sexual assault survivors. It impacts our healing.
Healing doesn’t happen as linear progress, it tends to pull in and then roll back out like the tide of the ocean. You reach a milestone and along with it comes a deeper realization that requires you to head back into the trenches of healing work. Surviving sexual violence means you are being asked to live through the unlivable, to exist beyond the intolerable, to endure that which rots us from the inside out. During an ER visit after sexual assault, all of that begins to bubble up to the surface and as an advocate, it’s my role to hold space for whatever the survivor needs. Sometimes that looks like me silently sitting in a chair next to them during the long hours of waiting for test results or the next round of medication. Other times it looks like me preparing them for what it might be like to give a report to an SVU detective. It always looks like creating space for them to share whatever it is they need in the moment.
They train us on co-survivorship in volunteer orientation — and how to be mindful we don’t carry the weight of someone else’s trauma after a shift. For me, it’s not so much that I carry another person’s trauma, it’s that this work carves out reminders and space for my own healing.
I went years after I was assaulted ignoring my trauma, burying it deep inside and not grappling with it. Holding space for other survivors has been a constant reminder to check-in with myself, to allow deeply rooted layers of trauma to unfold softly, giving myself permission to have spaciousness to unravel and be raw and unrelenting in my healing.
This work has taught me that healing is not bright and shiny the way it’s often marketed to us. There may be no destination of “healed” for so many of us and leaving our trauma in the rearview mirror seems impossible most days. I’ve learned through this work that all of that is okay because the lifelong journey of healing expands our consciousness and allows us to cradle one another gently when we need it most. Together we cultivate this liminal space between trauma and healing to co-exist in the tenderness of it all. This in-between space is where most survivors find a sense of peace and ease.
By the time I started volunteering as a sexual assault advocate, I had found pockets of support through friends and partners but it wasn’t until I began this work that I truly was able to process what had happened to me. The trauma of my assaults had grown down into my bones, nestled in and made a home of my body. I had gotten used to my state of being feeling quite numb because of this — I mastered controlling my emotions and hitting the proverbial “off” button when the trauma began to rear its head. The patients I’ve worked with, their strength and resilience and breakdowns and stoicism remind me the importance of moving through rage and sadness. I realize so much of the work we do after trauma is actually unraveling the narratives of guilt and shame informed by rape culture. I didn’t set out as a volunteer in this capacity, for my own healing and I don’t continue to do it for this reason. Instead, it’s a side effect I’ve been surprised by.
