Dear Survivor at Christmas (A Survivor's Take on Surviving Christmas)

By Sophie Olson

Content: Child sexual abuse. Rape. Self-injury

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Ahh - that time of year again. Christmas.

I have a love-hate relationship with it. A bit like I do with holidays. And birthdays. And many of the other things that ‘should’ bring me uncomplicated joy. It’s not that I’m a Scrooge - the opposite actually. My house twinkles with fairy lights. I delight in the elf - a commercialised US import some friends complain about - like Halloween and Christmas pajamas: What’s wrong with an old sheet and a carrier bag - and we’re not made of money - the pressure is relentless. But between you and me, I love how finding Elfie frozen in the middle of an activity too rude to mention, possibly involving loo roll and chocolate chips - makes us all laugh out loud. Good memories right there in the making. 

But here’s the hate bit. Well maybe hate is too strong. Here’s the flip side.

Christmas - the seeing family bit - makes me remember child sexual abuse. Because for me -Christmas means going home. (Not on the day, but over the Christmas period). I return to the house where I once counted the hours until Christmas Day. I was raped there. 

I will sit on the same sofa, in the same room where I once stared - aged ten - at the same closed door, willing someone to come in, but also hoping they wouldn’t because I didn’t want them to see what was happening.

I will trip over memories in the hall.

They will steal my breath in the bathroom.

I will walk past my old bedroom where I first realised the secret power of self-injury and how it helped to numb the hurt I had no words for. I will not look inside.

The same click of the same latch on the same door as family arrive will make me remember. As will the crunch of car tyres on the same gravel in the same drive.

The smell of the house will be the same. As will the rural solitude with the same beautiful landscape many long for, but one I spend a lifetime outrunning. The countryside is too empty of eyes.

I will remember sounds of childhood before division that turned tears silent.

I will drink too much wine to keep the smile stitched tightly on my face. For the sake of those I love who deserve an untainted Christmas. I will feel moments of happiness too - and gratitude and love - because life after sexual abuse is not as black and white as many imagine it to be - and I love my family who didn't abuse me. ('The Evil King' left that house a long time ago)

This is not a blog to debate whether or not survivors of child sexual abuse within the family should cut off all contact with their families. It’s a post to acknowledge that neither decision is an easy one. Both come with challenges - mainly a huge amount of sadness or grief - and distressing memories that feel particularly unfair during times like Christmas.

But I am not the only one. I don’t want others to be in the same position but I find it comforting to know I’m not alone. 

If you are a survivor who finds this time of year challenging - I wrote you a letter. I hope there is some comfort to be found in the words:

Dear survivor,

Are you are going home for Christmas or are you hiding as far away as you can get? Maybe you fill the void with friends who hold you. Maybe you don’t have friends because you can’t trust them even though you want to.

Maybe you will spend Christmas alone and mark it in some special way. With marshmallows on your hot chocolate. Or you’ll prefer to sleep away the day under the duvet that’s seen better days. Or you’ll feel railroaded into sharing a space with family - and elephants so huge you find yourself pushed to the edge with all the other secrets. Feeling silenced like before. Or reflecting on how that silence is yet to be broken and mustering up the courage to speak. Or that you did but your words appeared irrelevant somehow. Like a natural disaster - maybe even the end of the world until it moved to the back of other’s minds, leaving you in fragmented parts, scrambling for the pieces. 

Maybe you’re fighting to break the cycle - creating a home where your child waits in bed only for Father Christmas. You’ll delight in their excitement as they delve small hands into striped Christmas stockings - and remember your own, but how it was overshadowed by the thing nobody spoke about. Or pretended they didn’t know about. 

Maybe you chose not to have children but still remember your childhood at Christmas. Or maybe you wanted children but couldn’t - for reasons unknown - or ones you fear relate to a blackening spread of reasons inside you.

Maybe the impacts of child sexual abuse rippled in unexpected ways that made life not turn out in quite the way you hoped- and this feels harder at Christmas. Maybe you blame yourself. Try not to. We live in a world that doesn’t want to fully acknowledge us. Not yet. It’s hard to bloom, to parent, to survive when your childhood is trapped in a shadow. 

Whether you walked away from your family, with relief - and a deep sadness that it had to be this way - or you didn’t walk away because the loss was more than you would survive. Or you’re still trying to figure out what to do for the best. Whichever one it is, I suspect you might be living with ghosts. Me too.

Whoever you are, and whatever your experience - we see you, especially at this time of year. 

Wishing you small (and big) moments of peace. 

With much love

Sophie 🌸

Further support over the Christmas period can be found here