When The Body Says No

Content: Living with the impacts of sexual violence. It has references to high profile cases. Please take care when reading. Support can be found on The Flying Child resources page.

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I have taken a step back after a difficult couple of weeks, when learned, or conditioned responses to feelings of threat or discomfort, especially when unexpected, occurred in the worst possible scenario.

A professional space.

I’m sharing the below in its original format - as a diary entry - because any further explanation is too outing. My aim isn’t to blame those involved in incident, as I am responsible for myself - more to highlight that triggers - even decades after the traumatic event, are normal, and can be managed when we feel able to express them.

For some of us, friends and family might be the place to speak openly, if they are understanding and supportive. For others, personal therapy or peer support can feel useful. For me, professional supervision, a chat with colleagues, and writing it out feels the most productive.

Far from wanting to perpetuate the myth of the ‘vulnerable survivor,’ my aim is to illustrate the reality of living day to day with child sexual abuse and other trauma. Survivors are not 'vulnerable' when they speak about it. Talking about it is healthy. Masking and silence, less so, at least in my experience. I share, not because I need sympathy or solutions, but because I want to shout from the rooftops -  this is not our shame.

It is theirs. 

I am struggling with my inability to assess and respond to my instinct in a situation that felt ‘off.’ I did what I promised I would never do when the body says no.

I got in a car. 

Like a child, I sat in that backseat. I wanted to get out. But I couldn’t because the door was locked and how could I have asked? I wanted to ask him why we were even there. Why had it happened so fast? I wanted to assess. Respond. But instead I fell headlong into the power trip of a man used to things going his way, who did it for a reason I’m sure of: To prove that he was the man in control. I overrode my instinct that fired the moment I first saw his face. 

I promised I wouldn’t do that again. I promised.

But I did. When I saw his size. His build. Heard his voice. His words. 

I was in a professional setting.

So I shook his hand. I almost lost myself. I couldn’t breathe.

His fingers.

I forgot my name for a brief moment. I was once raped because I got in a car. By a man who opened the door. Like that. Just the same. I overrode instinct and fawned. Did as I was told. Didn’t assess, respond, ask questions. Fell into line. Said yes. Or no. Same difference. Neck extended for execution. Did as I was told.

How familiar that was.

Is. 

I feel disappointed in myself. Because imagine. Imagine.

I could not have kept myself safe, if not-safe was what he wanted, which it wasn’t, not officially at least as it’s more than his job is worth, but I might have been not-safe in his head and that is as dangerous in mine.

Danger.

I sensed it because I have walked side by side with the devil.

Danger and a darkness of soul. Intention of not-safe, when I can’t assess and respond, and I flop and freeze and I friend and fawn, is just as bad. 

And yet. I got in a car. 

I got in a car.

This means I am no better able than that 14 year old girl who got in the car, despite all of the above. 

I am voiceless. 

A doll. Defenceless.

Sarah got in a car with a man. Because he could. Because she couldn’t not.

Milly got in a van: I studied her eyes once to see if she knew what was to come. I’m still undecided.

Carol Ann: Not many know her name. Should have been a bus but they changed her mind.

Holly and Jessica: One went quietly. The other 'put up a fight'. A real struggle. The caretaker.

Sarah got into a van. A yellow cornfield:  A sighting in services on the M6. Who could forget the beautiful eyes of that child.

Sophie got into a car: It’s written in a book. It is stuff of nightmares.

They couldn’t assess, or respond to instinct. They fawned. Said yes. Or nothing. Flopped, froze. Buckled their seatbelt. Knew in an instant because the hairs on the back of their necks told them. Thought their heart would shatter with the fear of it. I buckled my seatbelt. Today.

In his world: 

A locked metal box with white leather. A view of the way forward and out blocked by broad shoulders. He could do anything he wanted. Anything. If he wanted.

And he knew it.

And wanted us to know it too. Flavoured water. Strawberry flavour. A coat. Binoculars. The feel of it. Their gut told them. It screamed loudly so they would listen but it was too late. Because they had got in the car. So they fawned. Smiled. Befriended. Said yes, in case that was their way out.

But they knew. Their gut said. 

They all died. Those women. Those girls.

Apart from one. Luck. Nothing more. Who promised herself she would never allow a situation like that again. Because she would assess. Respond. Speak up. Not fawn, freeze. Say nothing. Flop. Befriend.

I got in a car today that was locked, with a man who held the key. Because he opened the door. A man who 'knows men who know men'. A man who calls on the boys from the North. 

Do you see how men do this? How easy it is?

So yes. I am triggered. Hugely. Eat. Sleep. Think. Work. The vulnerable survivor - as unstable in work as in play. Can’t take her anywhere. Maybe more supervision. Counselling. Has she thought of taking a break? A sabbatical? So inspirational. So brave. It’s a tough job. The emotional toil of it.