TIDE OF ANXIETY PART 1: he battle within myself felt endless. My mind fought to control my body, my self-worth, and my perception of the world.”

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panic-attack5“You educate a man; you educate an individual. You educate a woman; you educate a generation.” (Brigham Young)

Education has always been my lifeline. It has always taken precedence over everything else in my life because it determined my value. This premise is very fallacious because human beings are multi-faceted entities thus an individual’s value cannot be summed up by one facet. This may seem very obvious to some of you, but this is something that I’ve only come to understand recently. As you can imagine, the acknowledgment of this fact would have saved me a great deal of time, pain and energy, but then again what is life, if not a learning experience? 

July 2009 marked the beginning of my self-hatred and the gradual breakdown of my buoyancy. A Tet offensive had begun, and my spirit and soul were collateral damage. My quintessential being was crumbling by the minute.

Kenya has been described as the cradle of mankind but for me, it was the cradle of tokoloshes for many, many years.

My room was filled with darkness and tokoloshes. I tried to distract myself by watching some episodes of a TV show on my laptop, but it was barely making a dent in the darkness, let alone saving me from myself. I was so preoccupied with the release of my first semester results that I was working myself into a cycle of severe anxiety attacks. My chest was stiff, my heart was palpitating, my blood vessels were constricted, my vision was blurry, actually it was almost obsolete, my whole body was shaking and I was sweating profusely. The battle was between my mind and my mind. The winner would control my body, outer perception, self-worth and resilience.

Any depressed individual can tell you that depression and self-loathing are synonymous. You spend half the time alienating yourself from society and the other half, trying to run away from your mind. Your pride tells you not to infect others with your disease but your heart longs for someone’s loving embrace. Depression as you can imagine is an uphill battle, now couple it with severe anxiety, and you have the perfect death cocktail.

…

The battle had begun. Oxygen was on the offense and had congregated in my nasal cavity. The first military advancement was unsuccessful; to be honest it put the Bay of Pigs fiasco to shame. A new offensive had to be launched to save my body from utter annihilation. Oxygen launched a ballistic missile down my pharynx into my airways. My ribs held a steady line of defense, they remained constricted and heavy. As the missile worked its way down my respiratory system, a shadow of excruciating pain covered my body. At this point, any normal person would have passed out. As the missile reached its target, pits of fire ran down my trachea. My trachea was set ablaze and the inferno was so strong, it sent electric vibrations down my spine that resembled the exhaust pipe vibration of a McLaren Mp4-12C. Although my anxiety attack only lasted a couple of minutes, it felt like I was under attack for a day or two.

For those of you that have never had an anxiety attack, let’s try a little exercise. Take a very deep breathe, hold it and pinch your nose (Please do not do this for too long, as you’ll harm yourself). Now close your eyes and imagine you are being forced to fight Manny Pacquiao in a boxing arena filled with thousands of people. You’ve never fought anyone before, so you’re not only an amateur, you’re an amateur whose about to get your ass whooped. Adrenaline has your heart palpitating, your chest is tight and your mind is being suffocated with detestable and violent thoughts. The crowd starts hurling insults at you, the room goes dark and those insults start floating in front of your eyes. You start yelling back, trying to defend yourself but the harder you protest, the louder they get and the more breathless you become. Now Pacquiao represents your biggest fear and the crowd is your mind. Anxiety attacks are trigger by different things for different people, the severity and duration of the attack depends on how quickly you’re able to counter your negative thoughts and control your breathing. Individuals who’ve had anxiety attacks can tell you, it truly is mind over matter!

panic-thoughts

If you had or have been having anxiety attacks please seek medical attention.

…

As you can imagine, I barely slept the night before the release of the results. I only fell asleep at half past two am. I was infected by one nightmare until half past eight in the morning. I dream’t that I had to go to my department to obtain my results, which had been published on the notice board. As I stepped out of the elevator, I was immediately surrounded by every single UCT students and lecturer. They all heckled and laughed at me, as my transcript was full of DPR’s. They told me I was a failure; I would never amount to anything and my lack of intelligent was the reason I got raped. Now obviously, none of those students knew my grades, neither did they know I had been raped. In addition, I knew I had bombed that semester, but there was a huge delusional part of me, that was praying for a miracle. I hadn’t managed to write any of my assignments, let alone hand them in. This meant I wasn’t allowed to write my exams; but I was still holding onto the delusion that managed to pass all my exams.

As I said above, July 2009 marked the destruction of my self-worth, what I did not tell you is, it also distorted my perception of reality. The minute I saw my results in black and white, I began to think of myself as a failure, and therefore began to behave as one. I had been captured by the formidable tide of self-doubt and I was directing my own requiem.

 

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Kenyan Turf. (read with caution, as content is intense, especially if your a rape victim or individual panic/anxiety)

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We’ve all seen the posters or heard the catchphrases used to describe home. Some read home sweet home, or home is where the heart is, or a home is where hopes and dreams are built! In the past these phrases not only reflected my emotions towards my family home but they mirrored my feelings towards my motherland. Kenya was my cradle, my hope, safe place and my love. It was the place I’d learnt to walk, ride a bike, read and write, relate to nature and be whole. Kenya runs through my veins and is engraved in my heart! But in June 2009, it was the fountain of hell that my rapist ruled!

I arrived in my homeland at 7:30 pm on the 9th of June. Everything felt and looked different. There was a morose dusk that surrounded the Nairobi air. The morose dusk made my homeland foreign, the people seemed very friendly and happy, which made me very suspicious of them. I was certain these weren’t the same people I knew and loved, these were not my people, but my rapist’s people; this was a fact I had to digest and remember from now on. As I finished clearing immigration and walked out of the departure terminal, I saw all these bright faces staring at me. In reality they were there to meet their loved ones, but in my reality they were there to subdue me and complete my destruction. My heart started racing, my palms were sweating and my breaths were short and difficult to swallow. The panic attack was about to commence, if I couldn’t get my rationality in order. Oh Lord! Where is mum? Where is my protection? As my fears were raining terror on me, my mum was walking towards me. I spotted her and felt a sigh of relief. She hugged me and welcomed me home. There is something so precious and pure about a mother’s touch or rather any parent’s embrace. Her embrace felt like a soft touch over my heart, her voice was a calming force, my nerves were now as calm as a saint’s paradise. I was home! I was safe!

…

A few days had passed and home seemed to be a minor solace. On the forty winks frontier, home had added two extra hours, so rather than sleeping two hours a night, I was sleeping four hours. This was a grave improvement. Although, I still could not sleep without my laptop playing movies, and my night terrors were still severe, and I had very little bladder control; I still felt that my nights were better. In addition, rather than my nightmares being a replay of my rape, the nightmares were now about being attacked by my rapist in my childhood room, and this time my sister and mum were there to defend me and defeat him.

That said, I completely refused to leave the house and I had fits of tears. Most people believe and some therapists will tell you, that crying is healthy, as it acts as a form of release. I totally agree with this assertion, but for a patients suffering from untreated PTSD and depression, tears aren’t a form of release, but a smoldering branding of your anguish and torture. The harder you weep, the harder the pain beats you down! In all honestly, the only thing that could release me from my agony, was the death of my rapist. His death was not going to be short and painless; his demise was to be painful and very fulfilling. I imagined burning the hands he used to hold and stretch my legs apart with battery acid. Then I’d water board him until he explained to me why he raped me. I didn’t want an apology because I knew that wouldn’t mend my hymen, I wanted an explanation to prove to me that I wasn’t to blame. After getting my confession, I’d use a sharp and scorching tiny knife to cut off his boy parts, one ball at a time. As you can see, I wanted transference of my pain. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I wished evil thoughts on my rapist, the fact of the matter was he was living his life contentedly, and marinating in the affection of his EASOC followers. So for those of you who’ve been raped or experienced a traumatic event, your anger, pain, sorrow, and grieve are very justified. Anyone who tries to tell you any different has no right to define your emotions. However, VIOLENCE IS NOT THE ANSWER, VIOLENCE WILL NOT ERASE, NOR WILL IT ALLEVIATE YOUR PAIN! THE ONLY WAY TO BEAT YOUR TRAUMA IS TO WALK RIGHT THROUGH IT. ACKNOWLEDGE IT, FEEL IT AND BEAT IT! I really wish someone had reiterated this to me over and over again!

Anyway back to the story, like I said above, I completely refused to leave the house voluntarily. I was certain that anytime I tried to leave the house, my rapist would find me and rape me again. In Cape Town, I could walk out of my prison because I knew he had relocated to Nairobi, but in Nairobi, I could not risk such heroics. Unfortunately because my family did not know what was going on with me, I had to carry on like I was normal. Normal is a very subjective and expensive commodity, but rather than admit my shame, I chose to pay the price and sacrifice the little energy I had. This is how my mum and sister got me out of the house; and each time we went to the grocery store, or out for lunch, I was on high alert and my heart would thump like a repetitive alarm system. Going to church was the hardest thing because church was now a battlefield rather than I place where I found tranquility and truth. God’s presence was terrifying because I was convinced I would spontaneously combust. This irrational fear was supported by my catholic upbringing. Catholic’s, especially priests and nuns, have a very effective way of putting the fear of God in you, especially when you’re young. When I was catholic I thought God was angry and unforgiving, like he was in the Old Testament. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that the Old and New Testament form the entirety of the Christian doctrine, but God is not an angry divinity that delights in punishing his children, instead he is merciful and forgiving, and longs to know his children. Unfortunately in 2009 and a few years after, I was disinterested in his love or attention.  I was livid and ashamed, not to mention, positive God did not love me anymore. I mean how could he love me like he did before? I was soiled now.  I believed that God thought of me, the way I had been forced to think of myself. I hated myself and I was sure God did too. So without my spiritual father and a family in the dark, who was going to protect me from my rapists? Who was going to slay my monsters and unchain me from my suffering? These thoughts intensified my pain and tears. They kept me on my toes and took away any hope I had. So even though my family was near, I was still in the wilderness alone. This was emphasized the day that my uncle came to visit.

My Uncle has been one of my father figures since my dad died. Even though my mum excelled in being mum and dad, having my uncle and brothers around ensured I had brilliant male influences. My uncle was the first person to take me to Mombasa, he was the first Kenyan male to challenge and sharpen my political and social opinions. Basically he is not only a male figure in my life; he is also someone I can always lean on. So when I moved to the Cape it was agreed that I would meet him for lunch every time I was in Nairobi, which to be honest was most vacations; unfortunately June 2009 was going to be the hardest meet up with him. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was about 10 o’clock, I was in my room as usual watching a movie or TV series, when I started hearing voices. My first thought was that my mum was having a random guest, but the closer I listened, the more I recognized the voice. It was my beloved uncle. I was super excited for a few seconds, until my irrationality kicked in. Within 5- 15 seconds I had gone from happy to absolute fear. My first thoughts were:

“How I’m going to hide the truth from him? Can I trust him? Do I trust him enough to tell him the truth? What if I told him the true and he disowned me and blamed me?”

Before I had the chance to formulate an intelligent strategy I was being called to the living room. I hugged my uncle and tried my hardest to avoid eye contact. Eventually my nerves calmed down, my heart rate reduced and everything was fine. Unfortunately, mum needed to leave. My first question, was, is she seriously going to leave me alone with my him? Yes, I know what you’re thinking, of course she was, this was her brother who had done nothing but love and protect me since I was born. But believe me when fear rules your life, facts become friction and delusion becomes fact. Until today, I cannot remember if my uncle and I went out for lunch. All I remember is the utter trepidation I felt. The hammering that my heart did and the abundant stomach cramps I had. As I’m writing this, I can see how ridiculous my fears towards my uncle were but at that time no amount of fact could have overpower my fears. Looking back, I really wish I had, had the courage to tell my family sooner about my rape, as they’re support has been nothing but paramount to my recovery.

If you’ve been raped or experienced any form of trauma, I cannot emphasize the importance of support enough. You need to confide in someone. Leaning on the right people or person in your time of need, doesn’t make you weak; it only guarantees your recovery and lightens your load! Sometimes the only way to slay your darkness is by allow others to join your battlefield.

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©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Awake, The Tormentor Part 2! Explore the story of survival after trauma, dealing with depression, and finding hope through faith and support.

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Woman victim behind glass

(copyrights huffingtonpost-cpap-ptsd-nightmares)

 

Awake was just another state of enslaving myself.

The brain can either be a powerful ally or foe. In my case, it was a foe.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find rest while sleeping, because that’s when I replayed of my rape. The less I slept, the more fatigued I was and the more intense my delusion and paranoia became; and the further away my tripolar opposites became. The only thing that could help me was having peace of mind, but peace meant the beginning of my renaissance, and a renaissance is impossible without death. Death and birth are classic oxymoron, they both relay on each other and they both contradict each other. This chapter marks the inauguration of my insanity and depression!

Depression is defined as: “an illness that can serious impair all aspects of a person life, including personal relationships, performances at work and personal enjoyment of leisure activities.”(Lundbeck)

Depression gets complicated to detect and diagnose, because every single person will have a different set of symptoms and react to the presence of these symptoms differently[1]. In my opinion, the above definition of depression is too simplistic and doesn’t serve this disease justice. I’ve struggled with depression since 2009 and I can tell you, it can alter everything you hold dear in life. It kills every ounce of hope you ever possessed. Ithemba liyaphilisa (Hope causes one to live). A person deprived of hope, is a walking corpse, thus I describe depression as lifelessness. It’s not a death without resurrection, as its curable, but as long depression exists, you’re lifeless. My depression was a lifeless addiction to morbid darkness.

After the EASOC meeting, I didn’t leave my room for about two weeks. The more I isolated myself, the more paranoid I got. In an effort to assist me to study and get out of my room, Vuyo enlisted me to go to the computer lab. I think she was hoping that a change of environment plus the vision of other students getting on with their assignments would inspire me to do the same. Honestly, it took everything I had to get out of bed and look sensible enough to hide my secret. Unfortunately, this meant getting into the shower and engaging in the cleansing ritual. For an equivalent of two weeks or so, I had not taken a shower, brushed my teeth or washed my face. I was dead inside and had no intention of appearing any different. Anyway, due to the high regard I have for Vuyo, I gathered all my strength and energy and prepared myself for the task ahead. Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t seek additional medical assistance. Well, as far as I was concerned, I was fine. I was taking my trauma in stride, acting gracefully and appropriately in front of my peers and doing my best to survive. Besides, the number one concern was who was going to believe me? So rather than incur the added burden of rejection, I decided to bare my cross alone!

Secondly, I knew for a fact I wasn’t depressed, because depression was not in my vocabulary. It was a word that described insane people. Those filthy individuals I saw as a child roaming the streets aimlessly with natty dreadlocks, tattered coal covered clothing and frantically singing or speaking to themselves. THAT WAS NOT ME! THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT ME! Hahahahahaha. Believe me; the wit behind this utterance was going to reveal itself soon, very, very soon.

So as Vuyo and I trekked our way from middle to upper campus, we spoke and laughed. About what you ask? I genuinely do not recall. I honestly, do not think I was paying enough attention to adequately engage, let alone remember that conversation, my main role in this production, was to play a convincing Maryanne.

However, I recall how precious the crisp fresh air was to me, how gorgeous the ruby field appeared and how interesting my fellow students looked as we passed them by. They looked so care free; they had perfect complexions and wrinkle free faces. Their smiles were bright and brilliant white. These individuals fascinated me, because they represented the me I had lost!

Upon arrival to the lab, my biggest fear of being gawked at was realised. People knew, they could read the writing on my forehead and were taking the piss out of me. My heart began to race faster than the Hennessey Venom. My nerves were palpitating like they were engrossed in a marathon race with Paul Tergat and my body had the shakes like this was its penultimate mission in life. So in an attempt to capture some ounce of control and support from my fellow human being, I asked Vuyo:

“why the hell people are staring at me?”

 And of course I couldn’t whisper my question, I had to ask piercingly. Vuyo laughed and said:

“It’s because you’re singing at full volume. You broke into song the minute we touched down in the computer lab. You’ve been passionately singing a gospel song and smiling wildly!”

I was utterly shocked and devastated. My glass ceiling was shattered! I could see tiny fragments of my sanity lying on the floor for everyone to see. My gig was up. The curtains had come down and everyone was on their feet, giving me a standing ovation.

“Wooohoooo! She’s done it; she’s unmasked the phantom of her sanity. Bravo! Bravo!”

…

After my last performance, you can imagine that my next appearances were few and far apart. I only left my room to buy groceries, mind you, I don’t know why I bothered, I rarely ate let alone cooked. I also only left to try and salvage my grades for the semester, but honestly there was no hope, I had not done any assignments after my rape and quite honestly the more I tried to think analytically, the more my insanity would appear. In addition, when I tried to seek advice from one of the student advisor about the possibility of erasing this semester from my academic record to save my average, her response was:

“Maryanne, this university has rules that everyone has to abide by. The university is not here to bend rules for you and work around your problems. Yes, it’s sad that you got raped but it’s your responsibility to fulfil your end of the deal and for us to do the same!”

So I gave up trying on the academic frontier. Eventually my fatigue and my nightmares took a hold of me and I remained in a state of essential unconsciousness until the day of my disappearance.

…

It’s the 9th of June, the day I’m departing back to my homeland. My flight to Johannesburg is at 10:50am, which means I have to be at the airport by 9:50am. Alas, I woke up to a startling sound of a man’s voice at the end of the line. My phones ringtone echoed in the mist of my nightmare. Death had become somewhat of a recurring comfort in my dreams, so when my phone rang that morning, for a few seconds, it just bounce me back and forth into a limbo with my consciousness and unconsciousness. After about five seconds, I answered the phone like a lethargic robot and got the proverbial slap in the face from my male cab driver. He was informing me that he was on his way, and would be at my residence in twenty to thirty minutes. I leapt into action and got ready. Until this day, I have no idea how I did it, but I finished packing the remainder of my stuff and showered in under thirty minutes…

The drive to the airport and the first flight was uneventful. When I arrived at Johannesburg I was worn-out and it showed. So I found a safe and quiet place to sit and wait to board my flight. The idea was to try and relax and mentally prepare myself for being at home. Home was no longer my safe haven; it was the country I shared with my rapist. Regrettably, my brain had other plans, other than relaxation. I started panicking about my suitcase and trying to remember whether I needed to check my bags in again, then I thought they had left my luggage behind. I stood up so quickly and started rushing around to the other side of the airport. Then half way there, I realised I had checked my bags in straight to Nairobi. So I ran back to international departures, found an isolated and safe place to sit. But before I could relax I was running again going to check on my luggage. I played this cat and mouse game until I completely burnt myself out. I had nothing else to give. I slouched back into the bench and shut out the rest of the world. I was unable to hear, smell or feel anything. I was numb and happy. While I dimed down my senses, I missed the fact that a random male person had come to sit next to me, and I missed the boarding call for my flight. Thank the Lord for that stranger, because he not only helped by pulling me back to reality, he helped me check in and clear immigrations. I didn’t know it then, but my God in heaven was certainly looking out for me and had never forsaken me. He had been infront me all the way and was anointing my steps throughout my trauma.

The Lord is faithful and his love endures always!

In hindsight, I really wish I had been honest with my family, close friends and doctor about my struggles because they would have reminded me of God’s love and kept me anchored to reality!

I need you reading this to remember, Joy will always come in the morning and God is always there for you. All you have to do is trust him and ask him to comfort you. Recovery from any trauma, is difficult and long but believe me, it’s possible. You just need the right therapist, support group and doctor. God loves you! God loves you and WILL NEVER FORESACK YOU.

This song has gotten me through difficult times, hope it does the same for you.

Uyangithanda

 

[1] For further information on depression, visit, www.lundbeck.com.

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

DENIAL!

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Denial and I conversed, and we agreed I should keep quiet and live in an oasis of pretense. Yes, I had told Vuyo, A and Dr Cornell, but as soon as I re-entered my four wall dungeon, I enslaved myself with untruth. I signed a deceitful treaty with denial to secure my peace. The treaty required me to keep up appearances, weep in the confines of my prison and never face reality. This seemed like a very small price to pay in order to retain my sanity. Ironically, silence, pretense, and psychological denial were the very things that destroyed my sanity. They drove me into a land of delusion. I now lived in a dichotomous world of impossibility, where denial fought the truth. Truth reigned in my sub-conscious, while my conscious mind was governed by denial.

The first thing that suffered from my treaty was sleep. In order for any person to sleep, their mind has to be relaxed or in a state of partial Zen. Your thoughts have to be gentle and at the back of your mind. My mind was in a constant state of reflection; it roared like a Ford Mustang and raced across the track like a Buggatti Veyron. Gentle thoughts were non-existent in my mind, both my conscious and unconscious mind were riddled by deep and dark images. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face and the act of rape that he had committed. Then those seven insulting words rang simultaneously like a cacophony between the piano and harpsichord. Since I had so graciously chosen to honor my Kikuyu roots and suffer in silence, I signed slumber’s arrest warrant and welcomed American motion pictures into my bed. As long as my laptop played movies or series, my sanity could escape into a monarchy of fantasy. Motion pictures kept my nightmares a bay, but unfortunately no amount of TV could stop me from sleeping, especially not after being prescribed sedatives. I cannot recall the nightmares I sustained in the first month, but I do recollect they revolved around death, being attacked, abandonment issues, and ghastly shadows.

My rapist was my first enemy and sleep became his vicious accomplice. After being raped sleep or any form of unconsciousness serves as a cruel form of punishment. It becomes a channel to replay your rape over and over again. It does not serve as a way to rest the mind but it serves as an effective method of torture. Imagine being detained in a dark, isolated room filled with huge screens and high definition sound. Each time you attempt to close your eyes and rest, you’re pumped with shots of adrenaline and forced to keep watching. That is what rape victims endure every time they fall sleep.

For me, my laptop became my companion and defense Major General. He was there for me through thick and thin, he heard me cry and comforted me, he protected me from my own negativity and nightmares by making me laugh and illuminating my room at night. The irony of course being that my laptop personified a male being. The very gender that had violated me was the very gender that I trusted to protect me. This is how effective the patriarchal system could be. My laptop replaced my friends and personified the human companion I needed. The scariest thing for me was darkness, especially when I could not sleep.  I did not want to draw attention to myself by switching on the light and leaving it on, so my laptop acted as my convert defense against darkness and intrusion. The fears I had as a little girl had resurfaced and been amplified to a different height. Instead of just being afraid of external monsters with unrealistic peripheral features, I was now also petrified of the ogre that lay within. The Ogre that lived within wasn’t time conscious he attacked at any time, day or night, because his darkness did not relied on nightfall but rather relied on self-criticism, self-hatred, self-alienation, shame, guilt and any negative emotion that could overpower positive reinforcements. So as much as my journey has been long and full of error, I’d be amiss not to advice you seek medical attention if you feel any of the above feelings, because ignoring your trauma will not make it go away but it will rather length the healing process and cause psychological harm.

My academic performance was the second thing to sustain irreparable mutilation.  Now as much as I would like to sit here and tell you I was an A* student, I’d only be lying. However my grades were above average, and most importantly I loved and understood everything my lecturers taught. All my life I had keenly followed current events. So imagine my delight when I not only got to study these political events, but I also got to analyze the theories, philosophies, economic and social factors that catalyzed these events.  In those days not even death itself could stop me from attending those lectures but as soon as I was raped nothing could get me out of bed. I mean really, I could barely motivate myself to shower; now I not only had to cleanse myself but I had to concentrate and act like Middle Eastern policies would be enough to fix my current realities? Funny thing was, I was desperately seeking any form of escape, and even though my studies could have offered me that escape, they required much more energy than my body possessed. Sadly, I lacked the basic energy needed to be honest with myself; therefore the graduate future I had worked so hard to secure, was now hemorrhaging from shrapnel wounds it would incur for next few months. Those few months would destroy my academic future for what feels like forever.

A leave of absence could have prevented the wounds that my grades suffered but this solution came with its own complications. A leave of absent required me to tell my family what had been done to me, and quite honestly I was so petrified of telling them that I chose to deal with this alone, in a foreign country.

Secondly, a leave of absence meant I would be doing nothing else but trauma therapy and for therapy to even begin I’d have to be cognizant with my rape and I wasn’t planning to do that, as I had signed a treaty with denial. So as long as my inability to face reality was in play, my academic future would continue to loom over my head and my new obsession would take effect.

Here is what I’ve learnt so far.

  • A rape victim cannot recover from rape alone, asking for help does not make you weak, neither does admitting to yourself and others that you got raped.
  • Denying any trauma’s existence whether it is rape, car accident, emotional or physical abuse does not solve the problem, if anything it makes the problem worse and harder to deal with. Seek any form of medical attention. If you are in Kenya, go to your nearest clinic and ask them to direct you to the nearest therapist. If you live in Nairobi specifically, go to Nairobi Women’s hospital and they will assist.

If you live in South Africa or London or USA contact rape crisis center.

  • Escapism whether with technology, alcohol or drugs also only amplifies the problem and makes it worse. Long term escapism and denial has real psychological effects whether it is depression, deep dissociation behavior, alienation and loss of touch from reality.
  • Lastly, without proper cognitive health everything can seem and prove to be impossible. Negativity, self-loathing, self-criticism, only act as barriers of success and opportunities. So ask for support and care from positive people, and set aside any pride or shame that may try and deter you from asking for assistance.
  • Yes, you are the captain of your ship, but every captain has crew members that support him through his or her journey!

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Hours after my rape: The Silent Struggles of Acute Stress Disorder After Rape!

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Hours after my rape[2], my brain was not only bruised but hemorrhaging from the massive trauma it had incurred. I was experiencing paranoia, hysteria, and confusion. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I had just been violated in my dorm room, by someone I had thought of as a friend. I know now, that I was suffering from acute stress disorder (ACD), but at the time I thought I was losing my mind.

ACD is a medical condition that develops during or shortly after a trauma. ACD manifests itself through behavioural changes that affect you for at least a month, after which, it develops into post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). [3]

                                        …

I spent the better part of the evening in Vuyo’s room trying to calm down and process what had just happened. As soon as I could, I dimmed down my hysteria and tried to explain to her what had happened. You would think repeating a traumatic event that had just occurred a few hours before would be a simple task, but it wasn’t. My memory was full of gaps, thus I could only recollect bits and pieces. How was it possible to remember some parts of my rape and at the same time forget others? I thought to myself.  As soon as I was done talking, Vuyo gave me her two cents. She was certain that the short EASOC boy had taken advantage of me and I had done nothing to warrant his sexual advances. A part of me agreed with her but, another part refused to believe that a guy I had trusted could have raped me. I slowly drifted into my own train of thought and decided to piece together what had taken place.

I remember letting him into my room. I was rather emotional and my state of mind was not the best. I told him about my day and what had been upsetting me, this immediately triggered a wave of emotions and tears. He offered to cheer me up and downloaded a movie called Amelie. I hated the movie as it made me rather uncomfortable but I chose to remain silent about my discomfort. The next thing I remember was him on top of me and this initiated an out of body experience. I watched him violated me but couldn’t do anything to stop him. I replayed the assault over and over in my mind but I couldn’t fill in the gaps; and the harder I tried, the more frustrated I became and the more unanswered questions I got. For instance, How did he get on top of me? I thought.

Did he push me down or was I already lying down and then he decided to take advantage of me?

Does lying down next to the opposite sex constitute non-verbal consent?

Is cheering up a synonym for sex?

Did he really penetrate my vagina and break my hymen?

If he did, wouldn’t I have felt it?

Shouldn’t I have felt excruciating pain?

I’m I going to get pregnant now?

Did he infect me with an STD?

Why the fuck couldn’t he have used a condom?

Better yet, why the fuck couldn’t he have paid someone to have sex with him if he was so desperate?

In the midst of my inquisition, I realized I had left my airtime in his car. I jolted back into cognitive consciousness and yelled out; “He has my airtime.” I imagine if you were an outsider watching this, it must have looked like I had gone into V-fib and some unseen spirited had compressed life back into me, all in the while alarming my friend with my erratic behaviour. I watched Vuyo for a few minutes then repeated my earlier allegation.

“He has my airtime, he has my fucking airtime”.

“Airtime? What are you talking about?” Vuyo said.

“I bought airtime together with the morning after pill. I didn’t want to look like a whore in front of everyone so I decided to buy two twelve Rand vouchers, to conceal the real reason I was at that shop. ”

In hindsight, I can see how erratic and illogical I was behaving but at the time the only thing I wanted was not to be judged as a whore and a worthless being.

trauma and aftermath

[1]http://amandlaawethu.org/misbeloved/memoirs-of-a-rape-victim-my-rape/

http://amandlaawethu.org/misbeloved/my-rape-part-two/

[2]

[3]

 

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Gukira ni Guthurana: Breaking the Silence on Rape and Survival!

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Hey beloveds, before you this post, please make sure you’ve read the previous post. You can find it on this URL: http://amandlaawethu.org/misbeloved/memoirs-of-a-rape-victim-weeping-melody/

Silence is a rape victims enemy. It forces us to endure ounces of shame while protecting the very person who should be tormented by their actions. Inner thunderstorms become our daily bread.

The literal translation of my title is: Not talking is to hate! Ironically, victims tend to remain silent about their trauma because, for most rape victims, silence becomes golden. This silence is driven by fear—fear of being judged, accused, or disowned. Society teaches us that we must have done something to encourage our rape. Yet no amount of rape culture can ever justify rape.

Silence only protects the rapist and denies victims the opportunity to get the physical and psychological support they need.

It may sound hypocritical for me to urge other rape victims to speak up, as I lacked the strength or courage to do so at first. But I’m speaking up now, and this blog is my medium. Since I started blogging, my courage has multiplied tenfold, and peace now flows like a river.

I won’t pretend this blog has been my sole source of healing. I’ve attended therapy—and continue to do so—found an unwavering support system of my mum (she has been my biggest pillar of support), my family and real friends, and educated myself as much as possible about rape, rape trauma syndrome, and depression. I strongly encourage other rape victims to seek therapy, build a support system, and learn about the realities of rape. Knowledge has been a profound source of power for me.

There has been significant contestation about my title, Memoirs of a Rape Victim. Many prefer the term “rape survivor”—therapists, friends, family, and others close to me. While I agree we demonstrate incredible strength every moment we choose to push forward, I intentionally use “victim” because we were victimized. The term “rape survivor” glosses over the immense process required to survive.

Summoning the strength to escape an attacker, find safety, ask for help, or endure a doctor’s probing during a rape exam—all while confronting rejection from friends or family who prioritize the rapist over your trauma—these are fragments of what it takes for a rape victim to survive. Survival is not automatic; WE CHOSE TO SURVIVE BECAUSE IT WAS OUR ONLY LIFELINE!

…

My survival instinct didn’t kick in until I was forced to rely on it. My first instinct was to seek comfort from one of my closest friends, long before I succumbed to my weeping melody.

Immediately after being violated, I was taken to the pharmacy near Pick and Pay in Rondebosch, Cape Town. I use the word taken because contesting the rapist’s demand to get the pill was too frightening.

The streets of Rondebosch were bustling. Everyone I saw seemed to be his friend. I couldn’t trust anyone. So, like an obedient servant, I walked into the pharmacy as he watched from his car. I whispered across the counter, asking for the morning-after pill, and my rapist stood right next to me.

When the pharmacist heard my request, I bowed my head in shame. My thoughts raced like wildfire, all revolving around the shame I felt. My only hope for assistance lay with men—the very gender I feared most in that moment. Rondebosch was crawling with men of all shapes and sizes, including the pharmacist. My fear grew. I was certain that if I asked for help, they would unite against me.

I didn’t understand why people call the brain the most powerful organ until that moment. Every possible scenario I imagined ended in disaster, paralyzing me into silence.

On my way out, I bumped into one of his friends. I couldn’t say anything but was convinced he could see the shame and disgust etched on my face. We exchanged pleasantries, and before I could summon the courage to ask for help, my rapist came up behind me and pushed me toward his car, exchanging a distant hello with his friend.

When I returned to my dorm, my subconscious sought a safe haven. My eyes landed on my bed sheet. The bright white stains of his semen on my royal purple sheets mocked me. They stared back with sovereign power, as if they were the king and I the slave.

I stared at that sheet for what felt like an eternity. My mind sketched a sinister picture of my future—a black hole behind Satan’s leer. Eventually, I dug a microscopic hole in that darkness and found the strength to cleanse myself. I grabbed my bottle of Dettol, a faint glimmer of hope, and escaped to the bathroom.

Afterward, I wandered through the quad in the rain, seeking solace, and ended up at my little sister’s doorstep. Each step reflected the dark skies above, the black clouds mirroring my insides.

Vuyo opened the door with a bright smile that quickly faded. I was laughing hysterically—my mind teetering on the edge of madness. Every laugh dissolved an ounce of my sanity.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sex,” I said. “I just had sex. No, wait! I didn’t. Wait, yes, I did!”

The disbelief on her face spoke volumes. She ushered me in, and I told her what had happened. Each word cut like a blade on my tongue.

When I finished, Vuyo said, “You were raped. He took full advantage of you.”

She tried calling him, but his phone was off. The next day, we saw on Facebook that he was on his way back to Nairobi. His departure didn’t comfort me. It disempowered me further. Leaving was his final act of cowardice.

Hearing Vuyo say it—You were raped—forced the reality to sink in. Those words shattered me, yet they also marked the beginning of my journey toward survival.

 

P.S. Please feel free to leave your comments, but destructive negativity will not be tolerated. Remember: Compassion is humanity’s co-captain, steering us toward survival.

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Filed Under: My Memoir as Rape Victim and Survivor Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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