When I was seven, my next door neighbor accidentally pushed me over while we were out roller skating. Over my tears, my mom told me: “Forgive and forget” while putting bandaids on my scraped knees. At fourteen, someone stepped on my brand new Vans that I’d been excited to wear for weeks . When I got home, I stormed into the laundry room, ranting and raving about the footprint on my new shoes, getting ready to bleach them to the high heavens. I couldn’t reach the bottle of Oxy Clean, but my dad came in behind me, and the phrase “Forgive and forget” accompanied the bottle of bleach he put on the counter in front of me.
So, when I was sexually assaulted at 19, the same phrase rang through my head. “Forgive and forget”. It happened more times than I can count (or remember, frankly), and after about a year of grappling with the reality of what happened to me, I started experiencing severe PTSD symptoms and I decided it was time for me to stand up for myself.
It’s because of my anger that I had the courage to go through an Adaptable Resolution process this year. Enduring 7 months of re-traumatizing myself every few weeks: walking into conference rooms to relive the worst moments of my life for strangers professionally trained to explain to my abuser that what they did was wrong- was the hardest thing I have ever done. I’m not a confrontational person. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say I was a doormat for my entire life until this point. But the rage I felt is what fueled me to stand firm on my demands and get what I need to be safe. Getting a letter from my abuser explaining that not only do they think they deserve to be redeemed, but that they don’t remember any of their actions and therefore cannot be held accountable, only reminded me of why they don’t deserve my forgiveness.
I‘m trying to move forward without the ability to forget what happened or the peace to forgive them. Sometimes I wonder if my days would be lighter without rage curling in my stomach. But forgiveness feels like a concession. While some people think that holding onto anger prevents wounds from healing, my anger formed a shield around mine, preventing any more harm from coming to me while they were being poked and prodded by not just the Adaptable Resolution process, but also daily life.
What I’ve realized is that my anger is my strength, my lack of forgiveness an act of respect to myself. Staying angry allows me to sit with my pain and validate it without bending to the pressure of time and allowing the injustice of what I went through to fall to the wayside. In my head, forgiving puts the burden of my pain back on myself to deal with rather than on my abuser for hurting me. To not be angry with my abuser is to take my suffering and accept it as my life, rather than acknowledge it as something that someone else caused. It makes me have to focus on recovering and not on the fact that someone else’s actions have made me into someone who must be rebuilt. I will remain outraged.
Resources for sexual assault at JMU:
https://www.jmu.edu/inclusion/title-ix/index.shtml
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