**trigger warning: this post is about my survivorhood**
When I was a preteen, an adult whom I trusted came to me and promised that when I'd turn 25, he'd teach me how to make love so I could be prepared for my husband. Because English wasn't my first language, I thought it meant that he'd teach me the definition of love, I insisted he'd teach me right away. That very night, my innocence was stolen and the trust that I had for myself...the trust that I had for my ability to learn English were crushed. None of my ex's understood why I couldn't stand to use that term "love" or "make love." People in love often tells me how degrading it is to use the term, "sex." It is not. Especially if someone that you trusted has ravaged the phrase "make love."
I survived incest with several of my cousins and uncle. I was taken advantage of by a female babysitter. I was sexually harassed by a several classmates. I remember in my 7th grade, I was sexually harassed by a female classmate who would write 5 + pages describing in graphic detail of what she'd do to me sexually every day, despite me asking her to stop. I eventually had the school to step in and take the actions to ensure that she was to stay away from me.
The ordeal ended when I was about 16.
My child logic was that being Deaf was the reason why I was targeted for childhood sexual abuse. I believed that the predators figured that since I couldn't speak, there would be less chances of me speaking out against them.
For years, I identified as a victim.
My experience of childhood sexual abuse had contributed to my depression. I attempted to hide my depression behind the mask of perfection and fake smile. I was a straight A's student. I threw myself deeper in homework and studying. In high school, as the only Deaf student, I felt a lot of pressure to excel. At every IEP meeting, I was told that I was expected to maintain my 4.0 GPA. During my freshman year of high school, I was being called into the office and there stood several police officers, along with vice principal. I was confused and afraid, especially when they told me that my interpreters couldn't come into the room with me. I was being interviewed by the police officers...asking me if I was in a sexual relationship with one of my interpreters. Turned out that one of my interpreters was being accused of taking advantage of me and I was shocked that anyone would've reported that because I thought of her as my second mother. I told the police officers the truth: she never acted anything inappropriate. My vice principal was visibly upset by my response. It dawned on me that she was being homophobic because my interpreter happened to be openly lesbian. Why did I share that story? It was one of the reasons why I was denied a support system. During my high school years, the concept of bullying had emerged and the teachers were being told to offer support or be a person the students could feel comfortable with to vent. It was during the same year when I started to unravel...when I cracked under the pressure. I started a lot of self-destructive habits, such as attempting to overdose, and cutting myself. My freshman English teacher had to pull me aside and asked me to sit by her while she was typing on her computer to communicate with her. She typed, "Your grade is slipping away. You used to have an A, and now it's a B. Is everything alright?" I vented to her about how I was feeling sad and I remember I wanted to tell her so much more but I held back. Then I guess she went back to the vice principle for an advice on what to do next. The next day, she pulled me aside and was typing, "I spoke with the vice principal. I'm sorry, but I can't help you anymore. She said that your personal problems at home shouldn't affect your academic performance." I was devastated, and thought, "Being the only Deaf student was tough. But taking all the support system away from me?" I was so upset that I started cutting myself in the class in front of everyone. I lost it. I kept on coming to school, puking every 5 minutes because I'd attempt to overdose the night before. They'd send me home, writing it off as me being sick.
After high school, I went to Gallaudet University where I found myself in a domestic violence relationship and to be stalked after I ended the relationship. I continued with my self destructive habits, and started drinking. Did some illegal shit.
When I was about 22 years old, my behaviors were out of control. I was self harming and harming others. People who love me didn't understand why I was mistreating them or taking it out on them. I was in such darkness where I couldn't see everyone around me trying to reach out to me, offering their hands to pull me out into the light.
I was on such crazy, wild emotional roller coaster. When I was looking at the climb of the biggest drop of the ride, it didn't take much to push me off the edge. One afternoon, I truly lost it, and went to the bathroom. I was staring at the mirror, with tears streaming on my face. I swallowed pills...oh so many pills...and I remember crying so hard, struggling to swallow more pills because my throat had become so dry and rough. I went to my bed, and closed my eyes: "God...whoever is listening...please just end this. End this suffering. I can't take it anymore."
At this time, B was at work, but he later told me that he sensed something was wrong. I gave him a ride to his job that day, so he didn't have a car. He asked his best friend if he could borrow his car because he knew something was wrong and had to check on me. He kept on texting me with no response from me. As soon as he arrived at my old apartment, he demanded that I open the door. He broke the door down and barged into my room, begging to let him bring me to the hospital. I refused, and I was actually getting so angry with him, insisting that he leave. He wouldn't budge and called an ambulance. They arrived and told me that if I would not agree to go with them, they'd be forced to call police and have them arrested me.
I got to the hospital, and B was interpreting (now that I look back, the hospital shouldn't have put him in that position...they should've called for an interpreter) that I had to drink charcoal and if I couldn't swallow it, they would be forced to pump it into my stomach. The charcoal was so thick that I was struggling to drink it. I kept on puking it out every time I tried to swallow it. So the nurse inserted the tube through my nose, and it was hurting so bad that I tried to fight back. The nurse had someone else to hold me down and once the tube went down my throat, I was gagging. Eventually they were able to pump the charcoal into my stomach, and I immediately threw up in the plastic bin where I saw the vomit full of bloody black gooey. The Dr told B that I did a lot of damage...that if they brought me to the hospital 30 minutes later than they did, I would've died. I stayed at the hospital with 24 hour suicide watch for 4 days. It took 4 days because I took too much of pills and they had to keep on giving me the medicines to flush it all out of my system. After that, I was immediately brought to the mental ward. That experience, I will never forget. I was afraid, especially with lack of access and no interpreters. I saw a riot in the TV area. I stayed there for about 2-3 days, and was eventually released.
I don't remember what moment it was where I finally realized that I needed to seek for help. I searched for resources, but realized that either there was a lack of resources or that I wasn't looking in the right direction. A good friend of mine from high school swore by this book called "Courage to Heal." I know that recently, I have criticized a lot of self-help books because of oppressive language and approach. However, the book, "Courage to Heal" was different because it focused on one issue: healing from a trauma relating to domestic or sexual violence and it provided exercises throughout the book, which was helpful because it helped to monitor your actual growth.. It was also when I decided to quit drinking, smoking and any other self-destructive habits. I also joined a support group online and I remember this defining moment when an 60 year old woman said that she finally decided to have a courage to heal from her trauma, she was upset only because she'd lost 60 years. I thought, "That is not what I want. I don't want to lose any more of years." From this book, I recognized that sometimes people that you'd want to be your support system needed self care as well and it was very important to be honest. If certain people couldn't handle it, it is ok to step back from a survivor because what a survivor needs is a support system who can handle it. It can be overwhelming for all involved. I remembered telling B that he needed to be honest with me and that if he wasn't ready for this, he needed to tell me now because I was determined to do this, with or without him.
By the time I completed this book, I finally identified myself as a survivor, not a victim. Finally, the light has outshine my darkness and I learned how to love myself.
At the end of that same year after I launched the healing journey, B + I discovered that we were to give a new life to a child.
**[EDITED] Truthfully, I still do have thoughts of relapsing. There is no magic answer that it will end for good. To acknowledge that it might always be there: the potential of relapse and recognizing the importance of speaking up + ask for help and have a strong support system is how I move forward.
© Leang Ngov Finding My Light, 2015