Of late, I've had an opportunity to meet with some other women who have also had sexual assault experiences. I have found doing this to be helpful, because survivors of rape often share some similar struggles that others don't really understand. You often feel so alone after experiencing an assault, and you don't realize there are others out there going through and feeling the same things you do. Discovering others have similar struggles, fears, and challenges and hearing how they are dealing with them can be very soothing and sometimes instructive.

So overall this has been a great help to me. But of late, every time one of these meetings happens, after I've shared some innocuous, entirely impersonal thought or perspective, someone starts verbally attacking me in this very aggressive, personal, and angry way. I've only just started to learn how to feel safe asserting my own feelings and not being crushed by others' judgmental statements about them. And I've also only just started to learn how to feel safe and stay calm while confronting anger directed straight at me. (Both these things are difficult for many rape survivors to do). I am getting better at it, but it's still a very scary thing for me to experience and manage.

When it's happened in the above context, I have been able--for possibly the first time in my life--to calmly separate myself from the other person's rage and realize it wasn't about me at all, and then diffuse the situation by just being true to myself and my feelings while at the same down not allowing myself to be intimidated or silenced. And I've been pretty proud of that; it's not something I was ever taught to do naturally. But even so, the regular need to have to do it of late, and particularly with people I expected constant supportive sisterhood from, has left me feeling pretty shaky and somewhat scared to go back in case it keeps happening again.

Then, a few days ago, I was talking one-on-one to a woman who had witnessed what had happened. I commented that people seemed to be getting especially rough on me lately, and she agreed. I said didn't know why that was happening--what was I doing? She thought for a minute and then said she didn't think I was doing or saying anything, technically, that should cause such reactions. She said, "I think you stick up for yourself more--you aren't afraid to express how you're feeling, even if it's not something everyone wants to hear. You seem to believe in yourself more--you seem...self-confident. I think maybe a lot of other people are still really far away from feeling that and maybe that makes them angry, because maybe they're jealous. I think maybe they want to be where you are, because you seem...healthier...and they're mad that you're there and they're not and maybe they want to make you feel like them, because they can't feel like you."

My first reaction was to want to laugh at her saying that I'm being perceived by other survivors as someone who can stick up for myself and believe in myself, and who is markedly self-confident by comparison. I feel I am slowly developing these skills, but I still feel like a tiny gosling who's just pecked my way out of the egg and my feathers are still wet. Each effort to be this way is still exhausting to me. It takes so much work to not fall back on bad, self-critical habits or just cave to other people's feelings or needs or anger. But looked at carefully, as hard as it may be, I realized (with shock) the woman actually wasn't wrong--at least about the first half. However much further I still have to go, compared to where I've come from, and compared to many others of similar experience to me, I am more self-confident, and I am asserting my needs and feelings out into the world.

And realizing this led me to another shocking realization: Unlike what the woman above was supposing, it wasn't that these women are angry or jealous that I'm self-confident. Not really. The anger and aggression being directed at me isn't about ME at all.

It's that they are using me as a guinea pig to see if it's safe for THEM to be self-confident.

I know this because I used to be them. When you've been raped, unless you've been well supported from the start, the most tender and vulnerable parts of your personality tend to burrow deep down into some very dark, presumably safe place (though it's not, really) deep inside of you. And that vulnerable self peeks up from time to time, and says hoarsely in a voice raw from lack of use, "Is it safe to come out?" Usually the test fails and the vulnerable self burrows back down and puts the lid over it's little dugout hiding place.

The way this "is it safe" behavior displays itself is not immediately obvious, though. You see, when you're a rape survivor, you begin to tell yourself, based on people's responses to you and your assault, "I can't do that. I can't say that. I can't feel that. Because if I do, I'll get hurt. Again. And I can't bear more hurt." You think about what people will do or say that might potentially hurt you. You gage people's responses, trying to read into them if the shame and disgust you expect is possibly there. You usually believe it is or will be. So you keep quiet, and you keep up that "I can't" mantra.

And then, suddenly you see someone--particularly someone who might have had an experience like yours--doing something, feeling something, saying something that you've been afraid to do or feel or say. And you are so afraid for YOURSELF, that you respond with the fear of a cornered animal. You lash out. You do the behavior or you say the thing that you are afraid others will do or say to you if you were to do what that stronger person did.

You act disgusted or judgmental or weirded out or angry and dismissive. You ask the person (sometimes verbally, sometimes just mentally) the horrible, destructive, blaming questions you're afraid others might ask you, or that you may even ask yourself. You tell the person to shut up, to keep it to themselves, just like your assaulter told you (either verbally or by implication). Or you try to FORCE her to shut up and not say anything, with angry, hurtful, aggressive behavior, just like your assaulter did to you.

You do this quite unconsciously, but you do it. You don't think when you're afraid, you just react. It isn't really about the person displaying the behavior. It's about the behavior itself and how afraid you are to do it, even as you want to do it very badly.

I know this because in the 20 years in which I was in denial about my assault, I did all of that, sad as I am to admit it. And I even still did it sometimes in the first few months of learning to confront it head on. But from having been that person, I also know this: it's not that the person wants to attack you or hurt you. It's that person's vulnerable self testing to see if it's safe to come out. It's that the person needs to know, to see, that someone can manage to stay steady--can manage to NOT be hurt--even when the imagined worst is thrown at her. When you feel so alone, you sometimes simply can't imagine the life and strength and confidence you wish for deep down in your little dark place is possible. You need to see someone else can do it. And then it takes lots of time to accept and process what you saw. And sometimes it doesn't ever get all the way through. But sometimes, it does allow someone else to see that yes, it IS safe to come outside.

And so, despite it arriving through a challenging experience, this is a momentus thing for me. And entirely astonishing to recognize. I've been working so hard, plowing forward with my line of sight doggedly set on some far horizon, I didn't even realize something amazing had happened right in front of me.

I am no longer that buried, vulnerable half-person, peeking out from the hole asking if it's safe, testing others on the outside who seem stronger. I am the person on the outside, getting tested.

Wet gosling or not, I am out of the egg.

I did it. I did it.

Words can not describe the sense of accomplishment and pride I feel.

The comedian Steven Wright once had this joke that went something like, "While I was gone, somebody rearranged on the furniture in my bedroom. They put it in exactly the same place it was." That's a bit like how I've always felt about figuring out how my sexual assault has affected my response to relationships. Something didn't feel right there, but I couldn't exactly pin down what it was. That's been frustrating because you can't work on something until you know what's there to work on.

I've been had difficulty trying to figure this out because I haven't been able to find a response similar to mine detailed in any literature on the subject. Most of the discussion about intimacy issues due to sexual assault seems to revolve almost entirely around sexual relations. It's oft repeated that post-assault, it's fairly common for survivors to either become 1) very fearful of or disinterested in sex or 2) extremely promiscuous. But neither of those two things ever happened to me. For me, sex was never a problem. I enjoy sex very much, and while I'm not what I'd call inhibited in bed, I've also never had the urge to act out sexually in some extreme, unhealthy way.

So sex was not what felt off for me. And yet something has always felt off. Trying to navigate an intimate relationship often leaves me feeling very unsteady and unmoored. And the books and articles I've read don't talk too much about anything else beyond sexual intimacy that's ever given me a eureka, "That's it!" moment.

Yesterday, though, I think I finally experienced a breakthrough. I believe I was finally able to create a synapse that allows me to articulate the situation to myself in a way that will let me look at it and figure out how to accept and integrate this into my relationships in a conscious way, hopefully resulting in a more positive experience for both myself and my partners.

So, two things that I experience that I think are probably not "normal" for other women when it comes to relationships:

1) Whenever someone approaches me and attempts to get to know me or communicate even somewhat intimately with me (tries to be "personal"), I always immediately switch into a light "feelers out" mode to assess what their "agenda" is. That is, I assume that everyone who approaches me has an agenda, and I have to decide if it's harmful or not. This behavior is consistent across the board with every new interaction I have, but for everyday interactions, it's fast and low key. It's more in the background and not high pressure--I don't feel particularly panicked or unsafe. However, when it is a man (or woman, for that matter) approaching me with overt physical, romantic, or sexual interest, the warning bells go off much louder and this "feelers out" behavior kicks into overdrive. I don't define it as this feeling when I'm doing it, but looked at objectively, I see I do feel "nervous"--in as much as it's as if my nerves and sensors are highly, busily active, disallowing me any level of comfort. When this kicks in, I will do multiple subtle "tests" (or what I see as tests) to assess if the person is "real" and genuinely innocent in his interest, or if he is trying to "play" me. Every word, look, action, and reaction becomes highly magnified and viewed individually of each other.

I'd figured out this one before today, but it's connected to item number two below, which was the missing piece. The part that's interesting is that although I've always known on some level I do this (though perhaps not so consciously), what I didn't know until recently is that most women do NOT do this. I assumed this was natural behavior that everyone partook in--a basic instinctual behavior every animal uses to protect itself from predators. In fact, I thought anyone who didn't engage in such behavior was, well...stupid. And setting themselves up for harm.

2) This was my wake-up realization yesterday, that I'd never been able to see before. I'm sure for most women, as they get to know their lovers or significant others better, they become increasingly more secure in their regard for them. This is not the case for me. Once step #1 above is over, and I've supposedly established for myself who I feel is the genuine person and have begun to develop a relationship with that person, the fear that motivates #1 above doesn't lessen, as logically it should. That "I'm safe with my alpha dog/pack mate/what have you" instinct never kicks in. Instead, something weird happens: the more I grow to trust a man in an intimate relationship, the the more my insecurity in that relationship, my need to test, and my need for reassurance that I am safe with him and that he won't suddenly turn on me and hurt me persists and even grows larger and more frightening.

In short, my fear continues and/or increases as things get better. The more trustworthy the person becomes, or the more staid and predictable the relationship gets, the more afraid I become the person is secretly masking a lack of regard or boredom with me, and that he therefore is or will eventually secretly be doing activities that will devalue or hurt me.

And I think this must be directly related to my assault in large part. Given my first association with aggressive sexual interest was in a context where the person should NOT have been sexually interested in me at all ("responsible" doctor with secret agenda), it's clear why #1 is in effect. And similarly, given that my assaulter was in a highly trustworthy role and exploited that role to confuse me and get one over on me, it's no wonder that #2, is in effect--the more "reliable/responsible/trustworthy/normal" something appears, the more I need reassurance from that person that it's going to STAY that way and not turn into something ugly because I'm not paying enough attention and have allowed the appearance of safety to lull me into being hoodwinked.

This fear results in me feeling as if I need to be continually hypervigilant against the signs of danger, and I can never get relaxed and comfortable with a loving relationship. It leads me to interpret comfortable, long-term relationship behavior displayed by my partner as disregard and disinterest in me that will ultimately lead to devaluation and/or abuse. I can NOT "relax and just groove on it," as one boyfriend once begged me to do. I can NOT "take it for granted" that someone still loves me. I can not "take it for granted" that that person will continue to do so, even if he did so yesterday, or even the hour before. I seem as of yet to be almost entirely without that mechanism that allows one to start relaxing into the relationship, and riding a wave of feeling calm, positive, happy, and...well, safe. I never feel safe. I *need* to be reminded regularly of the things other, normal people can simply take for granted or I become, on some hidden level, terrified. Terrified the monster is going to come out just when I thought everything was okay, proving once again that I'm a fool prone to being used, my judgement is impaired, and I can't "pick" a trustworthy man. (Or perhaps that no men are trustworthy? Probably both.)

And that driving need for reassurance results in still other behaviors I don't even enjoy the feeling of, but compulsively do anyway, such as:

• Directing overwhelmingly high levels of loving affection and attention at the other person
• Becoming a slave to feeding my constant and never ending hunger to be re-reminded that I am in fact loved and treasured as special to him, leading me to act out either directly or passive-agressively in any number of ways (more "testing") to test to see if I am still safe, if he is still thinks I am valuable, or if instead he will turn on me and become something other than what he is purporting to be

Again in short: stifling and needy--which, ironically, are two major characteristics I found most oppressive and ever-present in my own upbringing, and that I find most odious in other people now. They say you hate most in others what you hate most in yourself, and I guess it's true.

Anyway, this was a revelation to me. It's interesting how you can live with yourself and your behaviors for your entire life and not be able to gain perspective on them until some small thing happens and then suddenly...bang, there it is.

I'm not sure how I will work with this knowledge now that I have it. But somehow I feel just being conscious of it will help me have better relationships.

I mean, I know how difficult my lack of consciousness on this has been for me. I *knew* I was behaving compulsively, and I didn't even LIKE it when I was doing it, but I couldn't contain it and I didn't know why. And with no perspective on it, I couldn't explain it to myself or my partners. I wasn't able to take a step back and see what was really in effect. And I can also see how difficult my unconscious behaviors must have been for my partners to deal with, too. It's not comfortable to feel over-loved in a way that insinuates expectation of equal return (even if I didn't consciously recognize I was doing that). And how insulting and infuriating it must feel when you know how much you love someone and she can never really process that. I'd imagine it would seem like I was always calling them a liar. And my desperate fear and need for reassurance might come across as either clingy or pushy, depending, rather than what it really is. And if I wasn't able to articulate for them what it really was, how would they, who don't have my issues, have any idea what's going on?

I'd like to become less insecure and more confident in others' regard of me. I don't want to be so needy of affection that I push others away. And I'd like my lovers to have the comfort and loving relationship with me they deserve--one that doesn't feel for them as if, through my own disbelief in their regard, *I* am making it impossible for them to be able to love me the way I'm asking to be loved (what a terrible trap I've been setting for them and for me!). And one that doesn't in any way make me or them feel I think they're a liar or a potential asshole under an assumed personality.

So I think on both sides me being conscious of this and being able to explain it will help. It will help me step back and examine why I'm behaving certain ways and what the core root of that is. And this will probably help me both contain it somewhat and help me stay centered rather than panicked. And that state of mind would help me explain what's going on to my partner, which would give him a key to what I need to feel safe. I think if my partner were conscious of where my fear lies, he'd have a much easier time understanding and providing the spontaneous reassurance that I need. This might allow us both to head it off at the pass before it goes into overdrive compulsion and becomes something negative for both of us. It would allow us to find a baseline where I get just enough so that I *would* start to become comfortable and safe, but not so much that it becomes a burden. And a shared consciousness of this would also help my partner step back and observe my behavior as something other than what he might have assumed it was motivated by. Rather than assume it's about him and some imagined shortcoming I'm accusing him of, he'll know it's about me, and what about me it is. So he'd be able to ask me good questions when my behavior appeared to be tending toward the compulsive in the above ways, and that would in turn give me the reality check I need to take a breather, stop merely reacting out of fear, and really think about what is going on and what I'm really feeling in that moment.

These are all just thoughts, yet to be tested. But I'm glad I've had the realization. I think it's important. It feels like a missing link I've now recovered. I think it will help.