I perhaps did a foolish thing today. I posted a shortened version of this thread on Twitter, not known for its tolerance. But i couldn’t contain myself any longer. The E. Jean Carroll trial has been kicking up a lot of stuff in me for weeks. I was also sexually assaulted.

So many of the things thrown in the face of Ms. Carroll as inconsistent about her testimony could have been thrown in my face. Sexual assault is such a fundamental trauma that it messes with your head. This is true of any trauma. Survivors often have difficulty remembering details or remember in nonlinear fashion. Defense attorneys know this and use it to get Old Boys (and young) out of rape charges.

* I can’t tell you the exact date of my assault.
* I didn’t scream.
* We were alone in the house together–his word against mine.
* I was made to believe it was my fault and that I got what I deserved.
* I didn’t tell anyone FOR 30 YEARS.

Trauma is not logical. It isn’t clean and precise. It’s often buried deep and never brought to light except in “acting out” or self-abuse. It can lie dormant for a very long time. Until, if you’re lucky, the festering gets to be too much and it finally bursts forth. Then, if you’re luckier, you can see it for what it truly is, own it, and do something about it.

Some trauma victims never get there. Some continue to blame themselves. I am grateful that I was able to shine a light on my deep buried shame and, with help and therapy, realize that it wasn’t my shame at all.

I thought long and hard about sharing this publicly. My talking about it could draw negative attention (although I’m not important). AND NO ONE IS OBLIGED TO TALK PUBLICLY ABOUT THEIR TRAUMA. But for me not talking about it was increasingly giving me that same feeling of buried shame.

And I am way the f*ck done with that. My hope is that talking about this helps someone.

How do I feel about it now that I’ve publicly disclosed? Momentarily clean. Lightened. It won’t last. I was a 13 year old girl, easily manipulated and always ready to believe that I was guilty of something. That 13 year old is still alive inside of me. She always will be–and I’m actually glad and grateful for that because she brings me many things beyond her trauma. Good things. But at least now I can turn to her when she’s hurting, give her a hug and tell her she was guilty of nothing besides misplaced trust. Sometimes she even believes me.

I once knew a woman who was an echo chamber. She echoed things she’d heard other people say and pass it off as her own wisdom. I caught her at this several times (although I never confronted her with it). She once even echoed back something I’d said to her without remembering where she’d heard it from. She was also fond of spouting platitudes (another form of echo, really), and I took to calling her Platitude Woman to my friends. But this strategy worked, for the most part. She projected an image of competence and charm, even if it was only skin deep.

There had to be something more to her, I know there was something more to her, but she was so broken, so tragic-playing-at-I’m-fine, so holding herself together with bits of wire and cellophane tape, so wanting to be thought wise and whole and strong and charming that, it seems to me, she only had these echoes to sustain her.

Surely there had to be more.

Surely there were things in that years-long blank in her memory of her childhood that she sometimes talked to me about that made the hollow sound of other people’s thoughts and words preferable to anything genuine from her own psyche. She drove me crazy so much of the time with her terrifying need to talk about I-me-mine, turning every conversation no matter how far afield back to a discussion of herself and her family and the bad old days. She steadfastly refused therapy, saying she was scared of what she might find out.

I used to think it was my duty to listen to every person who needed to talk, to use my empathy in an attempt to rescue and to heal. This woman cured me (mostly) of that. I have, at least, learned that I have limits, that at a certain point I will damage myself if I persist in my savior complex. That, really, it is an insult to the needy person to think that I know best, that I can turn things around for them.

But it’s so easy to slip back into that fantasy of being able to fix people. I regularly wound up in the glide path of needy people who engaged my empathy. I was frequently told I was such a good listener. I suffered from the delusion that I could rescue people, help fix them. But it is a delusion. You can listen, you can help, point them in the direction of people who are trained to actually help, but ultimately people have to find the will to fix themselves. It’s not weakness of character that turns needy people away from that will to change. Some, like my echoing friend, are so broken it doesn’t even seem an option to them. Especially if that brokenness happened in childhood.

The echoing woman drained me dry—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I sat next to her at work every day for years and couldn’t escape those conversations. Some days as soon as my feet hit the door she started talking until finally I’d have to say, “I really need to get some work done” and turn my back on her. But I felt her staring at my back, willing me to turn around, needing me to listen. Some days I had to get up from my desk and take long walks around the building just to keep my sanity.

Then she injured her back, had surgery, followed by heavy duty pain medicines, developed a problem, was carried along at work by those of us who cared for until she was finally urged by management to consider retirement. Her job was an important part of her ego structure and it took a great deal of increasingly strong persuasion to get her to finally agree to it. The urging became another source of her victimization: she was doing a great job, anyone could see that, and the company was picking on her. Those of us who had actually been doing her work, even those of us who did not usually come down on the side of the company vs. the employee, tried to make it as easy as we could without feeding her sense of outraged victimization. It was not easy.

She had nothing left to anchor her at that point. I think, finally, she found relief from the echo chamber of trauma in her mind and soul by numbing them instead of dealing with them. I can’t judge her for that. What I heard of the parts of her childhood and young life that she did remember was pretty bad. Her mother was schizotypal in a time when that diagnosis wasn’t common, and, like my echoing friend, never got treatment. A brother and a sister were diagnosed, years later, and a third brother was frequently homeless and living on the margins. The burden of caring for them often fell on my echoing friend’s shoulders. Her brothers, who she’d fought so hard to take care of and shepherd through a heartless system, died within twenty-four hours of each other. The sister finally reconciled with her estranged son and he took over her care. Then came the drugs, and my echoing friend let go completely. She retreated into dreams, to a place where the harsh sounds were muted, where someone else could take over the burden of being wise and held together with wire and bits of cellophane. Where she could turn her face away from the world and slowly, peacefully slip into death.

Surely, there must have been something more. I still sometimes wish I could have fixed her, though she’s been gone years now. I hope she found healing on the other side of dreams, the other side of sweet oblivion.

But I’ll never know. Or, at least, not until I slip into the other side of my dreams.