Survivor Mama: New Life after Sexual Assault

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source: eran jayne photography

When I got pregnant, I didn’t realize I was a rape survivor.

Mere hours after my son was conceived,  I sat in our counselor’s office with my husband, gripping his hand tightly and holding my breath as she said the word: rape. It was rape. She was referring to an event that had happened six years before, something I had miscategorized in my mind. I had told my husband a bit about that night, but I had only shared vague details:  it was always “the night I regret,” “a huge mistake,” “taking advantage.” But: Rape? We had never used that word.

I wasn’t sure what to do with this new information. My entire world as I knew it, as I had constructed it around me, was changed. I had endured violence of the most vulnerable kind and my brain had protected me from the knowledge of it. For six years. Six whole years I had been living in a haze of despair, uncertain of its cause. Now I knew it wasn’t anything I had done, and yet somehow I still felt responsible. I read the books, I repeated the words (it’s not my fault). Still, a sense of shame and feeling of filth lingered, like cigarette smoke you can’t get out of your favorite sweater.

Two weeks later, two little blue lines showed up on a pregnancy test. The baby my husband and I had been praying for.

I was ecstatic. I was terrified.

I spent the first three months of pregnancy curled up on our couch in the fetal position. Despite the standard exhaustion and consistent nausea, my physical symptoms weren’t bad. But mentally and emotionally, I was a wreck.

The anxiety that built up within my quickly changing body manifested in ways I could easily blame on pregnancy: hiding in my house, watching Netflix for hours, ignoring phone calls from friends and family. I felt like I was too full of emotion—filled to the brim—and any additional stress would send me over the edge. How could I have normal, happy conversations with people about my pregnancy when I had such a dark secret lurking beneath it all?  I thought about it much more than I wanted to, but I didn’t know how to stop, or who I could talk to. No one wants to hear you say you’ve been raped. Especially when you’re supposed to be joy personified, bursting with excitement about your unborn child.

When I did have the emotional energy to speak with loved ones, I was truthful about my excitement and fear (who isn’t afraid of childbirth?), but I never felt as though I was being completely honest.  As someone who generally wears her heart on her sleeve, this was exhausting and painful.  So, I spent most of my free time in full-on hibernation mode. My one goal was to incubate my growing child, protecting the precious, innocent life still unknown to me. I built myself a cozy little nest of blankets and books and read everything I could about preparing for birth.

Close to the end of my second trimester I finally got up the courage to see a prenatal therapist. She was calm and nurturing and made me feel safe. Still, it took weeks of therapy before I was finally ready to tell her exactly what had happened to me the summer of 2008. With great kindness, she listened to me, validated me, and also helped me admit to myself that one month before the rape, I had been sexually assaulted.

So there I was, very pregnant, very hormonal, very emotional, preparing for birth, and also trying to come to terms with the fact that I had been violently violated not once but twice—and I hadn’t let myself recognize the truth.

Any shred of security I once felt was lost to me. Suddenly everything and everyone seemed a threat to my safety. Trust was a dirty word. It didn’t help that at the time, our neighborhood was experiencing a wave of break-ins and burglary, and my rock of a husband, working long, hard shifts as a medical resident, was hardly home. My sleep, fitful and hard to come by, became punctuated with horrific nightmares.

It seemed impossible to escape the reality that I lived in a violent, terrible, evil world where women are raped (and children are molested and teens get addicted and men are tortured, and so on). And I was bringing a baby into this world. How could I protect him—how could I be a good mother—if I couldn’t even protect myself?

Yet I smiled for pictures. Shared my growing bump online. Dressed up for baby showers. I clung desperately to whatever joy I could find.

As my due date approached, the anxiety I felt around childbirth was palpable. I practiced self-hypnosis, imagery-based meditation, breathing, prayer—anything I could think of, and it still wasn’t enough. I was terrified that in the midst of labor I would be triggered; routine pelvic exams were difficult enough. Pain could be a trigger. Medication could be a trigger. Mentally, I could shut down. And even if I wasn’t triggered? This baby could rip me in two. He could destroy this body, already used and battered and worn. I could die. He could die. There was no way to know how labor would go or how I would respond.

I was completely vulnerable.

In the end, it was this very vulnerability that made room for the hope that saved me.

Interspersed with my fear and anxiety was the shimmering hope of redemption: my body, my story could be made new again. I thought about the strange and almost supernatural timing of my son’s conception: could it be a coincidence that in the hours I was first recognizing the truth of my past, he was being knit together in my womb? I began to meditate on the feeling of release I experienced when I learned I was a survivor: the way my shoulders dropped, as if letting go of a heavy weight; the way my entire body warmed as though melting away years of falsehood. The new life inside me was a promise of what lay beyond the empty devastation caused by acts of violence so very long ago. This new life, my son, was created out of joy and laughter and the love I shared with my husband.  

God began to feel very present to me, even amid my pain and fear. I felt very certain he had a hand in the timing of my pregnancy, that he was preparing my heart to be a mother as he led me through the hard truth about my past. The strange co-mingling of revelation and gestation began to feel like a gift. In my final weeks of pregnancy, a steady confidence began to build within me. Somehow, I knew I would survive birth and deliver a beautiful, healthy child.

God would get me through it. He had gotten me through much worse. I knew he would, not only for me, but for my son. Despite my fears, the sun seemed to shine a little more brightly, the air began to feel a little more crisp. The colors of early autumn seeped their way through my skin and stirred up my soul, reminding me of the beauty and goodness and light that can keep the darkness at bay. I was reminded of all I wanted to offer my son: the adventures we would take, the stories we would tell, the love we would share.

Today, my son is almost 10 months old, a sweet, active little boy with a mischievous grin. After all my worrying and wondering, he came into the world with relative ease. Oh, there was pain. And there was fear. I had to battle anxiety throughout the entire process. But I did it. I made it through. And in the end, I held the most precious gift.

So, why tell this story now? Why share something so private, so painful, so raw? I write these words because I know I’m not the only woman who has felt broken, used, and afraid. I share my story because I am confident that the evil of this world will not have the final say. I am speaking out because I want to be a witness to the beauty that has risen from the ashes of my life. I am reaching out in sisterhood to other survivors to say you are not alone.

jakeI’m telling this story because I want to teach my son by example. I don’t want him to live in fear or feel the need to hide from his past.

This journey of mine isn’t over. I still have days I’m overcome with anxiety, faced with the certainty that no matter what precautions I take, there’s only so much I can do to protect my child from harm. Each day is a practice in trusting and letting go.

Each day is a practice of faith.

Someday, I will tell my son about the half marathon I walked with him at eight months pregnant. I will tell him about the heat that beat down on me as I walked, feet swollen but heart bursting, through the brilliant beauty of Stanley Park. I will tell him how I thought of him the whole time, how I wanted to show him his mother was strong.

I will tell him how he taught me to be brave.


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Erin Curlett is a writer, new mama, and recovering perfectionist. She is passionately committed to speaking the truth about life and motherhood in all its messy, beautiful glory in the hope her stories will help other women feel a little less alone. She manages the Good Mother Project blog and writes (sometimes) at truth_fully told and the Discovery Community Church blog, All In.

 


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17 thoughts on “Survivor Mama: New Life after Sexual Assault

    • Good Mother Project Post authorReply

      Jennifer, thank you. I read your comment as I was walking with my son earlier and immediately set my shoulders back and held my head just a little higher. I needed that reminder today. Thanks xo

  1. Kelly Clevenger Reply

    Thank you for sharing this story! Through you, others will find comfort and hopefully begin their open journey to recovery. Motherhood is such an amazing thing, that we may grow stronger and more brave through our children!

  2. Dina Reply

    Erin – Thank you for sharing your story with such eloquent and insightful words. It is a heartbreaking story, but your ability to be honest and vulnerable (which you show so clearly in this post) has obviously helped you use these experiences to grow into a happier, more peaceful person. That takes so much courage! You are strong and are setting such an amazing example for your son to embrace his feelings as well. Bravo. ❤️

    • Good Mother Project Post authorReply

      Thank you for your kind words, Dina! I’m definitely still very much IN IT, still in the midst of trying to pursue peace and happiness despite of and because of these events. But writing this story was definitely a huge step forward. Thank you. <3

  3. Sara @ The Holy Mess Reply

    You are amazing. This story is so incredible and you have such courage to share. I started crying when I got to your son’s precious picture! He will know what a strong Mama he has — one who relies on God. Blessings.

    • Good Mother Project Post authorReply

      Sara, thank you so much. The end chokes me up, too. He is so precious to me. Thank you for your kind words!

  4. Pingback: Survivor Mama: New Life after Sexual Assault | truth_fully told

  5. Shannon Reply

    What a scary and important story to tell. I’m so proud of you for telling it, even though it must have been so very hard.

  6. kl Reply

    I can relate to some degree. I love when you write “a sense of shame and feeling of filth lingered, like cigarette smoke you can’t get out of your favorite sweater” – very appropriate. There are bad people in the world and I’m glad you’re doing well despite having to encounter them.

  7. Corina Reply

    Thank you for sharing your story! It is beautiful how your pregnancy helped you come to healing, even through the dark valley! Your little boy is precious!

  8. April Reply

    Thank you for sharing your story! I’ve had a few similar life experiences- you are strong and beautiful! 💕

  9. Aimee Reply

    Erin, my heart breaks for all that you have endured, yet your vulnerability and willingness to spill out your heart with such raw honesty is a gift to women of the world. This was courageously and beautifully written. Your son will known your strength; he felt it as he was growing in your womb. Thank you for sharing your strength will all of us. Bless you.

    • Good Mother Project Post authorReply

      Aimee, thank you so much for your kind words.

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