Now that I am beginning to read more about the evolutionary process – more in terms of memes than genes because I find that more fascinating – I am wondering what a traumatic experience like this does to us. There’s more than movie encoded in my brain. The movie is just the obvious part. There is also a very, very deep hurt that never quite goes away. And there is always a part that doesn’t quite feel okay anymore. What pathways are forged in the brains of a person who experienced such trauma and how can we heal those pathways because they are obviously much deeper than I, at least, realized? I can only suspect how this experience affected the rest of my life. I don’t even know if it did. I do know that I have had my share of unhealthy and abusive relationships. Did I end up in those because of some wiring left behind by the rape experience? Or is that giving the rape too much power? Maybe it wasn’t such a formative and destructive event.
There is evidence, though, that does suggest that traumatic events that trigger Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, including rape, change the brain, thus are quite formative. The amygdala, a part of our brain, is involved in the processing of our fear response (among other emotions). During trauma, this fear response sensitizes the amygdala, which then apparently reacts more quickly and strongly to fear-inducing stimuli. The hippocampus, the part of our brain involved in memory, is also affected. Studies have found changes in the hippocampus of patients with PTSD. Our body releases natural opiates when we’re faced with danger. These opiate levels remain high in people with PTSD, possibly leading to the blunting of emotions we experience. Neurotransmitters that activate the hippocampus – our memory – are at higher levels than normal, which might explain why the movie of the trauma is so well preserved.
All this is comforting to me, as well as fascinating. There is a reason why this experience keeps popping up, despite all the work I’ve done around it, and why each rerun of the movie leaves me scatter brained and close to tears. It’s wired in my brain. The reaction is completely normal. And that is what every rape survivor wants to know: we are normal, we are okay. It happened to us and we survived. However, knowing about the effects of the experience on our brains can help us accept the after-effects of our trauma. That, too, is normal and there is a biological explanation for it. Though, to me, the question that remains now seems to stay largely unanswered: How do I undo that rewiring? I am not sure if there is a way to do that. After all the nature of trauma is that it is traumatic, i.e., different than our normal experience (though for some, such as survivors of childhood abuse, unfortunately, the trauma became the “normal”). There are, of course, treatments that help us cope but I don’t think those treatments re-wire our brain again. They help us learn to live with our “new” brain; they help us cope and move on, yet our brain remains rewired. My flashbacks are a vivid reminder of that.
There is also an interesting comment, which almost seems like an aside, in the Psychology Today article on PTSD: “Thus, the fear induced by re-exposure to traumatic material indicates a failure of inhibition on the part of the hippocampus, and is evidence that the traumatic episode is not integrated as a narrative, spatio-temporal event in autobiographical memory.” As Timothy Wilson would put it – based on Strangers to Ourselves: We haven’t found a good self-story yet. Maybe knowing that our brain got re-wired can help us integrate the trauma into our self-story.
What about the effect of the rape on the rest of my life? Of course, this is speculation at this point but it sounds like the scientific evidence points to a heightened fear response. We become afraid faster and more strongly. Maybe that is why I was attracted to men who seemed strong and able to protect me. Unfortunately, they were neither.
I am hesitant to post this to my blog. It’s a much more personal note than anything that I’ve posted so far. But this is part of who I am, part of my history. And I found the neuropsychological findings on PTSD very helpful for making sense of that past, writing a little more of my self-story. Learning this, contributed another piece to my healing from the rape. I want to share that with other survivors of trauma in the hopes that it might be helpful to them. Still, it feels like a big step to hit “publish.”
Thanks.
For writing it; for surviving it; and for posting it in spite of your hesitation -that’s bravery, as far as I’m concerned.
I found this article very helpful, too. I’m sure I won’t go tracking down your sources. It is enough for me to hear what you shared here.
Here’s what I’ve learned over my 60 years: All the stuff of my history – the good and the bad – contributed to make this person who I am now. All of it. I’ve turned out pretty well, over all. Some lessons are harder than others. Would I have skipped the abuse if I could? You betcha!!
Do I regret the path that brought me to this present consciousness? Not at all.
So who have you become? I know only what I read here. So far, I see intelligence, reflection, courage, conviction…who knows what you’ll show me in the posts to come. Based just on this, I think you’re doing pretty well, too. I hope it feels that way to you. If it doesn’t, then remember that you’re the one who can make it so.
Thanks, again.
Thank you, Kate, for your kind words! I do think that what I’ve experienced is an important part of who I am. I certainly wouldn’t dig into a lot of the issues that I am digging in now had it not been for these experiences. Like, you, I’d preferred to learn all this without the abuse but it was part of my path, so I might as well accept it and grow from it.
Rachel,
I’ve done a lot of reading about traumatic experiences and how they re-wire the brain also. When I read: “Maybe it wasn’t such a formative and destructive event.” I thought, how could it not be? I don’t know if there’s a way to fully heal from a trauma like that. I’ve heard about drugs they’re trying out that will erase the memories or something – which sounds kind of dangerous to me.
I have found that posting painful experiences on my blog is a healing tool. I could journal forever and not get the same relief I’ve found for putting it out there for others to see, and hopefully learn from, or take comfort that they’re not the only ones. My blog has unwittingly become a place where I work things out in my own head and it really does help me move on in the moment. I hope this post will provide you the same sense of relief. I’m so sorry that happened to you.
Thanks for your input, Angela! Yes, you are right: the rape was a formative and destructive event – that became clear to me after I wrote the rest of the post (so, I’ll edit it a bit to make that clear!).
I also found, like you, that blog-posting is another little step to healing. There is also evidence for that: when we write self-stories, we work it through, sort things out, and make sense of our experience. If we write for an audience, we probably have to do even more of that since we want to ensure that our points come across clearly.
Hi Rachel:
Healing/wiring/rewiring and all of that brought me to your site tonight. I was raped at gunpoint by several men, one “ringleader”, about two years ago. I have been diagnosed with ptsd. I struggle to change the course of that rewiring, sometimes on a daily basis.
I think it does change the way we process, our cognitive processes. In fact I feel very little doubt about that. No evidence; no peer review; no academic standard. Just my life. A life beginning to get better.
But I’m fucked up again. What else is new?
Its hard to write because I always feel some kind of shame that I’m not better. I can’t talk because my mouth is empty, full of a big black bag of silence. Vowels slur; consonants tear like barbed wire. There was an incident Monday, an unusual trigger to my experience of rape. I haven’t quite processed/recovered from it.
When I had my dog Emma out in the backyard beside the garden and its high brick wall there were two little boys (about 12-14 y.o.) perched on top taunting, barking, throwing things at Emma to get her going. She has old people fears from an abusive puppyhood and did start to become highly aroused and agitated by it. Normally, I would be so underwhelmed by such an occurrence, that would have been the end of it but I felt rage inside and went right over to them asking if they were crazy or just assholes. Of course this upped the ante and resulted in an escalation of their behaviour, now tearing branches from trees and whipping them at Emma and I. ***My rage was barely contained; this wasn’t rage for only their actions, they were just the proverbial straw. Oh fuck I would have killed them if I could have reached high enough to grab a leg.*** The little bastards were lucky I’m so goddamn short because I have no doubt that they would have been torn apart. They were shocked by my response, guess they’d figured on fear from me. This prompted one to lean quickly over and spit in my face. I knew I had to walk away. And so I did.
Tonight I was walking along St. Clair wondering at the rage coursing like venom through my veins, eating away at my heart. What to do with it? I thought about incorporating it into the sculpture I’m working on, but I don’t really want it there. The rage of being used as a human toilet by several men, one pissing up my ass, into my body, while a camera rolled and the others sat idly by watching, snorting coke up their noses, sucking meth into their lungs, and diddling their dicks waiting for the next time the mood struck them *does not* belong in an unprecedented hurricane from hell on two silly little boys. My mind was spinning wondering what to do with it?
So all I could do was buy my sweet potatoes. Then on the walk home something interesting happened. Somebody walking behind me, barely, partly within my peripheral vision. A little boy. A little black boy about their age, dressed just about like them. No fear, only rage and horror at my own poison. I heard something hit the sidewalk and turned to him. He had an umbrella, three big bags of chips, falling down pants and not enough hands… I asked him if he needed help and bent down to pick up the chips for him, then decided I needed to kneel and bent as low as I could go before him. I looked up and handed him his dropped bits in a gesture of utter subservience. Subservience to the innocent, to the truth. A big warm smile of thanks came over his face and in that one ephemeral moment rage was transformed into a state of grace.
Off to find more moments.
Thanks for allowing me the space to share with you.
jill
Hi, Jill,
What a horrifying experience you had with the gang rape! Horrible! It’s beyond me how people can do stuff like that even on drugs… I hope those dog taunting boys don’t grow up to be these kinds of men… I applaud you for having the mindfulness to walk away from them. Even though their behavior triggered your deep rage, there was something in you that reached out and stopped you from acting out that rage (although I wonder if you ended up directing at yourself instead?).
Thank you for sharing your story! I wish you more moments of grace and internal peace!
Rachel
Thank you Rachel for your wonderfully supportive and insightful comments. You know, I was afraid to come back here and check, thought I should just start writing a letter of apology for my – my – experience, my existence here in this life and infecting you and others with it. Then I got your wonderful comment via email. Thank you.
Yes Rachel, I undoubtedly direct that rage at myself. I know that I do, you’re right. But I forgive myself and understand myself. In my experience of this whole thing that has been the only way that I can regain control. And control is essential to the healing of the self.
They can do this; they can do that; they can do, might do the unexpected other. But I know what I can do. I can direct what I do, how I respond, with insight and mindfulness. The only thing I can have control over is myself.
Sometimes its really hard, its so hard to take it on. But If I don’t then what is the alternative? Their agenda dictates my life. I will take responsibility because its all I have the power to control or change. I will embrace my rage. Mine to make art with or to help out little cutie boys in the rain on the street. My power; not theirs.
Not to make lightly of your insight. I often hate and castigate myself for the consequences of their actions, which were emphatically not mine, or my responsibility. But only I have the power over myself to change, to transform, to emerge from this in my own image. I’m not giving them that power. Its mine.
Thank you for not erasing me from your site, it was my biggest fear. That I was too ugly. Your response told me I might be a mess, but I’m okay. Thank you for that. Truthfully? I thought you’d erase the message and I’d be banned from speaking my truth somehow. Every day with terrible risk I try to assert myself and my truth back into the world. You have been a bright and shining gem in that process.
Sometimes I have these really great fantasies about being a SuperWoman of some kind. Educated in classics and creative lit, I imagine myself a one-breasted, cross-bow bearing Amazonian woman (at five foot-two – shhhh!). I avenge not only myself but other women, so bloody very many who have been through so much more than have I. I adore these fantasies. They scare the crap outta any men to whom I reveal them…
They give me power when I’m scared to sleep. And I have a new tool: the Rachel Stone.
Peace to you my sister,
jill
xo
Jill: The only hesitation I had about posting your comment was wondering if you really wanted that comment available to the whole world. It didn’t cross my mind that it might contain too much horror to post. This happened to you. I see no reason to hide that fact, as horrible as it is. I also thought that your comment contained a beautiful ending – a ray of hope that we can, at least to some degree, overcome the pain that has been inflicted on us. I also think that our speaking out can have a powerful healing effect on us, especially when we realize that we’re not alone.
Yes, we really only have control over ourselves, our own thoughts, and our own behavior (and sometimes even that to a lesser degree than we think…). It’s so important to keep this in mind because we, as humans, have the tendency to take on responsibility for other people’s actions (or maybe that’s a woman thing…). Putting the responsibility back to where it belongs is an important step, as is taking responsibility for what we can control, as you suggest.
I love the idea of SuperWoman! As a teen, I took a self-defense class for women taught by a woman who also wasn’t very tall. But she could take on any guy, especially since she had another tool at her disposal: surprise… Timothy Wilson suggests that our ego, who we are, is essentially created by ourselves, by the stories we tell ourselves. We can, he suggests, change who we are by imagining a new self and then practicing being that new self until it becomes us. So, your SuperWoman fantasies might be even more powerful than you realize, especially when you slowly adapt some of her behavior.
[...] rejoicing at women fighting back against their abusers to being deeply disturbed and trying to avoid flashbacks. What would happen if all of us who have been deeply wounded through sexual abuse would fight back [...]