Fear of Sexual Assault

Fear accompanied me throughout my childhood and youth, that’s what you get for being stupid enough to allow yourself to be born to an alcoholic father. The trauma is different to the fear experienced at the time, but still present.

Yesterday for a few minutes I experienced a different type of fear, one which, sadly, most women will encounter at some point in their lives.

I had my appointment with the researchers for the drug trial, it lasted three hours and I returned to my car around 5:30 – I had parked some distance away and had to jump on a tram (two if I’m going to be specific) to get back to my car. I alighted the tram along with a man in his 20s, I thought nothing of him, he was walking ahead of me but then he turned down the side street leading to my carpark and took a piss on a dumpster. I was suspicious of how short his piss was, it seemed like he just wanted to get behind me. So then I’m walking down a long, narrow driveway with a man behind me who I know is not above getting his dick out in public. To ensure I was being paranoid and he wasn’t really following me I moved my path from walking behind the cars to the actual painted walkway a few meters behind the cars. At the same moment so did he. At this stage I thought all I could do was to keep looking behind me so he knew I had seen his face and he wouldn’t get away with doing anything without being identified.

I’ve never imagined myself as a potential victim of sexual assault because of my appearance, but I guess it’s not really about that is it, it’s about the perpetrator expressing his power over his victim. I’ve got some fight in me, but I would have lost hands down to this man. I was ever so grateful when he turned to enter the building and I continued to the back of the car park.

By no means am I scared of men, but this felt like it could have gone very badly.

Guinea Pig

Girl with her spirit animal

On Monday I have an assessment for a drug trial. I've already seen the professor heading it up and I meet the criteria, there are just 2-3 hours of tests to do. It's a trial for people with BPD, but very kindly the professor and research team use the term Complex Trauma Disorder; I appreciate this because it better defines the condition and separates it from the stigma attached to BPD. The drug is called Memantine, it's currently used in Alzheimer's patients but there's reason to believe it could be helpful in trauma cases. I may get the real drug or I may get the placebo, it's a double blind trial so the researchers won't know either. At the end I will have the option of being prescribed the real drug regardless of whether I was on it or the placebo. You may wonder how the trial benefits me and why I don't just ask my psychiatrist to prescribe it, I will tell you. First of all being in a trial isn't just about benefiting yourself, you're contributing to research which has the potential to help everyone with your diagnosis and beyond. Then there's the intense monitoring you're under for the duration (12 weeks on the drug plus some assessments prior) which will pick up on side effects and intolerances before I would normally click that there's something wrong; this will allow me afterwards to take the drug knowingly, even if I've been on the placebo I'll have information from the researchers about how other patients have tolerated it, what kind of benefits to expect and what could go wrong. Memantine works on a different chemical in the brain to your typical antidepressants, the thinking behind using this drug is because that chemical (cortisol) is disturbed in people who have experienced trauma in their youth, an antidepressant or antipsychotic won't address this.

I'll write another post in a day or two, I have more to write but I'd like to keep this post about the trial.

K

Four Years Hasn't Changed Much

I've been out of hospital since Tuesday, I was there for two and a half weeks due to intense suicidal urges. I don't feel like giving a full update right now but I thought I'd share something old. ...

The following was written during a life writing class I took as part of my (unfinished) Masters in Writing and Literature. I stumbled upon it tonight whilst going through my hard drive and thought I'd let it see the light of day.

Senselessness always leaves marks; we’ve all done stupid things that will not be forgotten, not because we can’t purge them from our minds, but rather because we can’t eliminate the evidence. It may be weeks between the forced recollections, maybe just hours it depends where I look whilst on the toilet. It’s not a problem in the shower or getting dressed, I don’t study my body at those times, just get the task at hand over with. But I can’t help but gaze around me, and occasionally at me, while I urinate and defecate. I’m sitting there in a tiny white room with a frosted glass window, a wooden cat shaped toilet roll holder and an out-dated Astor poster to entertain me. Then I glance down at my right thigh and remember that I used to cut it, not a big deal since it’s only been 8 weeks since I last sliced my arm open, but I haven’t cut my leg for months and I forget that I ever did. I feel that my bloodlust is confined to my left arm, but it’s not. The occasional thigh glances remind me of the gash on my torso, the one that I really should have had stitched but let steri-strips suffice. They remind me of the Bolte Bridge incident, the many over-doses, though they are very blotchy memories, also the building incident, the knives, the banning from hospitals. A cascade of memories from a few lines that are usually covered. The fire on that thigh is out, but the smoke remains.