By John
The first time a friend told me she thought she might have been a victim of sexual assault, we were standing in front of my locker. The glossy 5x7’s that showed our smiling faces were held tight to the metal door with clear tape. I felt so uncomfortable and so unsure of myself that even those smiles--frozen in time and revealed seven times a day by the turn of a combination lock and the squeak of tired hinges--seemed to weaken and transform into frowns. I had no idea what to say.
Over my adult life, numerous people have confided in me that they have been the victim of a sexual assault. This usually happens after our friendship is well-established and, no doubt, after they have steeled themselves to share their story. And while survivors of sexual assault have told me that sharing the story and bringing another ally into their circle of trust gets a little easier each time, I must confess that, as an ally, it never gets easier to hear one of these revelations. And I’m sorry to say that I don’t feel I have gotten better at responding in the moment.
Upon hearing their truth, my reaction is usually some combination of shock, anger, fear, shame, and helplessness. To have someone that I care about who is trying to heal after this kind of trauma reveal to me their incredibly personal story is profound and meaningful and important and terrifying. It makes me feel loved and trusted but also burdened, which in turn makes me feel selfish. What right do I have to feel burdened by someone else’s burden?
And then there is the matter of not knowing the right thing to say. I still don’t know exactly what that person would want to hear. And of course there is no single statement that I could say to make everything ok. How could there possibly be? And what if I stand there, searching my mind for the “right” thing to say, and I stay silent for just a moment too long? Could that lead the person who has confided in me to doubt themselves, or to feel judged?
Not wanting to let my empty air be filled with their self-doubt, I stammer out hollow phrases like “oh my god,” and “I’m so sorry,” or “that’s awful.” And then I have no idea what to do next. Should I offer a hug? Or would that be uncomfortable? Should I apologize? Or is that awkward? Should I ask questions? Or would that be inappropriate?
I have taken some time to reflect on my reactions, and to plan how I will react the next time a friend shares this kind of news with me. I’ve thought about how I’ve reacted in the past. I’ve thought about how I would want others to react if I ever had to share similar information with them. I’ve researched what guidance is available from online resources, from victim’s networks, from web forums. And while these sources provide useful tips (“Do: tell them it’s not their fault. Don’t: say they shouldn’t tell anyone else.”), I felt like they were not enough.
After giving myself the time and space for more deliberate thought, I have decided there is one phrase I will use. A phrase I wish I used that first time a friend in high school told me she wasn’t sure if the sex had been consensual. And in college when another friend revealed she had been assaulted in the middle of the night by a mutual friend. And just a few years ago when the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows seemed to flicker out when a friend told me about her rape.
The phrase is this: “Thank you for telling me.”
Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for letting me love you.