Trauma

I’ve spoken a lot about my personal experiences in dealing with and overcoming trauma. I’ve learned to use my voice and become more comfortable with being open and vulnerable. Over the last few years, I’ve developed a specific passion for understanding sexual trauma. One primary reason I’ve decided to pursue a Masters degree in Clinical Psychology is because of my strong desires to better understand what sexual trauma looks like, how it presents itself, and how victims can attain healing. I’m very passionate about changing the status quo, specifically when it comes to sex within the culture of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I often cringe when I think about some of the backwards, old fashioned, ineffective, damaging techniques some leaders in the Church use when addressing sex. 

As I’ve become more open about my own traumas, I realize I’ve never actually shared specific, personal experiences of the traumatic events that have occurred in my life. There have been several, but for some reason today I felt it was important to share at least one specific experience.

As a newly engaged 19-year-old student at BYU-Hawaii, I’d never had a gynecological exam before. I was advised I should do so before getting married, and then again a few months after our wedding. So a few weeks before the big day, I made an appointment at the on-campus health clinic. I was nervous; as a young, modest, virgin, I’d never spread my legs wide open and let anyone just take a good long look at my vagina, let alone put anything inside it. Honestly, I’d never even really looked down there myself much beyond learning how to use a tampon. I proceeded with the appointment and to my surprise everything went amazingly well. I was pronounced completely healthy and normal and was maybe a little too stoked about the whole experience. I mean I was seriously jazzed about this gynecology appointment, like I could just walk right back in and have another! 

A few weeks later on June 23^rd, 2012, David and I got married in the Salt Lake Temple. As far as sex goes, our honeymoon was pretty bad. I even cried because it just hurt so much. Fast forward several weeks and we were back at BYU-Hawaii; newlyweds living in the highly sought-after Temple View Apartments. As advised, I made another appointment with the doctor and happily skipped right on in, expecting another great experience. This time David came along. We were put in a room and when the doctor came in, like usual, I sat up on the table and assumed the rather humiliating position, feet in stirrups, legs spread. What happened next was awful. I sat back and soon after the doctor began the exam, he called over to David who was sitting respectfully near the door. “David, swing a chair over here so I can show you some things.” Honestly, typing this, I feel like throwing up. As I sat there, in the most vulnerable position known to woman, the doctor proceeded to point around, giving David a little tour of my lady parts. I was very much not a part of this conversation; actually, it was as if the doctor forgot that I, this real life human being, was not there. I knew my poor, sweet David was probably sitting there awkwardly, squirming in his seat, just going along, too afraid to deny an authority figure. I heard the doctor say things like “now, when they talk about this (pointing), this is what they mean”, and “during foreplay, this is the part you're going to want to stimulate, (pointing), it’s that thing right there” and “if you can see this and this right here, those are what that’s for”, and so on. I couldn’t even see their faces, so they definitely could not see mine. Not really understanding, all of a sudden, black doors started closing on my vision and I felt light-headed and sick. Interrupting their private conversation about MY VAGINA, I said rather loudly, “um, I think I’m passing out”. The doctor quickly got me out of the stirrups and leaned my chair back, just casually saying, “ok, yep, just lean back and take a few breaths” … Like, hey no big deal, this happens all the time! (horrifying thought). 

At the time, I was 19 and David was 23. We were young and shy and didn’t know how to speak up for ourselves, or tell anyone, let alone a doctor, how we really felt. So, I’m sure with a face as white as a sheet, I just blankly nodded my head throughout the rest of the appointment and then left. The sad fact is that, again, I was 19. I was so young, I didn’t even understand in that moment how traumatized I had just been. I had just sat in the most wide-open, vulnerable position a person can be in, and had two MEN poke and prod and point and inappropriately and casually converse about my private parts, all as if I was not even there. I was completely objectified. 

Later, when I finally decided to start seeing a psychologist to help me as my entire self: mind, body and spirit, were being utterly shattered by more trauma, PTSD, marital distress, severe depression, severe anxiety, suicidality, and so on, I mentioned this experience. My counselor, who I had grown close to at that point, looked as though he was going to murder someone. His face turned a bright red and I seriously wondered if he was going to try and get this doctor fired. 

At such a young age, I didn’t understand I had been traumatized. I didn’t really know what that was or meant. I didn't know that it would be years before I would truly understand that this experience of objectification played a role in the disaster that became my life. After that experience, and because of other major experiences, during intimacy, I would begin to see myself as a dirty whore, a slut, a prostitute, just a body there to please my husband. I began to dissociate regularly. I often would forget who I was and would need David to say my name out loud to bring me back. One time, my mind left my body and I actually watched myself from above, from the corner of the ceiling. It was so dark. 

Later, as I grew and overcame much of that darkness, I found myself in Dallas, at a new doctor's office, being told I needed my regular check up -- which included a pap smear. I actually asked if I could just go my whole life without ever having a gynecology exam ever again. I was told that was not smart and unlikely if I wanted children. Thankfully my doctor was a younger women who came from a religious Muslim background and understood the concept of modesty and shyness in exams like these. When the day of the exam came, my anxiety levels were through the roof, I couldn't eat, my mouth went completely dry, I was literally shaking. I knew this was silly, I knew it would be fine. It's not like I was running through my previous experience moment to moment in my mind, going over every cringeworthy detail. But my body reacted. That is how trauma works. It is irrational and if unchecked, automatic and uncontrollable. I briefly told my doctor of my past experience. She was shocked and sympathetic. Bless her soul, she walked me through a breathing exercise, had me close my eyes and envision a happy place. She made sure I knew that she was going to go very slowly and would explain anything she was going to do before she did it. Even so, I started panicking, badly. She held my hand, helped me breath, then went as quickly as she could to finish. When that thing came out of me and it was over, I couldn't shut my legs fast enough. 

This one example of a traumatic trip to the doctor doesn’t have the gruesome horror that is found in cases of rape or other instances of sexual abuse. Nonetheless, it is real. Another newly married girl could have walked into that doctor’s office, had the same exact experience, and walked out unaffected. We are all different, we all process experiences differently. Maybe my brothers friend exposing himself to me when I was 7 years old played a role. Maybe my interpretation of the consequences of sexual sin as dictated by my religious upbringing played a role. Maybe my predisposition to anxiety played a role. We are all different. We all come from different backgrounds and have different genetics. But trauma is trauma and the side effects are ugly and heart breaking, especially when one trauma is stacked upon another, and another, and another. Remember my first ever exam? How truly thrilled I was with it? The contrast is a haunting testimony to the darkness of trauma. Knowing the extent of what I’ve been through, I still question how I made it out alive, haha. But I did, and now I can be there when another young and hopeful 19-year-old finds her life shattered, and maybe I can make a difference.