Giving Ourselves Some Grace

As someone with anxiety and depression, I know how difficult it is to cope with quarantine; it’s a drastic shift from attending school daily and seeing friends to a life of monotony cooped up in the home. Not only that, but the fear of disease and the unknowns about the future can be crippling, paralyzing even, during these difficult times. Due to the lack of stimuli in comparison to what I’m accustomed to during the school year, it has been easy for my mind to wander places better left hidden in the past. One matter in particular that I’ve revisited is past mistakes and behavior and in doing so, I’ve uncovered newfound criticisms of myself that only lead to trouble.

I’m not going to lie – it can be incredibly tempting to wallow in this pain and shame for my past actions and decisions. However, a memory came to mind to combat these dark thoughts that I think could be a great comfort and important message to many.

A few months ago, I was shredding papers and organizing documents at my father’s workplace when I took a break to converse with my aunt, who also works there. I was telling her about my fear of never being good enough or of always making mistakes when she said something that has stuck with me ever since – “You give grace to others when they mess up, right? So, it’s time you give some grace to yourself, allow yourself to make mistakes and learn from it, but don’t dwell on it forever.”

I reminded myself of this today, actually, upon the realization that I was beating myself up over an error I’ve recently made. I’ve had to realize that it’s a part of the human condition that we blunder and falter in our steps – it’s an undeniable part of life. However, another part of the human condition is living on after we err and changing our ways in accordance with what we’ve learned from our mistakes. After all, that’s why God gave us the atonement. He wants us to progress, rather than remain grounded in the past, and live with Him someday as perfected beings. Pain is all a part of the journey and once we repent and reconcile with Him, we can be truly happy. Our mistakes don’t define us, only what we choose to do after the fact does.

The lesson to learn in all of this is, of course, to offer ourselves some grace. We shouldn’t condemn ourselves to live miserably forever, all because of one misstep. Rather, we should seek true happiness and forgiveness in Christ, as He can bring us peace even in the deepest internal and external turmoil.

My Story: Part Three

After a rather traumatic freshman year, I was determined to cultivate my talents and focus on enhancing my academic abilities throughout my sophomore year of high school. I built several new friendships during the school year and maintained good connections with peers who had supported me during the fiasco with Damien. However, my relationship with God faltered due to my insecurities that stemmed from my experience with sexual assault. These insecurities consumed me and ravaged my brain, a perpetual flurry of questions that I could never answer: Was I worth more than my body? Could I be loved more than just in a physical sense? Most pressing of all was the question of whether I could trust the people around me anymore. How could I possibly know someone’s intentions with me? Nevertheless, I tried to give everybody the benefit of the doubt. After all, the backlash that followed my experience with Damien taught me how destructive it is to be critical of others.

Going into second semester of my sophomore year, I was sure that I would end the school year on a pleasant note. In the spring of sophomore year, a good friend of mine introduced me to a boy that she had liked at one time– I’m going to call him Martin in order to preserve his anonymity. Martin was quite charming and handsome; consequently, he had a long history of past girlfriends and flings. Despite these rumors, I was kind to him and hoped that we could become friends. After he made some sexual advances on me, though, I ended my communications with him, both online and in person.

The next time we ran into each other was after school on April 12th. I was walking to the tennis courts to meet my best friends, as I had just used the restroom. He stopped me and we talked; soon enough, though, he began to kiss me roughly and pulled my pants down. I was pressed against a shipping crate, with my back towards him, and he raped me. After saying “no” several times, he put his hand over my mouth and assured me that he was almost done. Martin then argued with me and threatened that if I told the authorities, he would know and he would be upset, as it would ruin his senior year of high school.

Both the school and the police did an investigation into the matter. However, my mother and I were upset with the lack of serious consequences for him, as we knew that it was not justice for the pain that he had caused me. Despite this, I firmly believe that even this made me much stronger as a person and contributed to my growth.

The aftermath and recovery following rape is a harrowing journey. I experienced panic attacks often; I couldn’t even watch television programs that included themes of sexual assault, as it would cause me to break out in hysterics. Martin haunted my thoughts and I had nightmares about him so frequently that I began taking medication to prevent such nightmares from popping up. The pain was further compounded by the taunts and threats that I received from my peers at school. As a result, I often lashed out at people who had no intention to harm me. If it weren’t for the comfort of my church leaders and parents, I doubt that I would have made it through those first six months after being raped. Of course, I must also thank the Lord for the peace that he brought me during those times. Now that it has been a little bit over a year since I was raped, I have learned that there are so many women around me that I can help heal and comfort by sharing my story with them. Because of the trauma I endured, I have been molded into a stronger person and a woman of courage; I hope that with these experiences, I can leave behind a legacy of kindness and comfort with other survivors of sexual assault and abuse. These things should not be something we are ashamed of or that we stay silent about– it is imperative that we speak up and come together to bring this violence and depravity to an end.

My Story: Part Two

Throughout the majority of the first semester of my freshman year, I flourished both socially and academically. I also played tennis on the junior varsity team at my high school and thoroughly enjoyed playing the sport; it was an outlet for any frustrations or anger that I held. Not only that, but it kept me active and prevented me from slipping into a severe bout of depression. I became very close with several girls on the team as well, a few of which I still keep in touch with to this day. In the classroom, I performed exceptionally well on exams and still managed to maintain a social life. In my biology class, I became well-acquainted with this one boy in particular. In order to maintain his anonymity, I will call him Damien. Damien often asked me to help him with his assignments in class and over time, he got into a habit of walking me to my second period class. He often put his arm around me, intentionally brushed his hand against my behind, and made crude sexual remarks that I was too afraid to counter. In my mind, the best way to handle the situation was to ignore the unwanted vulgarity; surely he would stop. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I was sure that it would end there.

On December 8th of my freshman year, a funeral was held for my great-grandmother. I opted to attend school instead, as I worried that I would miss too many important assignments if I were to be absent. After first period, Damien walked alongside me as I made my way to my second period class, per usual. As we neared the classroom, he wrapped his arm tightly around me and slipped his hand into my shirt and beneath my bra. I remained silent in order to deflect from my embarrassment. Damien told me not to enter my classroom just yet–he claimed to have something important to tell me. To my own detriment, I listened and waited for him to make his demands clear. I vividly recall the shrill ring of the tardy bell in perfect unison with the rough lips of Damien pressed against my skin and his hands down my pants. I pulled away. He pulled me back in his arms with an aggressive insistence that I had never recognized in him before. Before I knew it, he was walking away. He didn’t even look back.

I walked into class and the teacher asked why I was late. All I could do was shake my head. Immediately, she recognized that something had happened, and I confided in her concerning the matter in a private corner of the room. Breaking down into tears, I collapsed in her arms and she eventually coaxed me into revealing the name of the boy who did this to me. An investigation into the occurrence ensued on the part of the school. When Damien was sent to juvenile detention, I was immediately targeted by other freshmen who upheld his “innocence”. Many adults at my high school seemed apathetic to my cause, as though I had concocted the story out of thin air. With the exception of the support and affection of my parents, I felt completely and utterly alone. Even my closest friends seemed to be of no help; after all, they had never experienced something of this nature and had no way to truly understand my situation. However, if there is one thing that I can be grateful for, it is that this trial strengthened my relationship with God like I have never experienced before.

My family and I are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints; even so, prior to this experience with sexual assault I had never felt particularly close to God. Even in the first few months following the assault, I was entangled in unhealthy methods of coping that left me apathetic and lacking any desire to live, one of such methods being a short stint with drug abuse. Eventually, though, I realized what a great blessing it is to have God to turn to. Not only did I know of Him, I truly came to know Him at that point in my life. I attribute all my strength in those trying and dark times to God. Through Him, I managed to survive the pain of being so thoroughly violated. In May of my freshman year, I went to court and saw Damien for the first time since he had assaulted me. Fortunately, I got through my victim impact statement before breaking down in my mother’s lap. He was sentenced to a year of community service, individual and family therapy, and was prohibited from contacting me either directly or indirectly. He was also ordered to pay monthly reparations for the trauma that he put me through. As we exited the building with our families, both he and I cried.

Damien burdened me with extensive emotional scarring and prematurely deprived me of my innocence, yet it is an experience that I would never take back, even if I could. It strengthened my faith in God and made me more aware of my knack for writing. In fact, in the spring of my sophomore year I won second place in a prestigious poetry competition that was centered around bringing awareness to the plight of survivors of sexual assault. I have learned that the path of forgiveness and recovery is not linear; it falters, plateaus, and only over a gradual period of time does healing occur.