'I was sexually assaulted by a family member. For years, I told myself it never happened.'

Content warning: This story includes descriptions of sexual assault that may be distressing to some readers.

I have been hiding from social media for the past several years, afraid to be seen. Not because I may have changed in dress size or because I now have wrinkles around my eyes, but because I was scared you could look into my eyes and see I was hiding a dark truth.

I was petrified of that truth hurting so many people I loved, and so I chose to protect them. Meanwhile, I was hurting like I never had before and I certainly wasn’t protecting myself. So here I am putting myself first this time. I wish you knew the mixed emotions this brings me. But I hope this story brings courage and change for those that need it.

Watch: We lose one woman every week in Australia to domestic violence, but that's just the tip of a very grim iceberg. Post continues after video.

Several years ago, I was sexually assaulted. I was sexually assaulted by a family member. I thought I would take that statement to the grave.

I spent the next several years trying to come to terms with what had happened, by blocking it out or downplaying my experience. I was living in denial.

I also knew people who had their own experiences as well and I would tell myself, "mine wasn’t as bad as theirs so maybe it wasn’t that bad".

That narrative is one of the most dangerously toxic and reductive things you can tell yourself about your experience. 

Let me clarify one major important word that’s so big, it’s ENOUGH to put an experience out of the grey zone and straight into black or white... CONSENT. Consent. Consent. Consent. Consent.

There ALWAYS needs to be consent. End of story.                

In my case, with it being a family member, consent isn’t up for discussion. Family should come with an undefined, unexplainable, unbreakable level of trust and safety. Consent doesn't come into it. 

Also, I feel like we should be taught about consent in school instead of memorising the periodic table or how to put a condom on a banana. (I mean the latter is still useful to some, I guess, but if we were taught consent I feel the condom/banana part would have naturally followed, am I wrong?)

The other layer that kept this demon dormant is that this was not the first time something like this had happened in my family. That led to beyond-horrific circumstances that, to this day, have impacted the lives of many, many people. So the fear, guilt and shame that I carry is quite literally in my DNA.

This experience has made me the sickest I have ever been. My anxiety has been debilitating and often left me unable to work, my spirit so broken that I’ve only existed in tiny fragments, malnourished because my body was so consistently heightened that my stomach couldn’t absorb nutrients, never ever sleeping a night through.

There was guilt so consuming the nausea was like all your worst hangovers rolled into one, shame so deep that it affected me on a cellular level, constant blame of myself for not being bigger in the moment, self loathing so extraordinary that I couldn’t look in a mirror, fear so crippling that I had lost my once confident voice, social anxiety so bad I would tremor in public and have someone order for me or hold my hand to the bathroom.

If I disagreed with someone, it would explode to the nth degree, as I wasn’t in a reasonable state, not while that demon was lurking close to but beneath the surface. I was so disconnected from my body; it didn’t feel like she was a part of me anymore. I disowned her; she was dirty, disgusting, tainted. Prior to this experience, she was my Queen.

I was confident; I was vibrant; I was colourful and vivacious. I backed myself; I owned my words; I let nobody mess with me; I was strong, sassy and the life of the party.

That had all been taken from me. I was absent, empty, a reflection in the mirror that looked similar to someone I used to know. I was no longer me.   

I tell you this not for your pity, I will politely hand that back to you. This telling isn’t even about me. It’s about putting the ownership of this story and millions of stories like this back into the rightful hands. 

The hands of the perpetrator.                       

The horror, pain, blame and shame of these acts should NOT be in the hands of the victim. So this is my verbal handover.

Any other sexual assault survivors, I want you to say this with me too:

"I will not carry the shame or blame that you have inflicted on me. That is not mine. You are the rightful owner and I give that back to you.
I will not carry the weight of your guilt. It is not mine. You are the rightful owner and I give that back to you.
I will not carry the fear of consequences if people know the truth. That is not my fear. You are the rightful owner and I give that back to you.
I will no longer carry the trauma in my mind, in my body and in my spirit. The trauma is not mine. I give that back to you.

In exchange for these things, I am taking back what is rightfully MINE; my Power.

I am no longer tiny and small; I am bigger and better than ever.
I am no longer broken and in pieces; I am whole. I am wholesome. I will no longer be silenced or afraid to speak. I am speaking my truth. I am no longer in hiding, I AM HEARD. I AM SEEN. I AM FREE."

I hope that reading my story, and the ‘handover to the hands of the perpetrator’ helps you release, find relief and find peace. Or if you know someone that it might help, please share this with them.

Listen to The Quicky, Mamamia's daily news podcast where the hosts discuss how to help women who are locked inside their homes with their abusers.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

The image used is a stock image. 

If this has raised any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) - the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service.

Feature Image: Getty.