Trigger warning: sexual assault, trauma, PTSD

Sometimes, a person’s words stop you in your tracks—not because they’re polished or poetic, but because they are true. A young woman I know recently shared this short but powerful reflection after reading a book of essays by survivors of sexual abuse. Her words struck me immediately with their clarity and emotional weight.

With her permission, I’m sharing her piece here—not to speak over her voice, but to make space for it. I believe stories like this deserve to be seen, acknowledged, and met with compassion, not silence. Survivors often carry their pain alone, in a world that asks them to explain what should never have happened in the first place.

This is what she wrote.

The You, The After

By Gillian O’Keefe, a survivor

Me too.
Me too in 2023.
My friend of years, a co-worker.
A person trusted, cared for.

No one ever talks about the AFTER.
The event itself is terrible.
But the after is so much worse.
Especially when you work with him, his mother, our–no, his friends and his girlfriend.

The after where all your friends turn on you when you finally let it out in any voice audibly detected by another life-form.
After you get loud about it despite the shushing that had happened that night and many after…
After a long time of being afraid and alone.
After your workplace refuses to protect you.
After they refuse to fire him.
After they deny you.
Because the patriarchy is so embedded in society and it’s institutions.

After, you go through routine scrutiny and questioning:

“why didn’t you report him?”
“Why were you there?”
“Why did you put yourself in that situation?”
“Are you going to get over it?”
“Are you going to move on?”
“Are you seeing a therapist?”
“Why don’t you press charges? It’ll help the next girl.”
“Why don’t you fall on more swords and knives and tear yourself limb from limb because despite the fact that you’ve had to pay the bill every time for someone else’s actions, you should give MORE of yourself?”

I didn’t choose any of this.
I didn’t wake up that day and say to myself that I was going to be r*ped.
I didn’t know I had to prepare for that,
I didn’t have a r*pe kit ready and on hand,
I didn’t board up my windows and doors,
I didn’t know I should have had to protect myself.
I didn’t even understand what had happened when it happened.

See, everyone totes that they stand with HER.
They’d never condone r*pe or child ab*se or any of those sorts of things.
And that’s all true, until they care for the abuser.
Until they have to be uncomfortable.
Until they have no choice but to choose.

Pick him, you deny my experience.
Choose not to pick, you deny my experience.
Choose to play both sides, you deny my experience.
Pick his buddies who ostracized me, you deny my experience.
You’re complicit when you turn a blind eye.

In the after you’ve gone so far down the rabbit hole you’ve forgotten who you are.
Your diagnosed PTSD looks like confusion.
You’ve forgotten your favorite songs,
hobbies,
your favorite colors,
your sense of self,
your sense of self-care and love.
After, you forget to be anything other than sadness and anger.
You forget how to be alive.

After, you dream about it.
You live it in your skin viscerally.
You remember moments, feelings– you hear his voice, noises and can feel physical touch.
Wishing you could peel your skin off and abandon the body that no longer feels like it belongs to you anyway.

After, you check your room, kitchen, closets and house before you can sleep.
After, you can feel the pain like it’s happening in that very moment.
You check each passing car that looks like his.
Men who have his haircut make you flinch.
You hate yourself.
You’re afraid to leave the house.
After, you lose time to hiding in your bed and clutching your chest like it’ll fall to pieces if you let go even a little.

After, It impacts your ability to form relationships with others and yourself moving forward.
After, you’re in so much pain you start not taking care of you,
After, you make reckless and self-destructive decisions,
You forget to eat proper, sleep, breathe.
You dont care about anything– much less caring about your own safety and security.
After, You let yourself become so emaciated from the essence of life that you wonder if you’re even alive.
You look sick because you’ve made yourself sick.
You make your invisible “disability”, visible.
You suffer in plain sight but still invisible to those you thought cared for you.
In the after you’re afraid to be healthy, happy or thrive, like doing so is declaring:

“I’m fine now, I’m okay. What happened didn’t hurt so bad. I don’t need help. Did it even happen? Maybe I AM a liar. Maybe I AM crazy. Look at me, thriving, in spite of– or if, I was ever even r*ped”.

The after eats you.
As if the event itself hadn’t already.
You took part of my soul.
By “you” I don’t mean just him,
I mean everyone who stood complicit.
I mean the broken system.
I mean managers and HR teams whose “hands are tied”.
I mean companies and institutions who host this.
I mean friends who turned on you.
I mean friends and family who don’t want to talk about it, acknowledge it or check up on you.
I mean all of the entities that ensured isolation,
hopelessness
and loneliness.
I hope I don’t mean you, reader.
But, I wouldn’t be surprised anymore.

The event mortally wounded me,
but the after finished the job.
Burned me to the ground.
I always said I’d never change,
But I’m not the same.

Politics are messy.
But don’t get it twisted:
blind eyes,
not choosing a side,
not getting involved and being indifferent;
Makes you guilty too…
makes you complicit.
Pick a side.
Don’t be a coward.
Say it with your chest.
Stand for nothing and you ARE nothing.

I’ve been fighting for and with my sanity for nearly two years in that environment to which I was constantly exposed to
a besmirching,
a witch-hunt,
disrepect,
assaults
and personal attacks by people I cared for.
I burned with spectators.

And I’m out now.
I’m not defined by him.
I’m not defined by that moment or the many that followed.
I’m not going to waste away just because you didn’t feel I was worthy of respect or security.

To YOU in particular: I’m not sorry for writing this. As you said:

“I was just in the heat of the moment, I didnt mean to do it. I didnt mean to make you feel like that, mb. You cant tell anyone though, it would hurt my Mom if it got out, it would stress her out, and I know you care for her too. And I dont wanna be known as THAT guy, because I’m not THAT guy. Do you think I broke us?”.

I will not be shushed by you or the “you”.
So to you,
the “you”
and to the “after”:

f*ck you… thoroughly.

A note for reflection:

Believing a survivor doesn’t mean abandoning fairness, or ignoring the complexity of human relationships. But all too often, our first reaction is doubt—especially when the story disrupts our sense of someone we thought we knew. It’s uncomfortable. But discomfort is not a reason to look away. If we can learn to sit with that discomfort, to listen longer, and to hold compassion before judgment, we move closer to justice—not just for survivors, but for ourselves, too.

To Survivors Reading This

If you or someone you care about has experienced sexual violence, please know you are not alone—and what happened to you is not your fault. Healing is not linear, and it doesn’t have to look any particular way. If this story stirred something in you, take a moment for yourself. Breathe. Reach out if you need to. There are support lines, therapists, peers, and communities that believe you and want to help.

You are worthy of healing, of safety, and of being seen.