This year’s theme for Sexual Assault Awareness Month, “25 Years Stronger: Looking Back, Moving Forward”, celebrates the resilience of survivors and the efforts of those who worked for change. Read this reflection by former Rape Crisis Advocate, writer, and survivor, Stephanie Eghigian, which encaptures this theme perfectly.
Content Warning: Contains some details related to sexual assault.
I have a scar on my elbow.
It happened thirty-nine years ago at 2:00 a.m. on a warm October night. The house was silent except for the distant rustle of leaves scattering through dark backyards and empty streets. I was awakened suddenly by a creaking sound. Footsteps. Someone was in the house. I sat up in bed, heart racing, to see a face in the darkness. I reached for the bedside phone, but it was too late. In an instant, he cut the cord and was on top of me.
I fought back in a desperate but futile attempt to stop him. He was stronger. And he had a knife. In that moment, I made a choice, the choice to survive. I stopped resisting. During the struggle, the knife sliced into my elbow. Later, the police would describe it as a “defense wound.” If I hadn’t raised my arm to block the knife, the injury could have been much worse.
By 4 a.m., the entrance to my house was surrounded by police tape. Parishioners attending 7:00 am services at the church across the street had front row seats as investigators searched my house, carrying evidence in sealed paper bags and boxes.
I spent the early morning hours at a local hospital enduring an invasive forensic exam and elbow stitches. I also fielded victim blaming questions from the male doctor like “Do you always wear make-up to bed?” As though failing to remove mascara meant I had invited the assault. After the ordeal at the hospital, New York State Police detectives took my statement, which took several more hours.
Between the Sunday morning churchgoers and the reporter who followed the trial for the local newspaper, every lurid detail of the assault was public. Everyone knew. And in case they weren’t sure, well-meaning strangers would ask me about it, “You’re not the girl who was … you know.”
I felt like I was now defined by thirty minutes of terror.
Before I left the hospital, after the stitches and the medical exam, a kind nurse handed me a telephone receiver. On the other end was a rape crisis counselor who emphasized it wasn’t my fault. She explained that it was okay that I stopped fighting because I had done what I needed to do to survive. And then she offered support through the court process and for as long as I needed it. I cannot overstate the importance of this immediate validation and support. It was a lifeline for me.
Healing has been a long and imperfect journey. I’ve been in and out of therapy. At times, I’ve needed antidepressants. And sometimes I still wake up at 2:00 a.m. thinking I hear someone in the house. But in the thirty-nine years since the assault, I’ve built a happy life. I have a loving, supportive family, including five grandchildren whom I adore. I’ve had a satisfying career, including more than seven years as a Rape Crisis Advocate. And I have a quirky little dog who keeps me laughing.
I no longer feel defined by thirty minutes of terror.
I can’t see my elbow scar without holding my arm up to a mirror, which I hadn’t done in years. A few days ago, I decided to take a look. To my surprise, I couldn’t see the scar. I zoomed in with a photo, and even then, I could only see a faint white line.
Even though the elbow scar is barely visible, I wear it as a badge of honor.
It kept me alive. I earned it. I celebrate it.