By Xtina Medina

Dear Survivor,

I was conditioned to believe that it was normal for men to take liberties with the bodies of women and girls, including my own. Their objectification of me led to my own self-objectification. This was fed by my mother telling me quite matter-of-factly that she never had a boss that didn’t grab her ass. “That’s just how it is,” she’d say. “Just accept it.” When I was 13 a friend told me she was drugged by a guy she knew. When she told me she woke up to find her underwear torn and ripped, we laughed. We laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Laughter was our only defense, for we lacked the language and understanding of our own destruction at the hands of men.

Sometimes I feel lucky. The invasive fear and sadness has been dampened by a blanket of numbness my whole lifeーone of the greatest of human survival skills. But, certainly not the healthiest. My father believed me a few years ago, when I told him of my assault at the hands of a family member when I was 5 years-old. Yet, his traditional Mexican “blood is thicker than water” bullshit led him to choose to remain close with my attacker in the name of familia. This has fed the core belief that no one has ever cared enough to protect me in my most vulnerable states, and that no one ever will.

Of course, this is not the truth.

If I look hard enough, I can see so many survivors holding the space of vulnerability and courage inviting me to pull my shame out of the silent, putrid dark and into the light. I don’t believe the sadness of neglect and abuse will ever lift, but the compassion has come. Compassion not only for myself, but also for my attacker. He too is a survivor. The intergenerational trauma we share does not mean he deserves to be in my life or that he gets a pass. I owe him nothing. It does mean, however, that I have the ability to simultaneously hold compassion and accountability in both of my shaking hands.

Today I stand for the sovereignty of not only my body, but the sovereignty of all bodies vulnerable to foreign invasion. There’s a Mexican proverb that I love that says, “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.” With tremendous self-compassion, connection, and love my seeds are bursting like roses through concrete. I cannot be stopped as I flourish despite a system designed to have me prioritize the needs of men over my own. I’ve learned to prune away the dead flowers in my life that no longer serve me, making way for new, healthier ones to grow in their place.  

. . .

Survivor Love Letter is a movement for survivors of sexual assault and their allies to publicly celebrate their lives. It was started by filmmaker and activist, Tani Ikeda in 2012 on the anniversary of her rape where she penned a letter to her younger self that ended with the words: “this is my survivor love letter.”