I perched uncomfortably on the crinkly tissue paper of the exam table at the campus clinic, feeling embarrassed by the noise it made. There was no way to keep the silence intact, but I hated that my presence disrupted the tranquility of the room. As a freshman at Penn State, this was my first solo doctor’s appointment.
I glanced down at the medical intake form, something I had never filled out before. Name, birth date, reason for my visit—easy enough. I was there because a small sore had appeared on my right cheekbone, just below my eye. Initially, I thought it was an oddly positioned pimple. But it grew bigger, itchier, and increasingly irritating. I had self-diagnosed it as ringworm and had gone to the campus pharmacy for fungal cream, which only seemed to encourage whatever was troubling my skin.
Completing my medical history was more challenging. I come from a family with a history of obesity, high cholesterol, and a lack of exercise. While conditions like cancer or heart disease aren’t hereditary, I often felt like I carried the weight of my family’s lifestyle. My sexual history, however, was a tangled web. I was unsure if I had a sexually transmitted infection (STI) or if I had ever been exposed to HIV. Although I came to the clinic seeking answers for my skin issue, I left with the weight of needing an HIV test hanging over me.
Technically, I was a virgin. By the standard definition, I still am. No penis has ever penetrated my vagina, yet I had enough sexual experiences to feel far from innocent. The difference now was that I had never engaged in consensual sex. As a survivor of sexual abuse, I had performed sexual acts on another person for years without consent. There were also acts done to me that I couldn’t fully recall, and I had no way to know how many partners my abuser had. My experiences had left me with a lot of sexual knowledge but little understanding.
Filling out the form was more than just a task; it felt like someone finally wanted to hear my story. I was both relieved and terrified. I poured out nearly a decade of abuse perpetrated by a female relative. The medical professional reviewing my form was patient as I shared what I could, but I found myself unable to answer some of her questions.
Survivors of sexual abuse often grapple with fragmented memories. Sometimes, our brains protect us by blocking memories, while other times, there simply are none to recall. We fill in the gaps not to fabricate but to cope with the fear, panic, and pain that accompany our experiences. A lack of memory doesn’t equate to a lack of abuse; it’s possible to recognize the reality of the violation without having every detail clear.
The medical provider was there to address my skin issue, but she also tended to deeper, unseen wounds. She gently inquired about my history of sexually transmitted infections. Had I ever been tested for HIV? I hadn’t. Although my abuser was a woman, which typically presented a lower risk for certain infections, addressing my sexual health was crucial for both my physical and emotional well-being.
The person who harmed me didn’t take precautions, so I had to take responsibility for my health and that of my loved ones. I readily agreed to the screening. However, as a victim of sexual violence, I had to confront the uncomfortable truth that my life story was intertwined with something repulsive. The results of my HIV test and any related exams would fall squarely on my shoulders, despite my innocence. The uncertainty of a potential infection loomed large, exacerbating the fear that came with remembering.
After having my blood drawn, I waited anxiously for the results.
The sore on my face turned out to be herpes simplex virus type 1 (HSV-1). Unlike HSV-2, which causes genital blisters, HSV-1 can also cause sores on the face. The medical professional attributed my outbreak to stress or fatigue, possibly from a weakened immune system or hormonal changes. It felt like a sign, a reminder of what could have been. She was committed to providing me with the information I needed, and while the sore wasn’t an STI, she took the time to educate me about safe sex practices, even for same-sex partners. Her approach wasn’t shaming; it was a necessary exchange of knowledge. She prescribed Valtrex, the antiviral medication for herpes, as the sore was not only painful but posed a risk to my eye.
Several days later, she called me with the results of my blood work. Her voice cut through the quiet of my dorm room like the crinkling paper of the exam table. My heart raced at the thought of what news could disrupt the fragile peace I had found. Thankfully, I tested negative for HIV and the other STIs she screened for. But mentally, I understood this was just the beginning. Although my medical results were clear, the journey toward healing from sexual violence is a complex balance between the unknown and the haunting memories that shape our lives.
Conclusion
In summary, this article recounts the personal journey of a college student navigating the complexities of sexual health and trauma. After experiencing sexual abuse, she faces the challenges of addressing her medical history and seeking answers about her health, ultimately finding both relief and the beginning of a new journey towards healing.