Content Warning: This piece explores topics of physical abuse, sexual assault, and rape. 

As a 15-year-old, there wasn’t much I really admired about my body. I would begin to say “I love” or “I admire,” but as my eyes scanned every nook and cranny in the mirror, I felt like my body wasn’t even mine. If anything, I felt like I had more in common with a mannequin, lifeless and disposable with no unique qualities, than with the reflection staring back at me.

Nights with my boyfriend would be the most confusing. It’s not that I didn’t want to be intimate or feel desired. I just didn’t even know if my body could be.

I knew something was deeply wrong when I started to feel detached again. There I was, standing in the middle of the grocery store, completely out of touch with everything I was doing: pushing the cart, grabbing the loaf of bread, even driving home. 

Back then, I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until I went to therapy for sexual trauma that I discovered these feelings were a result of my “body dissociation” diagnosis. Body dissociation is a disorder that often affects survivors, like myself, who have endured rape, sexual assault, or physical abuse. It’s akin to a defense mechanism in which stressors of trauma make your brain switch to “flight mode.”

The memories of my rape and sexual assault were often pushed back in my consciousness. No matter how much I suppressed it, though, the thoughts would still paralyze me. Every time I looked at my body, I felt like I wasn’t in control, as if my most intimate parts didn’t belong to me. My body existed in another place, tied to a part of my identity that knew what I was like before the assault. Like many other survivors, I still felt the effects of the trauma long after the fact.  

Ruth Eslinger, a shelter advocate specializing in counseling in North Carolina, says that body dissociation is common for most survivors who find themselves in any form of intimacy, both romantic and platonic. 

“You could be doing something, whether it’s sexual or just talking to somebody, and you separate mentally,” she says. “It’s kind of like an out-of-body experience where you’re looking down at yourself and separated from what’s going on.” 

Even in consensual relationships, I couldn’t help but feel like my body was broken. The parts of my body in which I was supposed to feel sexy, empowered, and confident just felt like reminders of what had happened. I felt like I was defined by my rapist. 

Eslinger says that contending with identity is a large part of body disassociation, and while it’s not common, the disorder can disrupt a survivor’s personality. However, there are ways to combat body disassociation and feel connected again. 

“The first step is to become aware of the fact that you’re separating yourself,” she says. “Once you’re aware of it, you can start to reintegrate with yourself by doing relaxed breathing or focusing in on the opening and closing of your hand.” 

Eslinger also suggests recognizing what specific triggers lead you to disassociate. For me, it was the scent of the Calvin Klein cologne my rapist wore. When I became aware of my disassociation, I remembered why I became so robotic in that grocery store. His scent lingered in the air, but I couldn’t process it at the time. It was too painful. So mentally, I separated myself. 

But how can we address body dissociation in the bedroom? What if we’re not mentally present for it? 

“Make your partner aware of the possibility that it might happen [during sex],” Eslinger says. “Oftentimes, what they can do is stop and take the time to check in with them and ask ‘is this okay?’ That way, the person who disassociates can respond and let them know how they’re feeling.” 

I’m connected to myself now, but it comes in waves. My disassociation removed my sense of agency inside and outside until I felt nothing. Admittedly, there was solace in that. The inner turmoil of confronting everything that happened seemed daunting. It brewed a whole other wave I couldn’t control. 

What I can control, though, are the effects this diagnosis will have on me and my body. My trauma doesn’t have the power to define me nor to disconnect me from a body that has survived and thrived. I’ll continue to pick up the pieces, one shard at a time, and hold them together for as long as I can.