The Power in Permission: How One Small Act Helped Me Heal

I never in a million years would have considered that a doctor asking me permission to touch my body would have such a profound effect on me.

A little bit of backstory—when I was 8 years old, I was sexually abused by a very close family member. It is someone who is still in my life as well as my family’s life to this very day. To be fair, most of my family has no idea what happened to my younger self. Sometimes it’s even hard for me to believe. I want to wish it away or pretend that it was not a thing that happened to me. I also tend to make excuses for the person, like “Oh, they were young too; they didn’t know what they were doing,” or “Oh, they were just experimenting.”

But the truth is, they were old enough to understand the harm they were causing and there is no excuse in the world for that kind of hurt. I have gone my whole life since then searching for control. I couldn’t control what happened to me then, so I crave that control in my life every day. I understand that life does not work that way—that being in control of every aspect of your mind, body, and soul is not always a possibility. However, I find myself looking for it in small ways.

It was a normal day in the middle of the week about 2 years ago. I was going for a routine checkup at my doctor’s office. We were going over my medications for anxiety and, for some reason, she simply asked me if I had ever been through any kind of sexual abuse. My fight or flight response was NO. But my mind stopped me. It said, At some point you’re going to have to face the reality of what happened to you. I felt safe, so I said yes. She followed up with a few more questions like how old was I and if I had ever told anyone else. I immediately wanted to cry. I was not used to being so vulnerable with someone before. I explained that no, I had never told anyone as that person was still very much a part of our family. She asked me how I felt when I was around that person. I told her that, oddly,

I go through phases when I can be completely fine and act as if nothing happened, and then there are times when I feel out of control and like I can’t get away from them fast enough. It’s an odd thing.

We wrapped up the conversation and started moving on to the more normal parts of an appointment—check your ears, nose, breath sounds, etc. What I wasn’t expecting to happen was for her to ask me if it was okay if she touched my back or my stomach. Each time she thought her hand would come in contact with my body, she asked for permission. Each time that I said yes gave me a little bit more power and control. It felt freeing. I had this person who, by all accounts, should be touching me in some form, but was still asking my permission to do so. It felt like she understood that I needed that control. It was a control that I didn’t even know I needed until it was given to me. Every time I have gone back, she asks permission.

What is I’m sure such a small thing to others has given me grace. I have given myself permission to not always be in control. I told one or two family members what happened to me. It hasn’t been easy, but it has been necessary. I try to give myself love. I never realized how much the empathy of a stranger could take such a hold on me day to day. I will forever be grateful to the doctor who took the time to ask for my permission.