Could you tell me a time you felt vulnerable?
The thought of a ‘safe space’ at university had not occurred to me until I was in need. I used to think that toilets were the best place to escape or cry until I realised how quiet they can be when hyperventilating in one. Having a phone call here and no-one listening in is near impossible. The gender neutral toilets at the entrance of the library is probably the best place to get away with sobbing for a while. However, why are there not more private spaces in the place we spend so much of our time, often at our most stressed?
Two years ago, I was given a phone appointment by the NHS for an assessment for therapy. As I prepared myself mentally for the phone call, I suddenly realised quite how limited my ‘safe spaces’ were, where I could avoid being overheard and could cry without the worry of someone seeing or hearing. After deciding nearly every building at uni was inappropriate, I went to the counselling and psychological services building to see if they had an empty room where I could take the phone call. The last time I had been here was the previous year for some CBT sessions to help with my panic attacks. My life and problems had been written on a whiteboard and arrows linked these up in simplistic conclusions: I had a lot of guilt and wanted to be invisible. My reaction at the time was a lot of frustration and I was offended that it was so simple for this trainee counsellor to draw a few lines and suddenly understand my life. Looking back three years later, these conclusions did have some truth in them, yet I still had not spoken to any counsellor about any of the experiences which a year later had me referred to sexual trauma therapy.
Fast forward a year and when I asked for a quiet space to take the over-the-phone assessment for this therapy, the secretary told me there was not, however I could sit in the reception with her and she would put her fingers in her ears. This woman was a complete stranger and compared to the other options I was faced with, this seemed like the safest option.
At 3:30pm on the dot my phone rang and I listened to the chime, just as I am sure the secretary did too. A couple of deep breaths and the assessment started. A woman asked me my name and details; I was very aware that the secretary now knew all of this information, even if she said she would not listen it was inevitable. One quick search on the university database or social media and she could know even more.
Next I was asked about the reason I wanted therapy and even though I tried avoiding the question by asking if she already had my notes, I was asked to describe in my own words what has happened to me and how it is affecting my life every day. I could not answer at first as I completely clammed up and felt claustrophobic and transparent, like the secretary could see every damaged, hurt, ugly piece of me and my story. Ten minutes later the secretary then knew my condensed sexual assaults history and I was feeling more and more vulnerable. She brought me tissues; any speculation as to whether she was listening was then confirmed.
I was asked to describe any suicidal thoughts and explain what I had planned and how it turned out. I was also asked about self-harm. By the time I ended the phone call half an hour later, I was angry. Angry again at the men who have hurt me in the past as the experiences were brought back into the forefront of my mind. Angry at myself for being so sensitive and not being able to keep myself together over a phone call. Angry at the woman from the NHS who asked me such sensitive and intrusive questions over the phone. Angry at the secretary for working in a part of the university which should be looking out for people, yet let me down. But most of all, angry that the entire situation would have been different if I had had a safe space to talk over the phone and not worry about whether I would end up in tears, or whether anyone would hear the conversation. At one of my most vulnerable points I was made to feel even more vulnerable.
