What They Probably Haven’t Told You

Potentially triggering moments ahead, mentions of assaults, exams, and memories, so here is a picture of Gilda Catner if you need to stop here.

 

 

It has been over a year since I was last assaulted. That alone for me is remarkable. In that year a lot has happened. I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly. I’ve been working the same job consistently. I’ve been to Harry Potter World (and isn’t that all that matters?). I’ve also been diagnosed with endometriosis. I’ve had surgery. I’ve had flashbacks. I’ve healed. I’ve learned, and in a lot of ways I’ve found tools to get out from under the pain of traumas.

To that end my therapist has celebrated with me as I’ve moved into what is genuinely a relatively stable place. I’m not healed. I’m not cured. But I am better. I can confidently tell you that I am constantly getting better. Flashbacks are fewer.

This all, to me, is incredible.

Now that society-at-large is starting to talk about sexual harassment and trauma, let’s talk about what no one is talking about. Hell, I haven’t been talking about it, because I didn’t know it was a thing. So let me tell you what I’ve learned to be a thing.

Mental and emotional damage is a big side effect of sexual assault. Lasting damage, and I am so glad we’ve reached the stage where people are getting the platform and space to speak about that. It’s important, and while heartbreaking, it is beautiful.

It’s safe to assume that some physical damage also comes with sexual assault. Bruises, tears, and some times worse, but often it’s relatively superficial physical damage. Or so I believed.

After months of searching, I finally found a new gynecologist. I was given the most thorough exam I’ve ever received, and with it some of the most needed patience. He explained every he did before he did. I was with him for at least 45 minutes, before he told me that he believed I had both bladder damage and damage to my hip muscle from the assaults, likely one within the last year based on how my pain has changed.

He sent me to a physical therapist who specializes in the pelvic floor, again something I did not know existed. When they handed me the pamphlet for it, it was described as for pre and post-natal treatment. The nurse told me that’s just what they call it, so don’t be intimidated.

A little over a month ago I started seeing my physical therapist, for what I refer to as “vag therapy.” She’s patient. She’s calm. She shows as much care to how my mind is doing as my brain therapist. If I don’t feel up to an internal treatment, she doesn’t even give it a second thought. If I don’t feel up to her touching me, she walks me through stretches that I do myself. This experience has been incredibly healing, but there’s something I really need you to understand.

When I first did my rape kit back in April of 2017, the nurse pointed out that I had hemorrhoids. Those were new. She noticed some mild damage, but she also explained that the same cell structure in your mouth that heals so quickly, is the same cell structure in vaginas, which is why they also heal quickly. Perhaps if I’d gone in the minute after it happened, she’d have seen other damage, but she didn’t tell me about the possibility of future problems. She didn’t even mention it.

When I went to see my physical therapist, she told me there wasn’t just damage, there’s a tear in one of the muscles in my pelvic floor that controls my hip. Not a strain. Not a kink. A tear. That tear then changes how I use my hip which pinches the nerves in my hip. This affects so much more of my life than I realized. It dictates whether or not it hurts to poop, or if I can poop. It can mean I pee more or less because of pain. It changes how I walk, because it’s not just about that muscle. Since it involves my nerves, sometimes there’s a searing pain in my foot, when I’ve done nothing differently. Sometimes I collapse in the middle of a grocery because I’ve been walking too long. Sometimes my head lilts to one side because the nerves are all bound up.

When I say it hurts, I’m understating. I’ll burn myself sitting on and resting under heating pads. I’ll lose sleep. I’ll cry uncontrollably to my boyfriend because I think the way this may be affecting his life is incredibly unfair to him. It determines whether or not I can attend something I was looking forward to. It can genuinely bring me to my knees.

The first time I met with my physical therapist, I got in the car and lost it. I started sobbing. I had, no, I have made so much progress in the last eight years, and in this last one specifically. I’m incredibly proud of how hard I’ve worked, how far I’ve come. I’ve cut out people who were detrimental to my growth, and in many ways deliberately working to undermine it. I’ve given myself tools to get through bad days. I’ve had less bad days. And yet, here I am.

I felt like I’d lost, again. In many ways, I still do. (For corn’s sake, it’s only been a month). These monsters have gone on with their lives, many feeling like they’ve done nothing wrong, some despite conversations. While I’ve begun to feel like every few months I have to start fighting this battle all over again. Like getting to the end of your five-hundredth meter in the pool and remembering just before your feet reach the bottom of the pool that you’re doing the 1,000. Just as you start to breathe relief, your splashed with the reality that this race is not over. It’s both exhausting and heartbreaking.

Hear me though. I am not telling you this for pity or sympathy or anything else. I don’t think I’m telling you for my own sake. Know that your friends who have suffered and survived, may not just be trying to get through mental blocks, and trust me that’s hard enough. Their bodies may also be fighting. Their bodies maybe fighting fights that the mind is not yet aware of.

It’s a long struggle. I know that, and I’ve seen people come and go with time as it weighs on them too. That seems like a dark place to leave, but as of this moment, I don’t know what all comes next. Just do me a favor, check on your survivor friends. Keep growing.

Adventure in Just Shut Up

In the name of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, I’ve compiled this list. 

Remember, this is one survivor’s opinion. On both sides of this I’ve heard almost all of these at least once. This isn’t a complete list and maybe even some of the suggestions of what to say aren’t the right things for each individual. The key is to listen.

Suggestions on what to say:
I believe you.
Thank you for trusting me.
I’m so sorry.
(if you can ensure it) Right now you are safe.
I’m here as long as you need.
Take your time.
(if you’d like to hug or hold someone) Is it okay if I hug you?
You can say or do whatever you need to. Please know that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.

Silence is okay.
Offer suggestions, rather than making them come up with things to do/say. “Would you like some tea?” rather than “What do you want to drink?” “Do you want to watch parks and rec?” not “watch whatever you want.” Take out too much need for decision, but if no answer comes, try not to do something (i.e. turn on the tv) because you’re uncomfortable. So are they. This is about their timing, not yours.

What not to say:
Are you sure?
That doesn’t sound like him
Yeah, that sounds like him
I can’t imagine him doing that.
What were you doing?
Where were you?
What were you wearing?
Who were you with?
Had you been drinking?
How much had you had to drink?
Had you given any indication?
Well, of course he did.
You shouldn’t have been there alone.
God is trying to teach you something.
I’ll kill him.
Who was it?
Did you report it?/You should have reported it.
It will be okay.
Did you clearly say no?
He got what he always wanted.
What do you need? (we often don’t know, and this adds a lot of pressure)
Why were you (anything at all)? (get your why questions out of here)

Things not to talk about or do:
Anything attention related
Laugh or joke
Anything about what will happen to him.
Calling it “non-consensual sex”
Story compare
Don’t share the story, no matter how helpful you think you’re being.
Don’t ask for specifics.
As you listen do not change the language. If they say “attacked” you don’t say “raped.” If they say “hurt” you don’t say “assaulted.” This is their story. Not yours.

Adventure in Pressing On

Eight years ago today I was sexually assaulted for the first time. Eight years ago today I was betrayed to the highest degree by two of my friends. Eight years ago today my whole life changed, my whole being changed.

Until eight years ago I was an extrovert. I was carefree (some times careless). I was trusting. I loved doing things on my own in the wild. I went to movies and dinner and parties alone.

Here I am eight years later, and honestly, it’s okay if the sentence stops there. Because despite numerous assaults since then, so much fear, so much anxiety, barely holding it together through loudly spoken staff meetings, I am still here. Some days that’s a hard, hard thing to want to be, but I am still here.

That’s not something I say, because I demand to be appreciated. I’m telling you, because I think it’s remarkable. I shouldn’t be. I’ve so often not wanted to be, but here I am.

Yes, I am guarded. I am, I admit, paranoid. I am often terrified to be in the world. Some days I’m terrified to be in my home. Nonetheless, I have been loved and supported and carried. I know many do not feel that. I know that I am so fortunate to have such amazing people in my life, and I know I couldn’t have gotten this far without them. I also know that I’ve done the work. That when it comes to it, in the middle of the night when I feel myself falling apart, it’s me and my mind alone in the dark, and I continue to conquer the lies. I continue to outlast the things that live in the dark spaces in my head.

It’s okay to be struggling with these things, because ya know what? It’s fucking hard. Survival is so hard. In a month I’m going on the first vacation of my adult working life, and that’s incredible, because four years ago I’d have never been able to make a plan two months in advance. When you’re trying to survive, when every day your only focus is just to get through the damn day, you don’t have the luxury of planning ahead. The furthest a plan goes is the next breath.

Eight years ago my life changed, and eight years later I’m still here.

Adventure in the People You Know

Again, trigger warning. There will be discussion and details of rape in the following. Sincerely, mom, stop reading.

 

Two weeks before my twenty-third birthday it was my high school homecoming and a friend’s birthday (we’ll call this friend Caliban). It had been five years since we were out of school, so we figured this was the year to go. I had also convinced a friend (we’ll call him Polonius) to come up for both the birthday and the game.

We met at a pub to surprise Caliban, then gathered up our existence and beer and went to Polonius’ hotel room to consume said beer.

This went on for some time, we had all agreed we’d just stay at the hotel. Big bed. Pull out couch. So we drank. A lot. But I’d drank a lot before and never felt like that. Caliban went to sleep, leaving me and Polonius awake to catch up. Caliban took the whole big bed, so eventually Polonius and I went to bed on the pull out couch.

I was incredibly dizzy. When I laid down I hit my head on a bar on the couch. I passed out immediately. Without any idea of the passage of time I woke up. Abruptly.

Now, it’s important to note that at nearly 23 and raised in a Christian evangelical environment I was a virgin. More to the point, I did not receive “the talk.” And sex ed at my evangelical school was…lacking. Let’s just say I’m really good at painting my nails. (That’s what we were taught). So I have no gauge for what this is supposed to be like. I have no concept of how this is supposed to work.

I do know that I’d kissed a few boys. I do know that that’s all I wanted to do. I know that my plan was always to wait until marriage, and based on what I’d learned from married friends who still had guilt about sex, maybe wait until I died.

So when I was abruptly waked with my dress pulled up and a person I trusted on top of me, I believed I put myself in this position. I believed I had at some point or another agreed to this exchange. I also know that I hit my head again. That tears were on my face. That I didn’t know for sure how I got to this position.

I never went back to sleep. He did. Touchlessly. He laid on the other side of the bed without any contact.

The next morning I stumbled downstairs with him to breakfast. “You’re still drunk,” he told me. I couldn’t eat. My head was throbbing. I’d been hungover before. This wasn’t that.

Eventually, I made it home. I laid around my parents’ house completely sick. I was set to have dinner with a friend before the game. Finally, right before I was meant to meet her, I threw up in the kitchen sink and felt like I could stand up again.

We went to the game, and I could tell he’d told people. He’d asked me out over a dozen times since middle school, and I’d always said, “no.” He was a buddy. I never had a boyfriend in high school. It didn’t seem necessary.

The next day I drove to my friend Brett’s house and told her I’d had sex, but couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t shake how badly I felt. She took me to Taco Bell. When I drive by that Taco Bell, I still feel so loved.

A few weeks later I went out with some friends from high school, the one I’d went to dinner with and another. I told them what had happened. “Finally got what he always wanted,” they laughed their virginal laughs. I guess he had. And I guess that was the lesson.

For years, that was the lesson. He got what he always wanted, and I put myself there. I did this.

Now it’s important to note those two women and I have talked about it since then. Years later we discussed it. They apologized. It made us closer.

It’s also important to note that since then I’ve been drugged a couple of times. I now know what happened. I know that if I’m asleep, I can’t consent. I know that if I’m drugged something was planned. I know that no matter what, I didn’t want that.

A few weeks later Polonius invited me and Caliban to come visit him and his girlfriend. That’s right, he had a girlfriend at the time. I said, “No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea.” He laughed and laughed.

That same week with my friend Natasha in the basement bathroom of Macy’s I took a pregnancy test, terrified and shaking. Not pregnant. I texted Polonius. “Not pregnant. Not that you were worried.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing,” he replied with his same evangelical sex ed.

I can’t say anything with any certainty here, but here are some things I’ve thought over the years after I stopped blaming myself.

1. There’s a distinct possibility if this event had not happened, I’d be in a healthy relationship with someone.
2. There’s also a very real possibility, if I’d remained single, I’d still be a virgin.
3. I know that most of the people I went to high school with do not understand this situation. It is not my job to make them understand.
4. After this event, it felt like (and rather obviously) that I had a scent on me that let other monsters know “this is an easy prey.”
5. I know that a hard thing to have to do is invite your rapist to a reunion you have to plan.
6. I am the strongest person I know, and I think it’s important for me to feel that way.

For my own sake, I have forgiven him. Some times we have to forgive people without ever receiving an apology. Forgiveness is not excusing.

Recently, he told me I was an inspiration. I spent 12 hours sobbing in bed.

Adventure in Roadside

Massive trigger warning. Rape related details coming. Seriously, mom, turn back now.

 

It wasn’t really St. Patrick’s Day, but we had a party anyway. My roommate and I came with cupcakes in hand. I will always like the opportunity to wear a costume, so I wore brown pinstripe cropped pants, black combat boots, and an inexplicably soft, lime green tuxedo shirt. I may have worn green and white striped socks. I had spent a portion of the night, as I always did at these parties, talking to a close friend of mine. We tried to catch up on life over the ear-ringing music. He went about his business, and as the night went on I sat in the balcony of the building overlooking the stage, when someone came up to me. Someone I’d not really seen before. He told me he liked what I was wearing, then disappeared. My roommate and I made faces that said “the hell just happened?” I don’t think I really even looked at him.

The next Sunday at service I looked around for him, because I assumed he’d be there, but I never saw him. Clearly, we had imagined him. We were that close. It was possible.

Near the middle of April he appeared again, this time after service. I was talking to several people, and he pulled me aside. A pattern at this particular church is that no one took me aside gingerly. No one took me by the hand or guided me by the small of my back. No one put an arm around me or even took my elbow like an elderly woman would do if you helped her across the street. No, every time someone took me aside at this church they grabbed me just above the wrist. They didn’t nudge. They didn’t coax. They gripped their hand around my forearm and pulled me aside, no matter how engrossed in conversation I was.

This stranger yanked me aside and jumped right to it. “What do you usually do on Sundays?” At the time I reasoned this was because he realized he had just been incredibly rude, so he was going to be brief to allow me to get back to my conversation. (This willy-nilly giving of the benefit of the doubt is still a problem of mine). “Well,” I said, “I come here, and the girls and I will sometimes watch a movie or go to the park or sit on the roof.”

“What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t really have plans.”

For me this conversation didn’t happen a whole lot. My heart was pounding. I had no idea what he was getting at. If I said yes, he could turn out to be a monster. If I said no, I’d be excommunicated. He asked if I ever came to the coffee shop at the church.

“Sometimes, I guess.”
“Well, why don’t you meet me here at 4?”
“Sure,” I agreed, not knowing what I was actually agreeing to.

I went home and cleaned my room and lived my life, because if I didn’t then I knew my brain would panic, and I’d never show up.

I wish I’d panicked.

The coffee shop was in the balcony of the church. When I walked in the door to go upstairs, he directed me downstairs to the basement. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with this scenario, because 1) I never saw people go downstairs except for specific events and I hate breaking rules and 2) No one else would be down there. We sat on a couch, me with my bad arm against the back of the couch so I could face him. My head was resting on my hand which was propped up on the couch. (I will later regret this decision and blame him for it. I will be justified).

He again dove right into the scary end of the pool. Not the deep end. The shark infested end. He didn’t really ask questions. He just talked. He told me all about his family, and how they lived well, which is rich kid code for “they’re rich.” “I don’t want to be someone who needs nice stuff to be happy,” he told me. It wasn’t long after this that he proceeded to tell me about his new phone. His mom who got skin cancer from tanning and how reckless women were about their looks. “You’re pretty though. I guess, I even like your nose ring.” After about an hour of this sort of monologue he started to speak to me again, rather than at me.

“I’ve…I’m…hmmm.”
“What?”

I’m awful at talking to people, and while I didn’t really understand why he was pouring out his family history to me, I didn’t have to speak. Somewhere toward the last hour he paused.

“No. It’s not really appropriate for this first date situation.”

(Was this a date? Did I miss the part where I agreed to a date? How do I always miss that part?)

“Okay,” if he thinks it’s inappropriate it likely is. I’m not going to push.

“Well,” he starts anyway, “I’m a virgin.”
“Okay.”

I didn’t really care. It’s not that I didn’t care, but this wasn’t a topic I was ready to get into. Because I knew what his next question was going to be, and I knew that my answer was not first date appropriate. (I’m not sure on what numbered date it becomes appropriate, but I’m pretty sure it’s never).

“Good job,” I add hoping we can laugh and talk about scars or ghosts or something. “What about you?” I paused. I paused for a long time. I paused for what I believed to be seven to eight minutes, but was probably closer to three or four seconds.

“What about you?” he asked, inappropriately, unnecessarily.
“Well, that’s hard to answer.”
“Seems like it shouldn’t be.”

I breathed. I waited. “It’s hard to answer, because the answer is no.”

He’s making the face I am still afraid everyone will make. The one that says “whore.” The one that says “you’re no one.”

I started again.

“But I didn’t really get a say in that.”
“What does that mean?” (Disgusted? Angry? What is that tone?)
“Well,” I took a breath and tried again, “I was raped a little over a year ago.”

He became one of the first people I ever told. His face changed. It’s a face I will come to understand all too well later in life. At that moment though, when it was the very first time I’d ever seen it, I thought it was compassion. It was not compassion. It was lecherous. It was a wolf spotting a deer.

He put his hand clumsily on my arm. The arm that had been propped up on the back of the couch above my head the entire four hours.

“A friend from high school,” I said. “That’s how I woke up.”
“Awful,” he said, in a tone I will come to know means “opportunity.”

He asked a lot of questions, that a lot of awful people ask. Ones I didn’t know were wrong at the time. I was just relieved to be talking about it. I hadn’t mentioned it since I told the first two people, and they laughed at me for the situational irony of it all. “He finally got what he always wanted,” they had said.

The conversation slowed. There was a party at his house that night, so we hugged and went our separate ways. I went home. My neighbor came over to rub my throbbing shoulder, but it wasn’t long into the shoulder rub that I got a text. He wanted to see me again. That night, ideally.

I’d never felt so wanted. I’d never felt wanted. He wanted to meet up at the park beyond his house instead of at his house, since there was a party going on.

“I don’t want people asking a lot of questions,” he had explained, which in retrospect should have destroyed me inside. It did a little. It took away that feeling of being wanted a little.

He suggested I drive, even though it was less than a half-mile from my house. But we lived on the same street. I’d pass the party. People would see me. People would ask questions.

We met at the park. He had driven too, which seemed strange. That we both had to drive, when he could have easily told a group of people he was going for a walk. It started to rain.

“Why don’t you get in my car?” He shouted across the gap through open windows. “uh…okay.”

I got into his small truck.

We pulled away from the park and started to drive. I don’t know how far. He was talking again, and I was listening. It was after 10, and the rain was making it darker. After some time he pulled over. Right there on the side of the road. By a field. Nothing around. Dark. Darkness that felt like it mattered. Self-important darkness.

He took off his seatbelt and leaned over, his arm around my shoulder, his other hand on my leg. He kissed me. I didn’t stop him. He kissed me, and my mind flashed to Ethan*, to Marcus*, to Smitty*, to moments of care. This was cold. This was other. He moved closer. His weight went into his hand on my thigh. I wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing. He bit my lip, hard.

He took my right hand and put it on his crotch. “You know what to do,” his voice was different. Not impassioned. It was angry. More to the point, I did not know what to do. That became obvious to him within seconds. “The fuck?” he said, as his arm moved from around my shoulder. I said nothing. His hand on my shoulder, he shook me, as his voice grew louder, “do it!” The back of my head hit the window. Not hard, but my teeth still clattered.

Still unsure, I undid his pants. “That’s my dirty girl.” Was I? I stopped. “Say it.” I stared at him in the darkness. His hand left my thigh and came hard across my face. “Say it!” I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.

My head pounding from the window, from my shoulder, from his hand. My head was full of questions I couldn’t ask.

He shoved me away from him. His pants undone he slipped them further down, the most delicate action he’d taken.

“What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t. What?”
“Put my cock in your mouth.”
“I’m not really comfortable with–”

He grabbed the back of my neck. I felt his fingernails in my skin. He said it again as he pushed my head down. I tried to pull back, the seatbelt still across my chest.
“If you don’t do it, I’ll leave you here. In the middle of nowhere.”

One hand holding himself, he used his other to open my mouth. First with his hand under my jaw, then his hand inside my mouth. Finger tips on teeth, pulling down. Led by my jaw he pulled my head down again. Tears rolling down my cheeks. He pulled his finger out of my mouth as he pushed himself into my mouth. His hand now on the back of my head.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. He moved. My head hit the bottom of the steering wheel more than once.

He stopped, his hand ensnared in my hair, and wrenched my head off of him. “Say it.” I still didn’t know what I was supposed to say, and now I couldn’t say anything. I had no voice anymore. His hand still in my hair he pulled my head all of the way back and slammed it on the dash.

“Say you’re a dirty girl.”

Still unable to speak, he repeated the sentence and the action. My head slamming into the dashboard four times. Sobbing, barely audible, and fully convinced I said, “I’m dirty.” “Mmhmm, yes, you are. Keep crying, slut. It’s sexy.” I felt dirty.

He did it all again. The second time he had more to say. More things he needed to call me. I stopped crying. I became numb. Life and will left me.

He finished. As he pulled my head away he closed my mouth. He held it shut. He held it shut for a few minutes. I swallowed. Crying. His hand came hard across my face again.

“Clean up your make up.”

He pulled his pants up.

He put his seatbelt.

We drove back to the park.

I got out of his truck and into my car. He left. I left. My roommates were asleep.

I brushed my teeth. I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. I threw away my clothes. I put on pajamas. I went to bed. I woke up the next day. I covered some bruising. I went to work.

I didn’t report it. I didn’t tell anyone. He was more involved in church. Previous experience told me that people would think it was funny. I didn’t think I’d be heard. His family was wealthy, and therefore more powerful.

For his actions after please, visit here.

Until recently, that was the worst of it.

Adventure in Control

Abuse comes in a lot of different forms. **trigger warning** This post will mention, though not explicitly describe the concept of rape.

 

A few years ago I started regularly seeing someone. He went to a church that I used to attend. He came to a show I did with some friends. He started liking all of the things I posted on social media, I guess to get my attention?

We started seeing each other a couple of times a week. I’m a very punctual person. I believe that being habitually late tells people my time is more valuable than mine, and I hardly believe my time matters at all, so I try to be early. He, on the other hand, would be half an hour to two hours late without explanation every time I saw him.

One night I had purchased tickets for an event that he had interest in. It was the least I could after dinners and things. He also didn’t have a car at the time, so I had to drive out of town to pick him up. I drove around his town for two hours waiting for him to come home. Ten minutes before he arrived at home he said “I’m on my way back from *wherever the hell he’d gone.* I just need to shower and change.” He was insistent we drive up to the show that was now almost over to see if we could still get in. I said, “No. That’s not how theatre works. We missed the beginning; we missed it all.” We ended up driving all the way back to his town to watch a movie. We didn’t have to make that trip at all.

He had given me a pair of pants to mend for him, which was fine with me. But one day, the information about my assaults and the way I’d spun out after that was not okay with him. Over a text he broke up with me. He didn’t want to see me. He still won’t acknowledge I exist if we’re standing next to each other in line to see something.

The problem was that I still had those pants. For weeks. About once a week he would text me that he wanted to come pick them up. I would wait, for hours because I just wanted rid of them. Hours later he would say “oh I just went home because of y.” I’d have someone in my apartment, so he wouldn’t feel like he could stay. I’d sit outside in the rain. I’d wait.

This was his way of maintaining control over me. To still be able to dictate what my life was.

Eventually, I got fed up and drove to his town with several other unwanted pairs of pants and threw them all over his yard in the middle of the night. (I highly recommend pantsing someone’s yard. The thud pants make when they hit the ground is very satisfying.)

I’ve lately been trying to walk away from an emotionally abusive situation. He once checked on my cat so he was given a key. He still has that key and has put a lot of work into making sure he just can’t quite get it back to me, which leads to sleeplessness.

He said I could have two whole bars in town. Granted, they’re the only places I really go, but on a recent occasion where I went to one of those two bars, one of his friends said “you’re not welcome here.” I stared. “You know why.” I didn’t, but I’m pretty decent at social math. Nonetheless, it remained that was one of my spaces. He had the entire town at his disposal. Still as a courtesy I let him know I’d be there for a show. I’d stay at the show. I wouldn’t be seen. So naturally he had already had plans to be there and made sure I felt guilty for even thinking about going. He’d change his plans, he pouted. He didn’t. He didn’t change his plans, and I uncomfortably cried during a show I was trying to enjoy.

The key has been attempted to be retrieved on several occasions, but there’s always a reason it doesn’t make it to me. This is control. This is a power play.

Abuse has so much to do with control. Assault has so much to do with control. Rape is about control and power.

In dealing with my most recent rape, I made a joke about all of the weight I’ve been gaining and how often I’ve been raped. “How fat do I have to get to stop being raped?” This was called out as fat shaming. If it was, it was shaming me. It was also called out that I was saying fat people aren’t desirable. I’ve never been more disgusted that someone would think rape had one fragment to do with desire. It doesn’t. It has nothing to do with desire. That’s why it doesn’t matter how fat I get, how much or little I’m covered, how drunk or sober I am, how old or young I am. It has nothing to do with those things. Nothing. It is about control.

I haven’t been sleeping. He has my key and the power still to keep me from sleep. Control and abuse comes in a lot of forms. Right now it’s little cuts and bruises in my mind that don’t get to heal.

Adventure in Muscle Memory

Muscle memory, if you don’t know, is when your body locks away an action you’ve done over and over. The way Alzheimer’s patients can play instruments because it still lives in their fingers. It’s helpful. That rhythm is often kind. You don’t think about tying your shoes anymore. Your body understands how to keep a bike moving. A waltz becomes simple.

Muscle memory isn’t all bike rides and music though.

Some times your body remembers things your brain has locked away. It holds onto memories you didn’t know you had.

While it was just five months ago that I was raped, my body remembers something else.

This week my brain has been exhausted. My eyes have struggled to focus. On more than one occasion I’ve found tears on my face without knowing I was crying. My body ached from movements I wasn’t making. My belly hurt. A particular sadness set over me. Try as I might I can not shake it.

The internet is useful. This particular sadness goes back six years. While I couldn’t pin down the date for you, it must have been around this time. Six years ago in Indianapolis I was assaulted. And while my brain knows it happened, my body remembers better.

My memory is good. Not as good as it used to be, but often better than the average person’s. I appreciate that right now it is trying to protect me, while my body is trying to remind me.

It would be nice if body’s also remembered the same way, without real provocation, good things. The comfort and calm you feel in the presence of certain people. The comfort of specific actions. That every time you showered it came with the same bliss as that first dive of summer into the pool. That every shiver came with the beauty of those first snowflakes falling on your skin. That every hug with safe people offered the same warmth as hugs with the safest people.

Maybe other bodies do. Mine doesn’t.

My best sent me the above. Source unknown.

Misadventure

Late October surrounded by people I trusted in a bar I feel safe I was drugged.

On April 7 in the middle of the day at a “friend’s” house I was assaulted.

On April 25 in the middle of the night in a stranger’s house I was raped.

On August 5 in the evening outside of a bar with friends just inside I was assaulted.

I could go back years. I won’t because I know my mom reads this, and I’ve already said enough to break her heart. Enough to break my own.

I say none of this because I want any sort of pity. I don’t need it. I’m stronger than pity. I’m braver than pity.

Right now though, my mind feels like an itchy scab. Life scratches at the itch because it’s unbearable, but all of that healing gets ripped off in the process. The would starts to bleed again. Never as much as the initial cut, but still beads of dark red build. Huge gashes in my mind, all of them at different stages of healing. All itchy.

I started seeing a therapist again. She’s new in my life as my therapist, but not new in my life. She explained to me that my trauma is living in my limbic system right now. That part of my brain thinks it all just happened, thinks it happened moments ago all of the time. This makes my brain live in a constant state of fear, ever-ready for the next attack.

She suggested I not go anywhere that doesn’t feel safe. Nonetheless, on August 5 I ended up in one of the places that doesn’t feel safe. While waiting outside it proved to be just that. The part of me that will always blame myself initially for something that isn’t my fault keeps telling me that it’s like when a dog senses you’re afraid of her. She knows. She bites. People are not dogs. Some of them are, however, monsters.

I’m trying to build safe spaces for my brain to heal. I’m trying to learn where I can go. If I have any hesitation, I can’t go. If there are people I don’t know, right now, I can’t go. It’s not always respected. It’s not always heard. I can’t care about that anymore. I know what’s right for me now, and that’s what I’m trying to do.

It is some times I heard and respected. On August 5 a friend found me immediately after, and while not always quick to read people, saw my pain and never left my side, let me cry on him. A friend let me cry on her the moment I saw her. Two friends arrived shortly after and ran interference. I’m lucky. Some people aren’t supported like I am. I know that. Still, every time it happens it feels completely isolating. It’s meant to.

On August 5 I never wanted it to be able to happen again. I did some things I’m not proud of. It’s hard to believe it won’t ever happen again when it won’t stop happening. That doesn’t mean I should give up. I want to. Right now, I’d like to give up. I’m still here.

You are not alone. Even if you are on your own, you are not alone. It is not your fault.

Adventure in Breaking/Mending

Eight weeks ago something happened. Six weeks ago something worse happened. One week ago more brush was shoved on the fire.

It’s not a new topic for me, especially in the last couple of years, but try as I might, try as others might, I won’t stop talking about it.

Eight weeks ago, between eating lunch and picking up a comic to take to his next city, I stopped at the home of a person I know. Someone I had spoken with regularly. Someone I considered a friend. In the course of less than half an hour, everything changed.

I was able to take myself out of the situation before it became desperate. But “no” wasn’t a viable answer. “This isn’t why I came over,” was also unaccepted. “I don’t want to redo my makeup” was a good reason. “I’m on my period” granted me enough space to get up and leave, but not enough space to have control to stop things.

I picked up the comic and went about my weekend.

Six weeks ago, I was feeling good. I met up with someone and lost complete control of the situation. I’ll continue to spare you details. I got home in the middle of the night, uncontrollably sobbing. I knew the right things to do. I knew to call the police. I knew not to shower. I knew those are the things you’re supposed to do. Another thing you should do, if you’re able, is take care of yourself, whatever that looks like. So I did. I showered. I took my clothes off. In that order.

I did something I haven’t done before though. I reached out to people immediately. Everyone was asleep, but in the morning so many people were affirming. So many people kept my mind safe. My dear friend, who is far away, encouraged me to go to the Sexual Assault Treatment Center. My dear friend, who is down the street, hugged me while I sobbed on him.

I called the Sexual Assault Treatment Center, because I didn’t know how it worked. She said to come in immediately. I asked, “Can I wait an hour? I have a job interview in 15 minutes.” She called me a toughie.

Throughout an hour-long job interview, I held it together. I needed this job. She asked how I handle stressful situations. I refrained from saying, “I haven’t cried once or given pause that something is wrong in this interview, have I?”

My dear friend, who hurried back from out of town, met me at the Sexual Assault Treatment Center. I met with a forensic nurse, a police detective, and a woman from victims assistance. I had a full exam done. I only cried once. She was kind. She was patient. She took my time, not hers. Some times when we interact with people who need kindness and patience, we offer them patience on our own time. She did not do this. She gave me time to breathe. She waited until I said okay. I know it’s her job to act this kindly with victims. We could all stand to work this kindly with everyone.

My dear friend waited in the lobby for two hours. Her phone died. She read every pamphlet. She waited on my time. She was kind. She is kind.

Another friend far away shared my assailants picture. He told the story. He checked with me and then told anyone who would listen. Profiles were removed. People were talking, in the best ways. He shared the truth, not the easy parts.

The next day I had a gynecological exam to get checked for my tumorous cysts. The nurse was kind. She talked to me about her own trial. The RN was not kind. She was cold and shaming. I scheduled another appointment for an ultrasound, because the RN didn’t believe me. It was five weeks later.

I stayed open. I kept talking. I asked for help, for company. I was granted this more times than I can explain. Food was brought to my home. Kindness after kindness.

Two weeks later I had a second interview for the same job. I hadn’t slept in four days. I was certain I wouldn’t get it. It was a terrible interview. I was exhausted. I was beaten. I was destroyed.

The next day I received a call from my doctor’s office. It wasn’t just my fears. Other unwanted news came. Nothing uncommon, just unpleasant.

Three weeks went by, and it became a problem for some people. This made me stronger. My survival and my means of survival were problematic for some people. I vowed to become immortal out of spite.

At four weeks, I wanted nothing, but hugs. I also wanted to never be touched. I was watching as people I knew were having pretty serious allegations brought up against them. I was watching and being pulled in. People were contacting me, as if I’m an authority on consequences. The only consequences I understand are my own, the ones I face every day. I watched possible (albeit likely) assailants keep friends, which is a type of affirmation of those actions. While I was losing people for being dramatic, for causing problems.

Do you know why someone talking about rape seems dramatic? I do. Because trauma is dramatic. Because tragedy is drama. Because truth is dramatic.

This only made me louder.
“I wish I could talk my way out of being raped the way rapists talk their way out of trouble.”
“So we’re clear. A rapist hears the word ‘no’ and expects that to mean ‘yes.’ But when accused the rapist is like ‘I didn’t rape her.’ Apparently only his ‘no’ means ‘no.'”

I started to feel more isolated. It was silly. Weeks prior I was surrounded, literally and figuratively. Friends from all over were reaching out to me. Nonetheless, I began to fear I had worn out my welcome on asking for favors. I’m not quick to ask for help, but this time as a means of survival I knew I needed to. Coming up the stairs at home and collapsing to my knees sobbing, I knew I needed help. I had reached out to someone I was told was a therapist. They proved to be a crazy person that would only escalate my issues.

I felt alone. I was not alone. I felt alone. I felt empty. I felt lost. I felt alone.

Loud noises began to affect me. My parents’ dogs barking made me terrified and panicked. Thunder made me panicked. A dear friend brought me earplugs and other kindnesses.

At a show, I wore my “please-don’t-rape-me” jeans that I bought eight weeks ago. I told my friends not to touch me and to make sure no one else did. I did not keep it together. I left in the middle of the show. Broken. I had stayed because I couldn’t be alone, but the music was loud, the voices were loud.

Week five I was fine again. The dogs and I were fine. I could cuddle my dog again.

Creative 30 for 30 started again, and I could force myself to put some of the things in my head to good use. I started baking again. I didn’t start passively baking. I have no one to give baked things to. I started baking to heal. I started baking more than just that one cupcake Kristen Wiig made for herself in Bridesmaids. I started making full pies. I made pies for healing. I recorded recipes. I made the same pie twice. I improved on pie. I improved on pie to improve myself. I taught myself new skills to show myself I can do more. I watched Moana eight times.

I went to my ultrasound. The tech was kind. The tech took my time. She made six marks on the image of my single ovary. She paused. She asked if I wanted children. I turned my face as tears grew in my eyes. I’ve been in pain again for a couple of months. When I finally saw my doctor she explained I had several cysts in my ovary. They ranged in size from 0.5 cm to 1.3 cm. She explained that they would likely dissipate. She explained that in my case they needed to be monitored closely because of my history. She said it was Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It explained so much about my last year. It explained so much. It still scared me so much. It still does. Of course, it does.

I also made it one whole year writing affirmations. It’s not been a full year since I moved them to this platform, but I’d brought myself a full year on the strength of my own mind. I’ve continued. I will continue.

At five weeks I also found out I got that new job. I found out I’d be working in an incredibly life-giving, safe, and affirming space. I could walk to work again. I could pay my bills again. I could be motivated to fight PCOS simply by doing my daily work.

Six weeks/eight weeks later I started my new job. I love my new job. I’ve been doing research on diet options to make PCOS more manageable. I’ve continued to reach out to people. I’ve broken my own heart this week. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve cried on the phone with someone I haven’t heard from since I told them what happened because I felt abandoned. This crying went unnoticed.

In eight weeks my nightmares have come back. In eight weeks several people have taken themselves out of my life because I’ve been too much. In eight weeks I’ve cycled through peace and pain. In eight weeks I’ve screamed and cried. I’ve gone silent. I’ve pushed myself. I’ve been pushed. I’m not healed. I’m not cured. I am still moving. I am healing. I am mending. Pieces of me are coming back together. (please, ignore that Ashley Simpson reference. I can’t take it out now, but I don’t want it there either).

Some times for no provoked reason, I still fill with all manner of sadness and pain. It doesn’t take new provocation. There’s a lasting provocation lodged inside of me. A provocation I can only hope to learn to cope with. It will live beside me. I will be bigger than it. Some days, I’ll get to a place where I will feed it too much. It must be fed. If it’s starved it will get loud and angry. It must be fed and acknowledged. It is my constant companion. It is my monster. It is not me.

Thank you to everyone who has helped carry me over the last two months and over the last 30 years.

Adventure in Reminders

Brock Turner is being released today. Brock Turner is being released today on “good behavior.”

Brock Turner was caught in the act of raping a woman. He was caught by two other white men. This act of violence has been regarded by Brock Turner’s remorseless father as “20 minutes of action.” I hope you’ve never been raped. I hope you’ve never been assaulted. “Twenty minutes of action” is a long time for anything terrible. As someone who no longer runs, 20 minutes of action in the form of running causes my sides to hurt, my legs to hurt, my lungs to sharpen, my throat to tighten, my mouth to dry. “Twenty minutes of action” of me running is unpleasant, but a choice I made. “Twenty minutes of action” in the form of someone chasing me, pinning me to the ground, and raping me is 20 minutes I never want to suffer through again. Do something unpleasant today for 20 minutes, just unpleasant not even something so terrible you’ll want to be dead for the rest of your life. Just something you dislike. Sniff shit for 20 solid minutes. Run for 20 solid minutes. Hold your breath underwater for 20 solid minutes, because that’s what it feels like. But even when you start to drown and your lungs fill up with water, your body isn’t being violated. No one is rapidly, immediately shattering your psyche. Do you know how quickly a gun can fire into someone’s brain and kill them? Seconds. It can take seconds. Do you know how long trauma stays in a person’s brain? How long it stays in their muscle memory? It’s a hell of a lot longer than the three months Brock Turner spent in jail in police protection, because his precious blonde hairs needed protected.

I am not a violent person. I’ve gotten in one fight. I hit a kid a few times in middle school for being a real dick about my brother. The idea of violence can make my whole body tense up. The idea of hitting someone else makes me feel so sick.

In middle school and high school I was a weird kid, but I was a mean girl. I was. I won’t pretend I wasn’t. I had no right to think the things I thought, to say the things I said. My adult life is action after action of me trying to better myself from that. I say some aggressive things. I think some aggressive things that I am not proud of. I can’t call myself a pacifist because I know my heart. I may not ever be capable of violence, but I am capable of some pretty aggressive thoughts and words.

I say all of that because the idea that Brock Turner was protected in jail makes me sick. There are people who are in prison for marijuana possession. They are in there for their whole lives for something that is becoming legal across the nation. They are not protected in prison. There are people in prison who have been wrongfully convicted. They are not protected. They are in prison for their whole lives for something they didn’t do, and they are not protected. But Brock Turner was caught in the act of a raping a woman and was sentenced to six fucking months. SIX MONTHS for a class B felony. (which don’t even get me started on the class of that felony) He is being released today on good behavior. Well, sure. There weren’t any women for him to attack in that three months.

You know what isn’t good behavior? Sorry, this is a tough one. It’s raping a woman. Remorselessly. When Brock Turner testified he laughed. LAUGHED at how “ridiculous all this” was. It’s ridiculous to Brock Turner because he’s used to getting everything he wants. Well, good news for him. He still will. He’s a rich, white man. He’ll be fine. He could have spent years in prison, and his parents, who also saw nothing wrong with his actions, would continue to fund his life. He may never be able to get a job, that’s a possibility. It’s not likely though. Because a rich, white man won’t have a lot of background checks run on him. He can lie on any application and say “nah, no felonies.” No one will check.

Meanwhile, the woman he attacked, the woman he raped will walk down streets knowing he’s out there walking the same streets. It’s hard enough after being raped to walk down a street, even if you were inside when it happened. Everyone is a threat. Every sound is terrifying. Every slamming door could be your own trapping you in. Every footstep could be anyone coming up behind you. She will live knowing the courts believe raping a woman is something so irrelevant and common place that the punishment should not be severe. She will live knowing raping a woman is something that can be glanced at as good behavior. Because here’s the thing about serving three months in jail, not prison, jail, for raping a woman. Three months (even his full six month sentence) and early release for good behavior. Three months to someone that remorseless is just a bother. It’s an inconvenience. To let someone that remorseless walk away free on “good behavior” after violently raping a woman doesn’t say to any survivor that he had good behavior in jail. It tells all of us that raping that woman was good behavior. It’s a pat on the head, and a “good boy.” It tells all of us we have no value, and we will continue to have no value. Our bodies are an inconvenience. We’re here for men, and our causing a fuss about only wanting to have sex when we want to have sex is an inconvenience. So when we “cry rape,” it needs to be “punished” to show we were “heard,” but the courts are really saying “nah, man. We get it. She’s being a real bitch about it. It’s why she’s here. We have to lock you up for a few months to get her to shut up. But we’ll let you out real quick. Promise.” Never in the history of time has “Bros before Hoes” meant more. because that’s what the courts are saying we are.

Women, you are not here for men. You are not here for men. You are not here for men. You are not here to appease anyone. Your body does not belong to anyone else. Your value extends so far beyond your vagina. Your worth is in so much more than the strength of your vagina. You are so much more. You are so powerful. You are so strong. You are so brave. I’m so sorry this is what we’ve been handed. I’m so sorry that things have not changed one ounce since Shakespeare wrote Measure for Measure. I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry. You are not here for men.