I have an hour. I have a candle burning and I have a beer. And I'm going to write until whichever one runs out first.
The people that know me well know that there's always at least one journal with me at any given time, writing allows me to figure my head out. I often don't know how I'm feeling until it's there on paper. They're probably not very eloquent, or even make much sense. But at the minute pen and paper doesn't seem enough, I feel very, very alone and lost in my thoughts, so here I am, sharing them. I started this blog in 2010, but you won't know that. I've just put every single post on it back into draft.
The media currently is full of the "#Me Too" movement, and it's a delicate topic, and something I've struggled with for a long time is wanting to scream from the rooftops what happened to me, to explain to anyone that will listen that this is why I am the way I am. Why I hate being touched. Why I'm flinchy. Why I'm diagnosed with CPTSD. But theirs another voice sitting in my head begging me not to, this is your story, and instantly regretting telling anyone because why should they get to know me like that? When they leave, they shouldn't still get to know. I'm not ashamed, but I am possessive of it.
There's also a fine line between wanting awareness, people to understand, but without triggering any of the women in my life, because statistically at least a third of them have a story too, not to mention trigger myself or deal with the idiotic and sometimes barbaric comments that follow. And then theirs the stigma, the automatic pity yet total lack of understanding, and sometimes that feels more devastating than the actual event. I've been dealing with this recently, a friend once explained (over a bottle of wine or two) something called the "stretch zone" which sits between your comfort zone and OH FUCK PANIC. I spent a lot of time in this stretch zone this last year and pushed myself to be as open and as honest as I could, still for the ending to be misunderstanding and hurtful. I'd like to think that it was just unfortunate circumstance and that something similar wont happen again, but I'm sure it will and hope that next time I will be better equipped, it won't sit as heavy in my chest as that did, and again this is where awareness is important.
And while It's still encouraging seeing these 'powerful' men in the news being held semi-accountable for their actions, something about it just hasn't sat right with me, and I've not been able to figure it out, but today it came to me. The men (but one in particular) who assaulted me won't ever be held accountable for what he did, there will be no repercussions, no media storm, he simply gets to go on living. And I get to keep on trying to deal with it ten years later, dealing with the aftermath of his actions. I feel sad, an overwhelming, empty sadness, not for me, but for the hundreds, thousands and millions of people who are raped, abused, taken advantage of and disrespected. My experiences, although a stark reminder of my past can sometimes seem trivial in comparison to lives that have crumbled, to the people who are in impossible situations.
I'm incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by people who 'get it', and even the ones that don't are supportive, accepting and open. But I'm still learning when to ask for help, when to say "I'm not doing okay, I need you", and again it's a fine line to tread of being honest and feeling like a burden.
I wanted to share, my story. I thought it would be liberating. I thought it would help. I thought things would become clearer and I could begin to understand. But the words are just not there, my story is not something I am ready to tell.
There's lots of talk of "bravery" in regards to speaking out about having been assaulted, the feelings you experience in the aftermath that evolves.They never disappear, but they morph into something more manageable so you can keep going everyday. Please understand that bravery may not always look like speaking out. Bravery might just look like living.
I wish I could reach out to everyone feeling the same to say, I know that today you are hurting. Stories like the ones we are hearing now rip the scabs off of our wounds. The aftershocks of your experience awaken as you relive one of the darkest moments you've lived through. Telling you that you are not alone won't make you feel any better, so I won't. What I will say is I'm here for you, I hear you.
My beer is empty.
