Writing It Out

Things have been unprecedented in my life lately.  At the end of 2016, I closed on my first home.  It was decision predicated by the amazing job I got earlier last year and the logical steps of my life.  And it has been absolutely amazing.  I've felt steady and well adjusted.  And even in dealing with my assault in November, I've been able to focus on this new chapter and how excited I am to be a home owner and making it my own space.

And then, my body betrays me.

I have been able to bring myself to be in my friend's apartment.  Mainly because the love I feel there has overcome the very, very bad experience I had.  But it also means that my assaulter is often one floor down in the place where he works.  For the most part, I've become very good at dealing with that fact.  I've seen him.  But I've yet to enter the bar.  Usually I keep my eyes on the ground and walk to and from my friend's place.  And it has been hard, but ok.

Today, after spending a wonderful evening painting, watching movies, and making new friends, I finally decided I was ready to go home.  And he was outside.  He was there, smoking and talking to people.  And in an instant, I was not okay.

My pace quickened as much I could on an ice covered sidewalk.  My eyes immediately started to water and my heartbeat picked up its pace.  I tried to keep myself composed until I got to my car because there were people outside and I didn't need someone noticing me in my vulnerability.  By the time I got to my car, I was hyperventilating.  I placed my stuff in the car and got in, immediately locking it in case he had followed me.  While I don't fear for my safety, I also haven't spoken to him and don't know if he would make that effort.  He did not.

The whole 8 minute drive home I could barely control my breathing.  I made my way inside, shaking as I fumbled with my key in the difficult lock.  Once inside, I slammed and locked the door behind me.  My poor dog looking at me as if to ask what's wrong as I collapsed on the floor crying.  I laid there for a moment with my warm face against the cold tile floor.  I composed myself, I got up, and I moved on as best I could.

But it's still with me, as much I as I move forward and focus on positive things, it's there.  It's there in the dark part of me.  The recesses.  So that in my weakest moments, it hits.  My therapist suggested that I write when I am this emotional, hence this post.  I'm not looking for pity or sympathy.  Only for people if they do not already understand, that the pain and damage of trauma runs deeply.  And it is painful.  And I wish with all my heart that I could get rid of it.  But I can't.

I'm Not Okay

I struggled for a couple days over whether or not to write this, and what to say or how much to say.  Because I've been in a lot of pain.  One of my biggest fears in life came true.  That as a sexual assault survivor, I was more likely to be assaulted again.  And it happened.

I was raped the night before Thanksgiving.  In a set of circumstances that I have been begging for a Delorean or Tardis to go back and change.  To have had the courage to ask him to leave.  To have not frozen in panic and just "deal" with what happened to me.  But all that does is blame myself for what someone did to me.  I said no.  Repeatedly.  At least four times.  But that didn't matter.  And it didn't stop it from happening.

I'm not okay.

I thought for a brief moment that maybe I was fine.  That I had wanted to have sex.  That obviously I was sending the signals for that.  But I'm not fine.  I didn't want to have sex.  I said repeatedly that I didn't want to have sex.  And the biggest part of the whole situation is that I'm fighting my own self blame, and trying to remind myself that he did this to me.  He chose to do this, after I repeatedly said no.

He told me I wanted it.  That I wanted him to fuck me.

He was so polite.  When he first tried putting his hands up my shirt, I pulled away and said that wasn't happening tonight.  He stopped, wrapped his arm around me, and kissed my hair.  The second time he attempted to put his hand down my pants.  I squirmed away and said that wasn't happening.  He brushed my hair out of my face and kissed me.  When I attempted to stand up and walk away, he grabbed at my pants and attempted to pull them down.  I wrenched them back up and said that wasn't happening tonight.  He brought me more beer, and I said I didn't want it.  But he couldn't drink it all himself so I had some.  When I said I was tired, he asked to cuddle.  But I didn't want his finger inside me, and I didn't want sex.  I couldn't move.  I froze.

I kept it together mostly on Thursday.  Same on Friday.  Same on Saturday.  It was Sunday when it all started to unravel.  And has continued into a numb existence of wanting to stay in bed, eat, not eat, sleep, stay awake, feeling like a zombie.

And here I am.

I'm grateful and lucky for the people I have in my life.  That I have friends to reach out to who care enough to check in and make sure I feel safe.  That know how to help me and when to let me have my space.  I'm going to get through this.  I know I am going to be okay.  Eventually.  But right now I'm not okay.  And that's okay.

Heartbreak and Healing

To say that the last month has been one of the most stressful of my life, would be accurate.  It was more stressful than waiting to get into college or turning in my thesis.  And damn, that was a long paper... But the recent events of my involvement at the Listening Ear (details available here) and media coverage have showed me a lot about people.

When I knew I had to approach the board, this came after attempts to silence me and belittle the feelings I experienced. This came from the realization I had unknowingly shared a shift with an offender.  To learn to the man sitting next to you violated someone the way you were violated is cataclysmic.  You begin to question every aspect of your safety.  Especially when you find out several people knew this information and chose not to tell the rest of staff.  For me, this meant that not only was my safety violated, but that of every volunteer who is also a survivor and every sexual assault survivor that was ever referred to the organization.  I had an anxiety attack at work, and even slept with a hammer under my pillow because I felt unsafe.  And that is a quite a lot to process.

Calling an immediate board meeting, I knew leaving was my only option.  I was certainly not going to stay to be bullied or berated.  Following in the footsteps of my amazing friend Andy, who discovered the offenders, I am choosing to share the speech I gave to the board on May 11th.

The reason I called this emergency meeting is that it was recently brought to my attention that there are three registered sex offenders volunteering here.  The moment I found out, I was shocked.  Shock quickly turned to disgust as I considered that I unknowingly shared a shift with a person who did to someone else what was done to me.  I felt dirty, abused, and sick to my stomach.  This turned to feeling completely violated as I learned others had known about this information, and that it hadn’t been brought before the board or the staff.  Every person has the right to make choices for their own safety, and withholding information that would allow those decisions to be made is unconscionable.  That is taking the power and control away from each person, similar to a sexual assault.

The first thing that was brought to my attention by those who disagree with me is the idea of confidentiality.  The sex offender registry is public information.  There is no confidentiality.  Any Ear, or citizen with an internet connection can find this information. The information is available to people for safety reasons, and for the Ear to withhold this information from its own staff is terrifying.  When I discussed this with our staff coordinator, he suggested I talk to the schedulers to make sure not to be scheduled with any of them.  This is a fair suggestion, but this option is unavailable for the rest of the staff who are unaware of the information. 

The next issue is liability. The Volunteer Protection Act of 1997 protects an organization and its volunteers from many things.  But it does not cover willful conduct or criminal misconduct. Quote “Thus, if a claimant establishes that the volunteer’s act or omission constituted willful or criminal misconduct that was a proximate cause of damage or loss, then volunteers could be held personally liable for the damages caused to the third party.” End quote. Moreover, now that the board is aware, if anything were to happen and the information not disseminated to staff, the entire organization would be civilly liable. 

Being a criminal justice student particularly on this issue, I can now share some statistics. Statistically speaking, 64 to 96% of sexual assaults go unreported. Recidivism on sex offenders is not as high as people believe but when offenders reoffended it was statistically more likely to be an acquaintance than any other category of victim. Once victimized, a survivor is 7 times more likely to be raped or assaulted again.  With this information, having sex offenders on staff while trying to be a place that supports victims creates a breeding ground of risks.  I would never willing put a survivor in a room with the man who assaulted me, unless they were aware he was an offender.

I came to this organization to heal from my assault.  If I had known at any time that sex offenders would be welcome here, I would never have chosen to volunteer here. I find it hypocritical that the Ear claims to be a supporting place for survivors, but allows offenders to be here. Our own center manual says this, “Any form of sexual harassment and/or sexual assault on the part of individuals associated with the Listening Ear (staff and board members, other volunteers, and employees) will not be tolerated. Sexual harassment and sexual assault are contrary to our mission of ending all forms of sexual violence against all people.” I suppose I interpret that differently than others do.  Imagine a scenario in which a walk in comes in looking for help dealing with the trauma of their past sexual assault, only to find their abuser is the one in the building? I never want to see the man who assaulted me ever again, and I know other survivors feel the same. 

Our staff coordinator went so far as to claim I was inciting a witch hunt.  Allow me to be clear, I do not want to ruin anyone’s lives. I am saying that based on their offenses, they should not be allowed to volunteer with this organization that claims to combat sexual violence.  Unless you decide to take that part of the organization out, it is hypocritical.  There are plenty of organizations to volunteer with, ones that do not claim to be a safe place for survivors.  This is not a job. This is not a loss of income.

The Ear is nothing but a trigger to me now.  I have not had a good night of sleep since Andy told me. I have intermittent eye twitches, and even had a panic attack at work.  I cannot bear to drive past the Ear or even enter the building, except to do this. Effective immediately, I resign from my position as board chair and from all other association with the Ear.  I am devastated that it has come to this.  I never would have dreamed in a million years that I wouldn’t be here forever.  But with the feelings of being unsafe and complete betrayal as well as my own moral and ethical obligation, I cannot continue a relationship with the Ear in any capacity. Since Andy was the one to inform me, I will now give the floor to him.

I am posting this on June 4th, and still no decision has been made.  The inaction of the Ear is slap in the face of the volunteers there, survivors everywhere, and the community. I know there are people in the organization that feel silenced from sharing because of the way leadership has handled the situation.  An organization that prides itself on sharing emotions is actually creating such an environment that their own volunteers don't feel comfortable sharing...

While this whole situation has been emotionally exhausting and stress inducing, there was good that came out of it.  First, that the community became aware and have showed amazing support to me and other survivors. After I take time to heal from this, I would gladly volunteer at any of these places. Second, I stood up for myself and didn't back down. This has not always been easy for me.  It took me a long time to feel strong and capable enough to share my story and who I am.  But often, you may not know the line in the sand is there until you cross it.  This was it.  I knew that I could not let this stand. And even as people belittled me or attempted to cover it up, I stood my ground. I never once doubted I made the right decision. Even as people I believed to be my friends turned on me. 

Lastly and most affirming part of this story is what I have learned about people close to me.  In offering their support, so many people in my life have shared their own stories with me.  To thank me for taking a stand and supporting survivors like them. If there was anything in the world that would prove to me that I made the right choice in any aspect, it is this.  

I will always fight for survivors.  After my assault, I made that my life mission.  To be the person that I didn't have.  The person who listens and offers support and help.  The person who tells you it isn't your fault and that you're not alone.  I will always be that person.  

"You don't have to think about doing the right thing. If you're for the right thing, then you do it without thinking." -Maya Angelou

Hear Us Roar 2016

I had the honor to be invited to share my story at this event.  Hosted up at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan, a group called Women for Women puts on this speak out every year.  Not only does the speak out raise awareness in the NMU community, it creates a safe space for survivors to share their stories.  I was surprised to be invited since I wasn't a current student or alum of NMU, but that's the amazing part of the event.  It doesn't matter whose story it is as long as it is being shared for the greater good.  I gleefully prepared for the 6 hour drive.

The drive up was boring.  Dead looking trees and slow speed limits.  I was getting tunnel vision which on the highway is particularly obnoxious/dangerous, so I started making lip sync videos.  I was wondering the whole time how emotional this would be for me.  I have written about my story.  I have talked about it in a room full of people I knew.  But I had never talked about it in a room full of strangers.  The performer in me was hoping to bring emotion to my performance.  The genuine nerves kicked that in just fine.

I finally got to meet all the amazing people I had been messaging with for months.  Coming from out of town, I missed all the practices.  So by the time I got up there, I hadn't actually performed it at all.  I figured me having a meltdown on stage would be more sincere *snort.* I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by hearing others share their stories.  You see people every day, and you imagine what their life is.  You imagine the person they are, and how they go about their day.  But you never imagine what horrors they have endured.  Unless you know.  Then, that often becomes the image by which you know them.  I met these amazing women (and one guy, but I already knew him) and I would never look at them somewhere else for the first time and think, "Yeah, I bet she's been raped." Because in the habit of projecting lives onto other people, we don't usually project the bad.  Or certainly that level of bad.

But in reality, the people you see every day are survivors.  They carry that with them.  Usually quietly, or shamefully, because of the society we live in.  Because that's what life is.  Every person I met on this trip has become part of my heart, because I heard their stories.  And I was there to be support for them as they shared it with the room.  And they were there as I shared mine.  The world won't change...it won't change unless enough people stand up, raise their voices, and demand it.

*TRIGGER WARNING*
This clip is the opening of Hear Us Roar 2016. It includes statistics and a poem about sexual violence.

*TRIGGER WARNING*

This clip is the first half of my story.  It includes alcohol and sexual assault.

I'm so touched to have been able to share my story (especially without vomiting or passing out). I felt so supported by everyone involved, and I hope that they felt supported by me too.  I was honored to hear their stories and share in the moment with them.  I can't say that I'll always want to make the drive up to Marquette, but I hope this continues.  I hope it makes a difference, even if only the mind of one person that people suffer in silence and stigma every day.  The organization I volunteer with, the Listening Ear, is holding their own speak out April 28th.  If you're in the Lansing area and interested in attending, check out our Facebook page here.

Left to Right: Preston Hagerman, myself, Allie Kay, Kaitlyn Tramp, Taylor Blackmore, Liz Sommer, and Sarah Eggleston

Stigma: Love It, Hate It, Learn To Live With It

Noun
1. a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one's reputation.

I didn't understand this idea until I was in college and saw the world around me, realizing that so much of my life that I've kept secret would be criticized by others.  While some struggles I have learned to be open about, others I have kept only to myself.  With April being sexual assault awareness month, I knew that I wanted to write about my assault.  While I have written about it before, there is always more to the psyche, particularly with my recent participation with Hear Us Roar 2016 at Northern Michigan University.  So allow me to delve into the depths of my life and tell you all about it.

I started struggling with depression when I was a kid, but didn't understand it.  I felt isolated and lonely most of my childhood, but I put on a brave face for everyone around me.  I had one friend that I was very close to, but felt completely alone besides her friendship.

During that time, I began to self harm.  I had a very elaborate and shamefully sneaky way to go about it.  I pricked myself with pins.  Very voodoo-esque. I would manipulate the pin under my skin to cause discomfort but drawing very little blood.  I would often use scissors to scrape and scratch my skin but not enough to leave a mark anyone could see.  Even into my adulthood, the compulsion to self harm would get very strong during a depressive episode.

The summer after 8th grade, I attempted suicide.  Knowing very little about medication, I didn't understand that in order to kill yourself, you had to take far more than the recommended dosage.  Not just 4 pills.  I always figured dying in my sleep would be the easiest way to go.  Just sleep and never wake up.  Well, I disappointingly did wake up.  After that, I tried to move on and let it go.  But after a week, I wanted to try again.  I held a large knife in my hands and rolled it over and over.  I wanted to die, but I also wanted to say goodbye.  I called my best friend at the time and told her.  She made me put the knife down and talked to me for hours.  She saved my life.

A lot of my depression was triggered at 11 when my mom and I were in a near fatal car accident.  Much like any major stressor, my body's chemistry shifted. While I had always been the skinny girl, I was now the chubby friend.  Putting on weight became easy and losing it very, very hard.  I couldn't help but feel ugly and think I would never be someone's first choice to love.  The struggling self esteem still continues its march with me on a daily basis, though at this point, I've beaten it back quite a bit.  However, the lack of self esteem manifested itself as a near eating disorder in early high school.  Knowing nothing about fitness, I believed that barely eating anything would make me skinny.  I would skip breakfast, eat salad for lunch, and often times skip dinner.  Many a night I would force myself to go to bed with a rumbling stomach because I believed it would burn more calories. This did not last very long though, because my depression didn't turn me away from food.  It led me to using food as a coping skill.  I would begin eating my feelings.  Which I sometimes still do, but in more healthy ways.

The self defeating behavior and self loathing continued through high school and into college.  Going through college I started working on loving myself.  It was hard.  When you've programmed yourself to hate seeing your face in the mirror and your inner monologue calls you a "fucking ugly cow" whenever you're naked, it's an uphill battle.  But I eventually believed that someone would be interested in me.  In fact, I decided to let loose.  To do something I would never do.  I went to a frat party and made out with a stranger.  Which ended up leading to a life changing event.  As he would be the same guy to sexually assault me while I was drunk a few days later.

The stigma of being a survivor was quickly brutal.  I learned very fast about rape myths and victim blaming.  And after that, I shut it away.  I put it deep inside me and didn't process it for a while because it was too much.  Once I decided to finally deal with the rape myths and the victim blaming, I frankly just got angry.  Fucking angry.  Angry that someone would tell me it was my fault for being drunk.  Angry that so many people are victims of sexual violence.  But mainly angry at myself for believing any of it.

It was around this time that the PTSD set in.  I would have nightmares or flashbacks.  I would often shake, cry, scream, or hyperventilate.  I could nearly rip out my hair.  It would feel like I was living it all over again, and no matter how many showers I took, I never felt clean.

Shortly after this, I relocated to Alabama.  I had a successful relationship and amazing friends, but that was all I had.  The bitch landlady who owned the house we lived in lied to all of us about her mortgage so she could overcharge her friends.  I was a stranger so she didn't even feel bad for doing it to me.  Truly proving the kind of person she is.  More about that here.  But slowly, everyone else moved out and it was just me and her.  Even with my amazing dog, I couldn't cope.  My relationship also ended and I began abusing alcohol.  I would drink three or four beers every night just to get to sleep.  Or straight chug whiskey.  Or vodka.  Anything to be able to sleep.  I started fairly lightweight, but that tolerance quickly built up. When I moved out of Hell Bama, I was able to get my relationship with alcohol under control, but it wasn't easy.

I worked on moving forward.  I joined an amazing organization, the Listening Ear, and learned how to deal with my emotions.  I learned I wasn't alone and that other people loved me.  I transitioned into a job I felt more passionate about.  Working with teen boys at Turning Point Youth Center was an experience I will never forget.  I got to be on the ground floor of the new Abuse/Neglect unit.  I got promoted to assistant group leader and developed amazing relationships with the kids there.  It unfortunately didn't last.

My relationship with my supervisor deteriorated.  I never felt good enough.  I felt that every move I made was scrutinized and that I never did anything right.  Walking on egg shells is paralyzing, and my anxiety reared itself.  I would start having panic attacks on a daily basis on the way to work.  I would shake, and cry, and hyperventilate.  Sometimes I had a friend there to talk me through the day and be support.  But the days without her were devastating.  Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and I quit.  When working with teen boys isn't the most stressful part of your job, that's saying something.  So I willingly entered unemployment and job searching.

I had a short lived job, but the New Year would prove the end of it.  And the end of my second relationship. And for two and a half months, remaining optimistic seemed impossible.  Every time I came close to a break, something would fall through.  I spent days crying.  Isolated by my depression and anxiety.  In March, I got a lifeline and started a job in finance.  It's not my dream job by any means, but it pays well and I am massively enjoying it.

But even with my life on the upswing, it doesn't mean I don't have all this still.  It will always be with me.  A part of me.  And that doesn't mean I like it, but I live with it.  Because it's me.  These are my stigmas.