Never Be Afraid to Tell the Truth: Part One (TRIGGER WARNING! Extremely Descriptive and Sensitve Material. Offensive Language)

 Before...

When I woke up this morning, I had a pit in my stomach caused by the inevitable arrival of revealing more of my story. I started to doubt myself. I thought, Everyone is going to think I'm crazy, disgusting, crying for attention. I was shutting down, then I heard the voice of my professor from English 101 eight years ago.

I had written a piece describing a bit of my past, although not nearly as much as what I have portrayed here. After class one day, she pulled me aside, and suggested I submit the essay to the school paper. I'm guessing she could see the fear in my eyes because shortly there after she said, "It can be published anonymously if you wish."

"I dunno..." What she said next, took eight years to sink in.

"Dana, NEVER be afraid to tell the truth."

So I shall not hide in my corner. I have a story to tell. There are those who have subtly tried to pull me away from this, but I will not be silenced. If these people feel I am doing this for myself, they are sadly mistaken. As Maya Angelou said,

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." 

She also said,

"Without courage we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can't be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest."

If I can save just one person out of the hundreds or thousands that may read my story, I know I have done what I set out to do. This is not about self-involvement. It is about helping those recognize the horror that exists and not turn their heads in shame every time the word "rape" is mentioned. It is about stopping the invalidation that occurs on a daily basis through victim-blaming and meaningless semantics.

It is about helping those who don't have a voice. I'm not doing this to feel "good" about myself.

I thank God for blessing me with mentors, family, and friends that continuously urge me to write. They are the ones who remind me that regardless of the attention I may inadvertently receive, those who truly benefit are the ones who have been soaking in silence and shame. Maybe through this I may be able to plant a seed of courage in each of those who were wronged.

Part One

It is the twelfth day of thirty and thus far I have provided the snippets, or brief replays, that I experience on a consistent basis. These pieces frequently show up in my journal, but aren't a complete representation of what I encountered.

One might wonder why I didn't start with these events earlier on in my 30 day memoir. The answer lies in my ability to accurately piece things together in enough detail, that the exposure is meaningful. Let me explain...

After starting to write about my trauma experience through blogging, more images began to unfold. It was as if tiny grains of retrospect that were lost in a dusty cabinet soon reappeared through repeated recollection of the events that took place. The first time I attempted to explore my flashbacks through writing, it was filled with "GAPS" and "STUCK POINTS." Gaps are just as they sound, pieces that are missing. Stuck Points are created when I find it difficult to portray what happened because of a complex emotion that is hiding behind them.

By revisiting the memories through each post, I have been able to get past the "GAPS" and "STUCK POINTS" of at least one of the scenes that cycle through my brain. The other day I read my attempt at writing down this event, which was about eight weeks ago, out loud to a close friend. I thought it was going to be trying, but with all that I had left out, it wasn't enough to make an impact. I had locked away the embarrassing details and never revisited the account to fill in the blanks. Furthermore, eight weeks ago, I was still drinking heavily and hadn't grasped control over my cutting. 

I knew going into these thirty days sober and cut free that I would not be able to stop crucial memories from rushing into my mind. I would be lying through my teeth if I said this was easy. In fact, every day is like climbing a mountain as the vividness of flashbacks and nightmares increase exponentially while I unlock more and more to my past. Taken from my journal on 4/8:

"I feel myself becoming increasingly vulnerable...constantly choking back tears as I let the memories flow from the pen to paper."

Two days later:

"It is unreal how just one new fragment can unlock so many answers I have been seeking." 

Thursday night I decided to journal about the initial memory I spoke of, to try and get past the "stuck points" without letting my shame get in the way. Every time I wanted to give up, I left a blank line, so I could indicate a place to revisit the emotions behind the previous section; however, I didn't write "STUCK POINT." I just kept writing. From that entry, 4/10:

"I am on the floor...he is hovering over me...I ended up in there alone with his power...his lust. I remember asking him why he brought me there. 'I'm not done with you.' He starts to kiss me, but I turn away. He grabs my face and forces me to suck on his fat, sweet, disgusting lips. Despite my attempts to keep my lips sealed, he separates them with his tongue. I am gagging on his saliva. He moves quickly with one arm holding me down, the other is reaching underneath my pants and underwear. He sticks his fingers inside my vagina, while his other hand is massaging my nipples. I remember his hands felt worn and sharp. I vocalized my dislike for what he was doing, 'Stop, I don't like this.'"

This is where I first paused...I still feel the same way I did last night. Physically: I have goosebumps all over my body, bile is rising in my throat, my chest is tight, stomach is churning, and face is burning. Emotionally: ashamed, angry, scared, and sad. Next Section:

"'Be quiet,' he says. He turns on the radio...Nirvana...'This is what people do when they love each other, like how I love you. It is called fucking.' I am confused, He says he loves me. Does that mean I should love him? Is this okay?"

Second Pause. Physically: shaking along with the aforementioned symptoms. Emotionally: confusion, shame, defeat. Last Section:

"After he finished turning on his radio, he returned to me, with less patience. He forced me out of my pants and underwear and stuck his tongue between my thighs. I don't know how long this was for. I just know he used his own spit to ease the entry of his fingers inside of me...to break me...gently. Once that was taken care of, he pulled down his pants and eased himself into me. It wasn't painful, he made it feel right, but it burned too. I wish I could recall how long I was on that floor. The last thing I remember is him sticking his penis inside of me, getting close to my ear and whispering, 'Tell me that you love it when I fuck you." I remember watching from outside of my body, waiting for him to finish."

This last part can only be explained by the out of body experience that occurs during disassociation. It is very common in rape and sexual abuse and usually attributes to memories being blocked as well. At this moment, hot tears are streaming down my face, remembering that betrayal of fairness.

After...

 The process of reliving each moment is mentally and emotionally exhausting. Since I rewrote this recollection, I have found myself on edge and increasingly exposed to more fragments. Even last evening, some new triggers began shaping the details in one of the most horrid assaults I experienced. From my journal last night (4/11):

"No longer can I ignore the sound of the trains at night. I heard them tonight and was transformed into _________, on the floor. I couldn't push away that feeling of dread. Greg had the baseball game on in our unlit living room, another element of those visions from the past. I was pulled in...dark silhouette shaped by the glow of a baseball game on the T.V. behind him. The smell of stale popcorn and pizza fills the room."

The truth can not be avoided and while the weight of indignity is heavy on my chest, the angry fire within my being prevents it from crushing my courage.