Monday, April 7, 2014

We Don't Want to Hear About That (Trigger Warning. Sensitive Material and Offensive Language)

Ever since I birthed my beautiful boy, I have come in to contact with many people I went to middle/high school with. I'm not just talking about accepting a friend request on Facebook; literally conversing and hanging out with old acquaintances. Most of this I believe is attributed to the fact that so many women of my generation were also blessed with recent babies.

Through these new connections, I formed a powerful friendship with one particular woman. She is someone I have known for a while, but never connected with in the many years of attending the same school. We still don't know how we began to chat about personal experiences, but it just happened. For the first time in a while, I was able to share my load and carry someone's as well.

You see, as a teenager having already been forced to age mentally, it can be difficult to form lasting friendships in high school. No one wanted to hear my shit. It was too dark, especially for the type of school I went to. Because of this, I generally felt like an outcast.

It is interesting, because I have run into other people I went to high school with and they claim that they always thought I was "super cool, always said what was on my mind, strong, funny." Then I think Okay, then why didn't you say so then? Could have made me feel less hated by the strange looks and snickers I received. Could have made the desire to self-harm and/or kill myself lessen.

I'm not trying to complain by any means. The principal just bothers me.

At the same time, I can't expect young minds that hadn't experienced the same trauma to understand what I had seen. For this reason, I lost many friends through my adolescent years. It was cyclical. Meet someone, get to know them, start to trust them, let them in, scare them, lose them.

There was a moment in high school when someone anonymous, but most likely someone close to me, had used their personal knowledge of me to cyber-bully me on a social networking site. They created a page devoted to hating me and used that profile to attack intimate details of my life. Things only someone I had trusted would say. After that, I threw up my hands and said "Fuck it, I'm done." There was no trust left in me at that point. I chose to remain silent.

Even in my adult life, I still experience the same stigma associated with Rape as I did back then. It saddens me really. I understand that it is an uncomfortable subject for many, but how are we to encourage victims to break the silence if they are continuously beaten down because the people closest to them are incapable of imagining the horror?

When I got my tattoo, it tied in with my conscience decision to be open about that fact that I was raped. Not even a month ago, I had made a comment to someone I knew from high school about the rape and she said "oh we don't want to hear about that." It was like a punch in the gut to hear.

Before that, I attended a get together with some other alumni, where we shared stories about what we have done since high school.When it was my turn, I only spoke of how I met my husband and my son, but one of the ladies asked what my tattoos meant. I explained each tattoo and the meaning behind it. There was a question as to why my Sexual Assault Awareness ribbon was tattered. I explained that it is a hard and long journey that leaves one standing, yet missing parts of their old self.

One of the ladies made a remark that was so far off base, the first thing that I experienced was pure anger. After her statement, there was a brief moment of silence from the group. I quickly eyed the closest friend I have (the one mentioned in the beginning of this entry), whose eyes got real big, waiting for me to burst, but instead I decided to quickly divert the conversation.

Thinking about that night still frustrates, but only because I am confused by the inability of people to validate the horror of what rape victims experience.

There is a misconception that the most difficult portion of rape is the assault itself. I wish that were the case. The worst part is the aftermath. The flashbacks, nightmares, effects on relationships, effects on personality, and much more. If I could travel through slumber without nightmares or live a day without replaying the same quintessential scenes over in my head, I would be free.

I mentioned to my husband last night that in my journal, there are repeating snippets. My rule of journaling is to say WHATEVER is on my mind, which includes whenever an assault is replayed in the forefront of my mind.

This is just from a few days ago. You can see how quickly I transition from a simple journal entry into a memory that had invaded my thoughts (some things left out intentionally or substituted as I wish not to reveal the complete details of some iconic assaults yet):

"I have made it through four posts in four consecutive days of writing on my blog. I have made the promise that I will post something about my story every day the month of April, as it is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. I actually wrote the fourth entry early, just haven't posted it yet, because I felt the need to push through the "grooming period" of my abuse. Sometimes that is the hardest thing for me to think about because so many of my triggers are tied into that stage. The video games, the TV, the music...I can feel his big sweet lips on my mouth. His hot breath on my ear, "Tell me that you love it when I fuck you." His fingers inside me..his tongue between my thighs...using his own spit to ease the entry...the music...Nirvana...the shame. The stink of his sweat. I HATE HIM."

This is truly how I experience life right now.

I wish that I could humor the advice of loved ones to forgive; to "let it go," because that is the only way to heal. This advice pains me because it is rather unrealistic to me. I feel that once I forgive, I am just accepting every bulked up excuse that has been spit at me as to why rapists rape. Rapists rape because they make a conscience decision to do so, not because their past dictated it. Taken from After Silence by Nancy Venable Raine:
"I cannot forget the suffering he brought me. Nor does my intimate knowledge of the nature of his suffering, knowledge that causes me to pity him, lessen my longing to see him locked behind bars forever. The only forgiveness I can muster is to call him human."
 I can't get through this post without crying. I read the words I have typed, remember I'm not writing fiction, and reality sinks in. These things happened. They DO happen, to a lot of people. It forces me to weep for those who don't have a voice. I am overwhelmed by the people who have contacted me saying they never told anyone and that I'm giving them a sense of justice.

From this day forward, I vow to vocalize my courage outside of my blog. It does me no good to pour my heart out, if I can't defend my views in person. I will no longer be afraid of the ignorant comments or awkward silence I have let slide for too long.

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