How Opening Pandora's Box Saved My Life

Since April, I have had multiple victims of rape and sexual abuse message me and come forward with their own stories.  One of them asked if I could discuss the hyper-sexuality that some victims experience. While I explored how my sex life was impacted, there wasn't a definite reason as to why this may happen with other victims.

The truth is, every person processes trauma a different way. It would make the most sense if a rape victim became celibate. In order to avoid any flashbacks during a sexual encounter, it is best just to ignore sex all together. The theory here is, "If I push sex away, I am pushing the rape away." It makes sense, and I am no stranger to this type of behavior. For a while after seeing my abuser's face, I was incapable of having sex with my husband.

Hyper-sexuality is the polar opposite of celibacy. Sex becomes an addiction, and typically relationships are unstable while hyper-sexual. Sometimes this includes a change in or alteration in sexual identity. Nothing is ever enough for those with hyper-sexuality. At times it can be extremely destructive, but mostly exhausting for the partners of those who are afflicted.

Whichever side of the spectrum a victim may been drawn to, there is one thing in common: CONTROL. By choosing celibacy or by being hyper-sexual the victim is in control, which she wasn't while being assaulted. The celibate one says, "I am not having sex! It is my choice not to!" because it wasn't her choice in the assault. The hyper-sexual one says, "I'm going to have sex with whoever whenever however I want. It's my choice to!" because it wasn't her choice in the assault. Interestingly enough, hyper-sexual victims will shut down if they get denied control on how the sexual encounters occur.

Neither of these options are prime candidates for healing though; they are simply coping mechanisms. They result in temporary relief of what is inevitable, which is processing the trauma and discovering the survivor underneath the victim.

So many victims are afraid to dig into their wounds and clean them of all the disease that has disabled them from becoming who they really are. But as Tori Amos once said,

"Some people are afraid to analyze themselves too much, but you have to crawl into your wounds to discover where your fears are. Once the bleeding starts, the cleansing can begin."

It is so true. Opening Pandora's Box is a scary thing. I am still early on in digging through the rubble to find the real Dana. Confronting my horror, the reality of my BPD, the ever unfolding details of my years of abuse, while painful and evil, is the only reason I am still alive. I am angry, sad, ashamed, and frightened, but I also know that I am a phoenix, a survivor, risen from the ashes of a victim.

I have a constant reminder of this on my arm as a tattoo:

(EDIT 6/30/14: My friends Matt and Valerie Nelson are looking to start their own tattoo shop. They need a little bit of help. Seeing as how Matt is the one who designed and did my tattoo below, I think he deserves all the help he can get. Without this tattoo, I wouldn't have the constant reminder to remain courageous. To donate to the fund to start their shop, please click here.)

My sexual assault awareness ribbon tattoo was designed in accordance with the phoenix down and why the words flow into the feather. This is to represent that only after silence was I capable of being reborn out of the ashes of my former self, and arise a stronger, and wiser, woman. It also keeps me inline with my advocacy, which means I will NEVER give up on fighting against sexual violence.

Just remember, if you too are a victim, you aren't alone.  If you want to talk about it, feel free to contact me. I have resources available to you. If you are even scared to do that, RAINN has a confidential online hotline. Go to online.rainn.org if you want to chat.

But He's Such a Nice Guy!

As the news unfolds more details behind John Balyo and his sick world, the shock has intensified amongst the public. From an insider perspective,  I am saddened and sickened, but I am not shocked. Maybe it is because I have come to learn that no one is immune from evil, and typically the nicest criminals...are also the worst ones.

Pedophiles use their ability to relate to children on a personal level and suck them in by giving them the attention they may not be receiving at home or from friends. I recently read a book, Tiger Tiger, about a woman, Margaux Fragoso, who was being sexually abused by a man for years. The relationship started when she was 7 and went on until she was 22. As I read the memoir, I was right at home with how she felt about his humanity and the need to please him. She had a rough home-life, and this man utilized that to his advantage. He gave her attention, she idolized him, and by the time she knew what was really happening, it was too late.

 In my situation, I too was vulnerable to attention. I have mentioned before how I was captured by his charm and how he treated me special. He was good-looking, and I was at an age where I was giddy about cute teen boys. He groomed me and I was his. He convinced me he was the only one who loved me and I believed him. Was he mean? Sometimes. But by that point, I had already been guilted into continuously pleasing him.

Did you know that the worst date rapist was also the nicest? Jeffrey Marsalis used a dating website to prey on single women. He appealed to their interests and photoshopped pictures of himself and lied about his persona. My friend, and fellow RAINN Speakers Bureau member, JoAnn Buttaro, was one of his many victims. They first communicated online, then spoke on the phone, then planned a date. The date was enjoyable, they had a few drinks, and good conversation.

JoAnn went to his apartment with him, but didn't know what was in store for her. At his apartment she refused alcohol, but took a soda, which he drugged. The next thing she remembered, she was awake, naked, but not feeling well. He was gentle and even took her to get some food to feel better. She left feeling confused, but from the way he treated her, it was hard to tell what happened. Just today she said to me, "He was nice the next morning or days following and many victims including myself spoke to how it confused them."

Her story is a powerful one and you can go to www.joannspeaksout.com to read more about her experience and even listen to a speech. She was also featured on an episode of "Very Bad Men," which highlighted Marsalis. You can also follow her on Twitter @JoAnnSpeaksOut.

The fact of the matter is, the public needs to be educated on the reality of how these criminals work. People need to get their head out of the sand and wake up! Instead of complaining about the news reporting on the details, why don't you do something within your community to educate other adults and children? The news is filled with sexual assault cases, detailed at that. These details typically come straight from the victim. It is released on their own volition. Nothing is shared without it being approved.

Furthermore,  I am rather tired of people putting the John Balyo case on a pedestal. What I mean by this is specifically treating him worse because of who he is. Rape is awful no matter who commits it and he is NOT the only one to utilize status and a nice personality to victimize others. While it is absolutely atrocious, he is only one of the "Nice Bad Guys."

Didn't I Say Rape is Rape?

Okay, this is going to be a short rant on the headlines discussing Christian radio host John Balyo's charges of Criminal Sexual Conduct.

There is no instance in which a 12-year-old boy can consent to having sex with an adult. So let's call it what it is shall we? It is rape. Unequivocally rape.

This man:

raped a 12-year-old boy.

Furthermore, I have another bone to pick. The fact that he is Christian, and a Christian radio host at that, does not make him immune to free will or sin. This very fact has blown this headline up to the top of the news market and it aggravates me because it doesn't make it any more heinous of a crime. We are all subjected to free will and sin, in all walks of life. The fact that he is Christian and decided to partake in evil does not make the crime worse versus had he been a hardened criminal.

Don't you think that all criminals at one point had some type of moral compass they were living by?

I know the man who raped me was a Christian. Didn't change his ability to utilize free will and defame me for years. He made a conscience decision, as did John Balyo, to rape a minor, and now he is going to face consequences. Not only earthly, but heavenly as well.

So remember: RAPE is RAPE and anyone with free will is capable of doing it.

The Storm Rages On (Some Sensitive Material)

Every time there is a storm materializing outside, there appears to be an excitement amongst my Facebook friends and even my own husband. I am aware that thunderstorms, especially large ones, induce an adrenaline rush in thrill seekers and that is understandable. For me however, they bring on an enormous sense of fear, and can paralyze my ability to function.

I have been searching for a reason as to why I react in such a manner, as I haven't always been deathly afraid of thunderstorms. Tonight, as I indulged in my evening festivities of relaxation and Netflix, a moment of clarity struck alongside my typical panic. I knew I had to journal about it, because what good would it do if I just sat in the muck of terror that overtook my senses?

"I am laying once again on the floor...and HE is there too...The rain is coming down hard and the lightning flashes white over his greedy face... 

I am getting kissed, licked, groped, and the storm rages on outside while my fear becomes apparent. It is within the sudden bursts of light that I see the evil in HIS eyes. There is no remorse...just a desire to sop up my humanity...my innocence. 

I am left with fear and rage, because now...tonight...while the crashes of thunder and rain may bring awe to others, I am weak and ready to welcome non-existence."

Meeting this realization, I knew I had to blog about it immediately. Not only because a new memory was forming, and one of my triggers was justified, but also because I wanted to show how a peaceful moment can morph into sudden anger and sadness.

There are days where I am able to withstand the constant emotional shifts, and push away thoughts of self-harm/suicide. Then there are times like these, when it is so sudden, I feel lost. I haven't accommodated these desires, but they are evident on days that I am like a teeter totter. In order to suppress them, depending on the emotion, I either shove my hand in an ice box or write. Tonight I chose to write, and I'm glad I did.

EDITED:
This week I start Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which I have mentioned before. I had also mentioned that I am suffering from something much more than PTSD, but wasn't ready to reveal that quite yet. Considering my goal was to be open in order to help others and also erase the stigma associated with Rape/Sexual Abuse and the mental illness that may result from it, I can't hide any longer.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder. It is best described as emotional dysregulation. I have mentioned how something small can set me off. Somedays I can experience pure joy along with complete sadness and rage all within an hour. Depending on the emotion, typically shame from my past, I spiral into a cycle of self-harm to deal with negativity. DBT will teach me skills to help manage my emotions better and start living a life worth living. The most important portion of DBT is to lower my thoughts of self-harm and suicide, which is something I am currently working on.

I hope that I can be an example to those who may also suffer from personality disorders, that it doesn't have to represent who you are as a person. I may have a mental illness and be a survivor of rape/sexual abuse but neither of those define me as a person. They just play an integral part of who I am still becoming.

Little Dragon or Bust

When my husband and I left on June 17th for our 11-hour drive down to North Carolina, we were oblivious to the amount of obstacles that were going to hit us head on. It is understood that road trips, well vacations in general, always have some type of mishap along the way; however, we got sideswiped more than once.

Just a little back story first.

The week before we left, we made an appointment to get our car looked at because we had been having some issues with it making an annoying whining noise while our blower was on. Along with that, our AC was acting up. We were pretty specific with the issues and had no inclination that they would fail miserably at their job.

When we got our car back, after paying for a deductible, we were told everything was good and that our AC was simply overcharged. We thought that was odd considering we have never gotten the car charged since we bought it from the Ford dealership. Unfortunately, the car was still making the same noise, and since it was the weekend, we couldn't do anything about it. So on Monday, the day before we left, I called and complained that they didn't do their job and the service advisor offered to listen.

After telling me it was probably the compressor, but there was nothing they could do for me without looking at it, I said, "Well, why didn't get this fixed last week when we brought it in for this specific problem?" The only answer I got was, "I don't know."

Cool.

So now our trip. Not even two hours into our drive we noticed the AC was crapping out on us. Had it  not been 90 degrees with 60% humidity, rolling down the windows may have been bearable. I was not a happy camper. My hair was a fuzz ball, I had massive amounts of boob sweat, and a splitting headache. Then we hit the traffic.

First it was a massive semi crash. One semi looked like a T-Rex took a bite out of it, and the other was smoking with crates of unknown material spilt all around it.

So no big deal, semi crashes happen, traffic backed up for a while happens. It is all good...

Until 10 minutes later you have to exit the highway because it is closed due to a chemical spill.

So here is the deal:

Greg and I got off the expressway, along with thousands of other confused drivers, and drove through this podunk town in Ohio. We knew that we had to follow everyone, but it was extremely congested. It took us about 2 hours to get two miles. When we finally reached the next entrance to the highway, there was a cop directing us to go north, the wrong direction. So I rolled down my window and asked him where to go if we wanted to go south.

"You have to go north, get off on the next exit, then come back south." 

You see, that exit he spoke of was EXACTLY THE SAME EXIT we got off on two miles, and TWO HOURS before that. So my response, in complete frustration was:

"Are you fucking kidding me?" to a cop. 

My husband had to point out to me a minute later I had just cursed, nonetheless the f-bomb, to a state trooper. I was so ticked, I had no idea.

Because of this unnecessary detour, we were almost three hours behind and didn't make it into North Carolina until 1:30 a.m. It gets better right? No.

The next morning, we took our car to the Ford dealership in Asheville and explained to them everything that was going on. It took three hours of us waiting around until they finally decided to set us up with a rental so we could enjoy what little time we had left on our trip. So that was fun.

BUT THEN!

We remembered, "Hey, Little Dragon...THAT is why we are here."

The entire afternoon we kept hearing from locals, "You drove all the way from Grand Rapids, Michigan to see a concert at the Orange Peel?"

Yes, yes we did.

At the concert, we were told to "Shut up," because they didn't believe we would drive that far to see Little Dragon.

But yes...yes we did.

Why?

Because they are AMAZING and deserve hardcore fans that drive 11+ hours to go see them.

All the crap we went through on the way down was totally worth it because we got to experience the most intimate, sensual, emotional, sweaty, dance-filled, show ever to exist at least within our life-span, and we thank Little Dragon for that.

I doubt Yukimi, or any of the others will read this, but if you do just know that your music means so much to my husband and I. Not only because it is injected with raw talent and originality, but also because it has pulled us through some rough moments. I for one was brought back to the appreciation of my own music just by listening to yours. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to enjoy your show live.

On a side note, the Asheville Ford service technicians aren't idiots and fixed our car. We only had to pay our deductible and weren't dying on our way back up to Michigan.

Lesson learned from all of this: Mindfulness doesn't always diminish anger and anxiety, but awesome music by Little Dragon does.

Why My Best Friend is My Son's Father

Nearly 9 years ago, I met my best friend. He was a quiet, goofy, bass singer, and pianist who turned my world upside down. Being the assertive, and also demanding, person that I am, it was easy to suck him into the whirlwind of my insanity. Within weeks I had him eating out of my palm; harsh right? But so true.

He was just like any other guy I came across. Flirt, chase, chase, flirt, chase....snag. The only difference was that he refused to let me go when I started to get bored. He wasn't just like any other guy I could throw myself at and dust my hands off post-coitus. He wanted to make me happy, truly happy.

Achieving happiness with me is not an easy task as I sway from one emotion to another within seconds. Some days, being cuddly and lovey-dovey will send me into a euphoric bliss. While others, I don't want to be touched let alone looked at, and would much prefer a bucket of candy and Netflix. It is not an easy job.

Some of you men might be thinking, "Well, isn't that every woman?" Well yes, and no.  It is one thing to have this happen once a month, ya know around menses, but not within the same day. Eight hours with me is something like this:

First: Oh hey! I love you. You are awesome, let's hang out!
Second: You wanna do your own thing and ignore me? How dare you! You a-hole.
Third: Wait...I love you...can you come cuddle with me?
Fourth: Stop touching me.
Fifth: HEY LET'S GO SHOPPING!
Sixth: Eff off.
Seventh: I'm sad...really sad. I just want to watch Orange is the New Black and eat yogurt.
Eighth: I'm okay now! Let's have sex.

How he has been able to put up with my crap for this long, I have no clue, other than the simple fact that he loves me.

When I wanted to have a baby, he wasn't that excited about it. I screamed, fought, and bawled until we both agreed to just go with the flow. If I got pregnant, awesome, but we weren't going to go out of our way to make it happen.  Yet, when I peed on that stick a few months in a row and nothing came of it, I was torn to pieces. I don't mean like, "Aw man, that blows. Well better luck next time." I am talking about uncontrollable snot-filled heaves of "my life is literally over" tears.

Eventually, I did get a positive result, and I almost fell off the toilet when I saw it. I was shaking with excitement and went to announce the news to my best friend. He sat there with an absent look on his face, ready to hurl. The fact that I didn't see immediate happiness form on his face resulted in inner rage.  Which, resulted in a demand from him to be left alone and me in an anxiety-filled heap on the floor of our apartment.

It has been almost two years since that day, and now we are parents to a rambunctious 14-month-old. My best friend is the best father my son could have for a multitude of reasons:

• He makes my son laugh harder than anyone.
• He is gentle.
• He plays with him in a way that only fathers can. Get's down on the floor and talks his language.
• He always shares his food with him.
• He dries his tears.
• He kisses his nose.
• He makes bath time an adventure.
• He snuggles with him till he falls asleep.

Probably my favorite part of the day is when my son's father, my best friend of 9 years, my husband of almost 4, walks through the door, and my son's eyes light up with the anticipation that can only be explained by the unconditional love of a son for his papa.

He is the hardest worker I know, and deserves all the appreciation he could possibly get. He works 45 hours every week and still finds time to make me feel loved while being the best father to my son. He has dealt with my PTSD from rape and my personality disorder without tossing me out the door.

Greg, I love you, and thank you for your continued support as a husband and father. I am certain no one else in this world would be able to withstand my craziness and for that I will be forever indebted to you.

Survivor Privilege....What Privilege?

If you have any insight into what is floating around Twitter right now, you may have noticed the #survivorprivilege trend by now. It was started by an activist named Wagatwe Wanjuki in reaction to columnist George F. Will's ridiculous article stating that being a rape survivor is a "coveted status." Since then, Twitter and Facebook has been exploding with what we, as survivors, consider survivor privilege. Meant to be a sarcastic response to Will's idiotic column, turned out to be a powerful movement.

Just go to Twitter and search #survivorprivilege. You will be shocked at the responses. I promise.

For me survivor privilege means:

• Having people in high school call you slut because they consider being raped losing your virginity. (Yes, that actually happened).
• Having a panic attack every time you go to your OBGYN for a yearly exam.
• Spending thousands of dollars on therapy just so you can sleep at night.
• Wanting to die rather than have another flashback.
• Not being able to have sex with your husband because all you see is your attacker's face.
• Never seeing true justice.
• Having to constantly explain yourself when you suddenly break down in public.
• Shunning every man that makes even one misogynistic comment, because it makes you sick to your stomach.
• You can't enjoy the simple things in life like the transition from Winter to Spring, because it is a trigger.
• Waiting 18 years to voice your story, because of constant shame and ridicule.

It also means:

• Being able to help other survivors.
• Being stronger than most.
• Having a sense of gratefulness when you start to heal.
• Knowing you aren't alone.
• Having the courage to be an advocate.
• Having the ability to teach your son how to REALLY respect women.

I have stated in previous posts that I may never forgive the man that violated me, but that doesn't mean I am consumed by hatred. All it means is I will never say it is okay, because it isn't. What I will say is that I am privileged to be able to help others in my walk through life, and that is probably the one thing that gets me through those days that I start crumbling.

There will be a continuing fight against Sexual Violence, and I am only one among many warriors in the battle. To others alongside me, I thank you for your continued efforts. Keep fighting.

When All Else Fails...

In the past week I have swallowed about 10 gallons of tears that have been searching for an escape. My chest feels like a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Eyes burning and throat swollen, I fight the sorrow, because I don't want to seem weak. Despite the beauty surrounding me on a daily basis, I am drowning in fear, anger, shame, and sadness.

Why?

Because frankly, a lot of shit happened, and my support system has been minimized, at no fault to anyone other than having a busy summer schedule. As soon as May hit, the tethers to my social life snapped one by one. The most hindering being one of my best friends, Betsy, moving back up north to be closer to family. I am so incredibly proud and happy for her, yet miss her dearly. As awesome as FaceTime is, it won't replace the impromptu trips to Olive Garden or late night beer chats.

I haven't gone out on my own, other than for work, since April. Those who are stay-at-home moms, or who struggle with similar issues as me, understand that a social life is necessary. Getting that once a week break is almost essential in order to function. By no means am I trying to complain about my life, just giving insight as to why I have become emotionally vulnerable. 

Today, I was in church, and my baby was in nursery. It was the first time in a few weeks, I could breathe, and as soon as I did I could feel the tears welling up because I knew I had been suppressing my misery for too long. I can utilize skills day in and out all I want, but it is only a temporary suppression. When all else fails, I fall apart.

In the beginning of May, I attended the play Every Six Minutes, and that night I wrote about my vulnerability and my inner child (5/9):

Today I felt myself longing to comfort my inner child. Sitting in that play, hearing the truths I have been spouting being told by people other than me, held a new sense of reality. I no longer had to be the Elder, spitting out knowledge. I just sat, and soaked in the raw emotion portrayed by this cast, who clearly had experienced the same pain I had. I feel like my skin is buzzing with sensitivity. As if someone dares to touch, or even hug me, I will collapse into a pile of salty tears. While I am vulnerable to my inner child's sadness and fear, I am liberated by my voice.

Knowing that advocating through my writing is what has brought peace to many women, I knew I had to go forward with publishing my memoir somehow. Maya Angelou, my biggest inspiration, came to the forefront of my mind, so I checked out some of her works I had yet to read. I was rather giddy returning form the library, and even started formulating a letter of thanks to her for sharing her story in hopes to help girls like me see what can become of a life after it has seen evil. Her death shattered my heart, yet made the relevance of my advocacy paramount.

Silence nor stagnancy will do any good.

"I learned a long time ago the wisest thing I can do is be on my own side, be and advocate for myself and others like me" -Maya Angelou