Survivor

I am a Survivor. I have learned this about myself the hard way. I have been put through more in my 36 years than many people experience in a lifetime.

survivor

And I am so angry right now. Furious and frustrated that we live in a world where the first assumption about a woman who comes forward as having lived through sexual assault or abuse is that she is a liar or somehow “deserved it.” Now I will admit I’m not very hip to pop culture, but I like the song where Kesha sings about brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack-I can get behind that. What I can’t get behind is a judge that rules that she is legally bound to work for the company of her rapist.

I don’t know all the details of the case, but I do know that coming forward as a victim of rape is difficult, and brave, and terrifying. And instead of surrounding these women with love and support we punish and doubt them. I felt this way when the Cosby allegations were surfacing and there were so many hateful comments about how no woman who was raped would wait 10 years to confront her rapist-so she must be lying, or trying to get money, or a whore.

I stayed quiet then because I was scared for myself, for people judging me. But now Kesha is being tormented in the same way so very publicly, and I have discovered my hidden super-power of not caring what people think of me, so here goes:

I love/hate therapy. Because part of the goal is to continually look at your life and assess it and figure out the ways to break some of your self-destructive patterns and bad habits. And that can be hard. Really hard.

I am in an upswing in my life; my health is finally stable, my energy is back to about what it should be for someone who runs around with 4-year old twins, my family is healthy and happy, and I have a good marriage to a man who can be a pain in the ass but is also my best friend and the best choice I could have ever made for a life partner. And yet I still have so much I have to work through, so much hurt that I never dealt with that comes back to the surface when I am overwhelmed.

I have an analogy I like to use about all of my past traumas being like little (or giant) boxes stuffed on a shelf. One of my well-developed coping mechanisms is the ability to put things that happen to me into a little box, seal it up tight, and stick it on the shelf. This works great until that shelf gets over-crowded and trying to put one more box up there causes everything to topple down on me. That is how I ended up in a place that I was having panic attacks and severe depression.

Now that I am feeling good, I am trying to take down and unpack those boxes one at a time so that the next time something happens (which it will, life is never perfect) I have the room to cope with it.

That being said, I really hate unpacking those boxes. It is difficult, and painful, and I generally just don’t wanna. And I am unpacking a big box right now. One of the biggest on my shelf and the only one I have sealed up so tight that I have almost never spoken of it. Which is saying something because I am a major over-sharer.

I have used this blog in the past to be honest in a way that I just can’t be other places, and I feel the need to do that again.

I am a Survivor. I am a Cancer Survivor. I am an Eating-Disorder Survivor. I am a Depression and Anxiety Survivor. I am a Miscarriage Survivor. And I am a Rape Survivor.

That last one was a bitch to write. Because admitting that is really f-ing hard. It was a very long time ago and I am not going to share the details of my rape other than that it happened. There was no knife and no gun, but my rapist (only now can I call him that out loud) had sex with me without my consent. That is rape. I was raped.

If I am using that word a lot it is because it is totally foreign to me. I pushed it so far back onto my shelf that I did not tell anyone for more than 5 years. Five years. Before I told anyone. And to this day I have only told one friend and my husband what happened to me (and now the entire world who has any interest in reading my blog!)

I can’t give a real answer yet as to why I didn’t tell anyone. I know that I was ashamed. And that I felt it was my fault. And that on some level I knew that if I told anyone they would encourage me to report it, which terrified me. Because what if no one believed me? What if I went to trial and they used the short skirt I was wearing as evidence against me? What if I went through having to relive my rape over and over and over again only to find no justice at all? To have people taunt me and accuse me of lying? To have to hear someone say out loud the things I said to myself, that I shouldn’t have put myself in a vulnerable situation, that I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

I was young and I was not nearly as brave as I am now and so I chose to shove it down and pretend it never happened. But it did happen. And I am a grown woman now. And I am stronger than I ever believed possible. So I finally have the courage to say it. I was raped.

This is obviously extremely personal, so why talk about it in such a public way? First of all, because I now know that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I did not do anything to deserve what happened to me, and if the person who raped me had any strength of character at all he would not had sex with an unconscious woman. I am “lucky” enough that I do have memories of telling him no and trying to push him off of me before the blackness came over me again.  But I want to make this very clear to everyone reading this.  Even if I had not woken up enough to try to make my rapist stop, it still would have been rape.

And it was not my fault.  I did drink a lot, and I now wonder if I wasn’t drugged, but the truth is it doesn’t matter.  Drugged or not, drunk or not.  I was raped and no part of that is my fault.  It is not a reflection of me or who I am. And if people comment with any sort of nastiness in response to this post, then that has nothing to do with me, they need to find their own therapist and unpack their own boxes.

But the main reason I felt compelled to write this is because I was at my therapist today and she asked me if I knew any other women who had been through something similar that I could talk to, and I said no. And then I thought about the statistics, some of which say that close to 1 in 3 women have been raped or sexually violated. So I must know people this has happened to. People just like me who feel scared and damaged and alone.

But you aren’t alone. Maybe you are in the crisis period of dealing with your rape immediately after it happened, or maybe, like me, you are coming to terms with it a lifetime later.

So this is for you. For Kesha, and for anyone who has been raped or brutalized. And this is for me. By giving a name to what happened to me and coming forward with it so publicly I am declaring that I am not ashamed. I am not embarrassed. I was raped and I should feel no more shame in saying that than saying that I had a miscarriage. Both are private and something I don’t want to talk about every day, but neither was my fault. Secrets have power, and this secret has had power over me for far too long. Not anymore.

I am a rape survivor. And I am working on all the crap that goes with that. But I am proud to say the rape doesn’t define me. Survivor does.

Sparkle

It has been a long time since I wrote on this blog, which some of you may have noticed (although probably not, I don’t kid myself that you are breathlessly awaiting the next installment of my life story!)

There are a couple of reasons I haven’t written. First of all, I majorly overestimated my time management skills and overcommitted. Like a lot. As in I decided it was totally doable to be a stay-at-home mom to twin 3 year olds, run a growing non-profit, write a blog, be on several boards and committees for other organizations, and manage my insane list of doctors appointments and health conditions.

stopme

I think that part of the issue was that I felt like my life was on pause for so long, that once I started to feel a little better I cannon-balled into a million activities rather than inching in and doing just a little to see how it went. And maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

And if I am being truthful, which is what I strive to be in this blog, in a lot of ways it was easier to fill my time with tasks I had to do, rather than to turn the focus inward and deal with my own crap- sometimes literally.

My recovery has not been what I hoped for. It is taking a really long time for me to get to whatever my “new normal” will be. I am coming to terms with the fact that I’m missing a bunch of organs, and that means life will never look the same as it does for other people. I am living with the fact that I had cancer and there is no guarantee it won’t come back. I am learning how to keep from yelling at doctors who tell me frustrating and semi-absurd things like I either have some amount of internal bleeding (which they can’t do anything to fix,) or a bone marrow problem (for which the treatment is worse than the problem so they won’t even test me for it,) that is causing me to be chronically anemic and get IV iron every month- probably forever.

And worst of all, I have had this “mystery pain” going on that I can’t trace to anything I eat or do. For a long time, I was always living with the uncertainty that at any moment I could be feeling perfectly fine and then suddenly be wracked with extreme abdominal pain that could last for hours and make it impossible to continue my day. Sometimes I could fight through it, and other times I had to lie on the floor of the bathroom crying and call my mom to come get my kids because I was physically unable to put them into the car and get them home.

I have also been dealing with a lot emotionally. I have discovered that my battle with depression and anxiety is directly tied to the amount of medical issues that I am having. So this summer, when I went through three weeks of extremely invasive and, in one instance, legitimately torturous testing to determine the cause of my mystery pain, I became, well, a big hot mess. It was hard for me to find joy even in the great moments I had with my family. I was just boxing up those yucky, unclear, unpleasant thoughts and feelings and sticking them in a closet to deal with later. I have gotten pretty good at that particular defense mechanism over the years, but at some point that closet can’t fit one more thing and when you open the door it all comes pouring out.

I spent a lot of time the past few months in therapy discussing the fact that part of my brain is always alert for the next thing that is going to go horribly wrong with my body. It’s exhausting. My mom once said to me that it seemed like I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yes. Exactly. Why wouldn’t I expect that, because in the last four years of my life, it always has. Every time I would just barely recover from a major blow, there would be something else to come along and knock me back down.

Boom. Miscarriage. Feeling hopeful because of a healthy twin pregnancy then Boom. Emergency hysterectomy when the twins were 6 weeks old. Start to come to terms with the fact that I almost died and had my uterus yanked out without my permission and then Boom. Find out that all the medicines I have been taking have caused me Osteoporosis, and then come very close to fracturing my spine. Boom. My ulcerative colitis flares so bad I have to have my colon removed. Boom. I have Thyroid Cancer. Boom. Three major surgeries in four months. Begin to slightly feel better and then Boom. Anemia so severe I could barely move and we were considering another blood transfusion.

It just kept coming, I mean how many effing shoes are there?! So when the doctors found a giant gallstone during all of those tests I almost felt relief. I thought, well here it is, the Boom that I can almost count on. One more surgery.

But then they decided that the gallstone was not the cause of my pain and surgery to remove it would be too dangerous with all of my scar tissue. That wasn’t so much of a Boom as a sigh…

So I go to my GI again, and try upping the dose of the medicine he gave me last time that is maybe kind of helping. Truthfully I am not really expecting it to work.

And then a miracle happens…my pain is gone. I realized one day recently that it has been almost three weeks since a major pain attack- I was having them 2-3 times a week. And then I start to feel like I have a little more space, more patience, more light. That’s when it hits me, not with a Boom but with a HAZAA! My background pain is gone too!

See, I didn’t really even count my everyday gut pain amongst my list of things to worry about because it had moved to the back of my brain. The chronic cramping and steady pain was just a hum running through my life that I could manage, it was the acute bouts of pain that I couldn’t live with.

But once it was gone, I realized how freeing it is to be without pain. How much space that pain took up in my head and my heart. How much anxiety and depression and hopelessness that pain caused.

The reason I haven’t written in so long is because I couldn’t. I didn’t want to share my feelings with the world because they weren’t good enough.   Because I wasn’t good enough. Because my writing rang false every time I tried. Depression will do that. And some of you reading this who have suffered with depression might understand, all the rational thought in the world couldn’t overcome the ugly, nagging voice that was whispering quietly that I was destined to be sick forever, that I should just get over myself because so many people have it worse, that I had nothing of value to say.

But when my pain eased, and I got on the right combination of medicines to manage my pain, depression, and anxiety, that gloom started to lift. Yet again Xanax for the win!!

I’ll never forget the first time I realized that my hope was back. I was on the floor rolling around with my twins playing some sort of ridiculous game and the three of us were all laughing hysterically. And I looked at the two of them and my husband who was sitting across the room chuckling at our antics, and I felt like my heart would explode. I was hit with an overflow of gratitude for my life, for my ability to be present with my family in body and in spirit. It was a fleeting but absolutely perfect moment.

And with that moment, I started to find myself again…I started to get some of my sparkle back.

Thank you flowers from a friend, they just made me really happy so I thought they fit this post!
Thank you flowers from a friend, they just made me really happy so I thought they fit this post!