Oh, my goodness. I'm so excited that I can't sleep. It's like Christmas and my birthday, but way back when I was five years old! My heart is pounding and happy and full, and I couldn't imagine bringing in this VDay in any other manner.
As my blood pulses wildly through my veins, I can't help but smile at the fact that I've had an exceptionally wide open arms, wide open soul kind of week. Just excitement. Excitement, and reflection, and freedom. I feel as if I'm finally reaching my boiling point; bursting with potential and rising with the heat. Busting at the seams. Basking in glory with hands held high.
Finally.
During this VWeek, I've been reflecting upon the girl I've been and the woman I've become. And, coincidentally, sending mad praise to the Great I Am because I couldn't be more radiantly happy with this wild spirit of mine! For the first time in my life, things are beginning to come together and make perfect, lyrical melodies of sense. I fit. There is nothing wrong with me. I am not a victim. Not anymore. Not since.
I remember bits and pieces of being in the thick of my trauma, feeling darkness like hands around my throat and a giant mouth swallowing me whole. I would lay down to sleep, paralyzed with fear, waiting for the goblins under my bed to take me and even while I slept, my waking-hour paralysis manifested itself into a ghoulish subconscious existence of running, and being pulled down by my hair, and locked doors, and no escape, and not being fast enough, and trying to save them, and being mocked, and the very worst thing: trying to scream without a single intelligible sound escaping my frantic lips. Losing the one thing I felt I had left: my voice.
But some months later, having rocked myself back to sleep after such nights, I moved on. And I felt what would be the first of a long line of chains being broken.
At fourteen, a gal thinks she can get it together, by herself, and get it together completely. But at twenty three, a gal knows that the story didn't end there; it never ends. I can't quite remember what happened until I graduated high school, other than my having a marvelous time. I think I tried to slowly and quietly heal. Focus on other things. Focus on my having a marvelous time. Deal with anything, anything else.
I knew my soul was sold for this, though. Sexual violence had carved its signature into my entire self, and when I began at Michigan State, I began to look for others who might be damaged like me. There is camaraderie there, and solidarity, and the opportunity to tell your story and to heal together. It was an attractive thing, this possibility that I could trade in my shame for our survival.
But, there is also vicarious trauma. I remember working on one case that was particularly difficult to stomach, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a world-class survivor, desperately trying to change our worlds for the better. And that's when my anxiety attacks started. And they continued as I dove deeper into my academic career, and they shook me a year later when my family became shaken with confessions of more violence.
I lost my mind for a moment there, as I've mentioned before. I became incredibly discouraged; believing that somehow, all of us get destroyed. And there wasn't a damn thing that I, powerless and broken, could do about it. By a power much greater than my own, though, I broke that spiritual depression and rose to my feet again. I continued to try and advocate for those who needed it, and for myself. Slowly, I was developing a sense of self-worth. Not simply confidence; actual self-worth.
Then, I found the VDay movement.
I laugh about this, because nothing has brought so much joy and radiance into my life, and simultaneously, so much public shaming and fighting and fear-driven judgement. During my involvement with the VDay movement, I met loads of incredible people with whom I continue to surround myself. And finally, I found that solidarity, and grace. Oh, man. That indescribable grace. Pieces of myself began to rush back into place. I began to understand what it was to treat myself with compassion and care. Those who were quick to judge us were quick to call me a hypocrite, but for what? For saving myself? For finding comfort? For attempting to give a voice to others when I knew too well what it was to feel like it had been lost forever? For finding other survivors and finally letting my cloak of shame evaporate? For finally understanding that my trauma was acceptable and normal? For growing deep roots and establishing beautiful connections? Well. Guilty as charged, and I'm not sorry. Not ever.
Because now, I can feel myself beginning to blossom. My heart is full of the love that has been given to me by others, and I actually can't stop myself from giving it freely to the people who surround me every day! I meet new survivors all the time. My heart recognizes them, and wants to love on them, and feels so much care for them. A strong heart will recognize other strong hearts.
And my strong heart wants to rise. I rise for the one in three, the billion women who have experienced the things that I've experienced, tenfold. I rise to eradicate the stigma of mental illness and PTSD. I rise because I have taken back my voice, and I want to use it to help others take back theirs. I rise for the opportunity to lift people up. I rise for all of us; for Laura, Janelle, Stephanie, Rachel, Nic, Katie, Joe, Marie, Bee, Jessica, Tiffany, Hannah, Shawn, Elizabeth, Heather, Kassy, Whitley, Lori, Emily, Herasanna, Kim, Cheyenne, Matthew, Carmon...all of us. I rise against. I rise for. I rise.
I rise today, and I will rise for every tomorrow. Happy VDay!
Friday, February 14, 2014
Sunday, February 09, 2014
Reflection
When I was a kid who didn't know she was a kid, things went awry for a minute.
I don't know where it came from, being ashamed of feeling ashamed. I can't really remember, but I think that I probably sank into a routine of compounding shame on shame, unaware that I was allowed to be traumatized. Unaware that paranoia, which I misconstrued as my being unacceptably judgmental, was normal. Unaware that nightmares, though horrifying and too much like screaming in space, were absolutely justified.
Unaware that this was, is a process.
I hated the idea of a process. I was afraid of things blowing entirely out of proportion. I held tightly to secrets. I thought it would be over, soon.
If I would've known that as a 23 year old woman I'd still be thinking about this every day, triggering tiny emotional responses from the littlest things, and being just so very aware that this year will mark my tenth assaultiversary, well. I can't guarantee that I would've been so determined to stay alive. Because I would've known that it wouldn't be over, as I know now that it won't ever be.
That was then, though...and this is an incredible now. Things are better. And the fight is still clenched in my fists because I kept fighting. I could've bowed out. I could've gracefully chosen a path that led to a sideline draped in pacifism. I could've.
But no, I couldn't have. Because I'll always fight for you, and secretly behind the scenes, an adolescent me. Always.
I don't know where it came from, being ashamed of feeling ashamed. I can't really remember, but I think that I probably sank into a routine of compounding shame on shame, unaware that I was allowed to be traumatized. Unaware that paranoia, which I misconstrued as my being unacceptably judgmental, was normal. Unaware that nightmares, though horrifying and too much like screaming in space, were absolutely justified.
Unaware that this was, is a process.
I hated the idea of a process. I was afraid of things blowing entirely out of proportion. I held tightly to secrets. I thought it would be over, soon.
If I would've known that as a 23 year old woman I'd still be thinking about this every day, triggering tiny emotional responses from the littlest things, and being just so very aware that this year will mark my tenth assaultiversary, well. I can't guarantee that I would've been so determined to stay alive. Because I would've known that it wouldn't be over, as I know now that it won't ever be.
That was then, though...and this is an incredible now. Things are better. And the fight is still clenched in my fists because I kept fighting. I could've bowed out. I could've gracefully chosen a path that led to a sideline draped in pacifism. I could've.
But no, I couldn't have. Because I'll always fight for you, and secretly behind the scenes, an adolescent me. Always.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Unsolicited and Unimportant, Yet Somehow Necessary
I figured I'd take a few minutes of this snow day (CAN I GET AN LOL) to write some things. Nothing crazy, nothing terribly relevant, but on my mind nonetheless.
Because lately, people have been all kinds of supportive. Lots of you graciously follow my life and offer digital approval every day, and I appreciate it...although I'm growing ever-conscious of my dependence on virtual validation. Even so, I feel somehow justified in my chaotic endeavors, and I keep navigating said chaos with as much finesse as I can manage. For myself, and for you. Thanks.
As I've mentioned many times before as some sort of reason for everything, I'm twenty three. And yes, I moved seventeen times during undergrad. And yes, I drove 25,000 miles last year. And yes, I'm a gypsy by trade and by genetics and by choice. I love all of these things about myself...except when they keep me away from some of you for too long. Like, I can't quite commit, or something. I can't give you all of me when pieces of me are scattered around the world and I still haven't even found some of them yet. Like that. I both love and feel brokenness from that truth. Perhaps, a lovely brokenness. A necessary one.
And then I wonder, why do I run? I run to unwind, and because I'm desperate to see and do everything before I lose sight of how wonderful the world can be. There are lots of days that I am terrified to face, and one of them is the day that the Rockies stop making me cry, as if that will ever happen. But I think...that I'm also running so that I can find all of those pieces of me that are still scattered. I think it's just beautiful because, whenever I find a piece, I find that it had been in such perfect care and when I find that gorgeous person that is the steward of that piece, my heart recognizes it. And my heart doesn't easily let go, unless it's some sort of temporary, time-dependent, time-sensitive stewardship and I can take that piece back and have it for myself. But the memories. The memories of how my heart healed for just that one single solitary second lull me into a sweet sleep when I can remember, and not be bitter, and be thankful instead.
Wouldn't you run, too? It's a heart-healing scavenger hunt. I run because my life depends on it.
And then I wonder, will I ever settle down? Probably, but not quite yet, regardless of what my biochemistry wants me to believe. Like the time last year I cried for no reason because I wasn't pregnant...so preposterous. Maybe I have to find all of the pieces of my heart, first. And I've been told that my twenties is the perfect time for this, and that I'm doing it all right, and that, in and of itself, is such a melody to hear. So when I daydream about the next twelve-odd years of my life and the things that will grow and change for the better, I imagine that I can give myself time. Things will be so, so different and so wonderful and perhaps in that time, I can tend the things in my soul's garden that I've left to the weeds for some time...so that all of me can grow. Then, maybe, we can bring children into the picture.
But I was told by someone recently that our nation is about to nosedive into some hard times, and that I shouldn't worry about bringing a child into the world because it might not be such a great idea. I politely nodded, but inside I was screaming, what?! How defeatist. And ridiculous, and paranoid, and narrow-sighted. Because I was raised with incredible privilege, but am not accustomed to having things simply handed to me. My generation inherited the botched economy and the wounded environment that her generation donated. We know what it is to work hard, to make sacrifices, to learn how to take nothing for granted. We know about debt. We have, somehow, stretched a dollar and twelve cents to last four weeks while learning to stop trying to be self-sufficient and instead to live on grace. Grace. We know about grace. So do you, for one moment, believe that we've had everything presented to us on a silver platter? I don't. We are a generation of survivors, and I intend to raise a child with similar gumption. Now, if I'm not mentally or financially stable, then choosing to bring a child into the world would probably be an extremely irresponsible decision. However, if I can support myself and my family reasonably well, then facing hard times will be a battle that we can fight. My kid will be a fighter. That's all.
Then again, though, I probably want a child so that I can have somebody to save this time. And that is, to an extent, a pretty poor reason. It's a selfish reason. It's because I spend most of my dreaming hours staring at the lit-up stars above my bed and pretending to save somebody. Because it's pretty simple: those of us who have survived some sort of abuse or trauma want to be held closely and safely, but mostly, want to hold tightly to other survivors and tell them that we know, and that it's okay, and that they're safe now. And somehow, go back in time and rescue them behind closed doors where nobody ever went and nobody ever saw and nobody ever heard...but as I dream about this, I'm missing the opportunity to save somebody today. It's the line between dreaming and doing. It's that thick black line. And I couldn't save them then, so how could I save somebody now?
I don't know.
But my default, again, is love. I hope that I can be a resource, and save somebody as others have saved me. So I keep running, and finding those pieces of my heart, and abundantly loving on the people that I find there. Soaking up their love, and life as I know it, and keep going.
Because lately, people have been all kinds of supportive. Lots of you graciously follow my life and offer digital approval every day, and I appreciate it...although I'm growing ever-conscious of my dependence on virtual validation. Even so, I feel somehow justified in my chaotic endeavors, and I keep navigating said chaos with as much finesse as I can manage. For myself, and for you. Thanks.
As I've mentioned many times before as some sort of reason for everything, I'm twenty three. And yes, I moved seventeen times during undergrad. And yes, I drove 25,000 miles last year. And yes, I'm a gypsy by trade and by genetics and by choice. I love all of these things about myself...except when they keep me away from some of you for too long. Like, I can't quite commit, or something. I can't give you all of me when pieces of me are scattered around the world and I still haven't even found some of them yet. Like that. I both love and feel brokenness from that truth. Perhaps, a lovely brokenness. A necessary one.
And then I wonder, why do I run? I run to unwind, and because I'm desperate to see and do everything before I lose sight of how wonderful the world can be. There are lots of days that I am terrified to face, and one of them is the day that the Rockies stop making me cry, as if that will ever happen. But I think...that I'm also running so that I can find all of those pieces of me that are still scattered. I think it's just beautiful because, whenever I find a piece, I find that it had been in such perfect care and when I find that gorgeous person that is the steward of that piece, my heart recognizes it. And my heart doesn't easily let go, unless it's some sort of temporary, time-dependent, time-sensitive stewardship and I can take that piece back and have it for myself. But the memories. The memories of how my heart healed for just that one single solitary second lull me into a sweet sleep when I can remember, and not be bitter, and be thankful instead.
Wouldn't you run, too? It's a heart-healing scavenger hunt. I run because my life depends on it.
And then I wonder, will I ever settle down? Probably, but not quite yet, regardless of what my biochemistry wants me to believe. Like the time last year I cried for no reason because I wasn't pregnant...so preposterous. Maybe I have to find all of the pieces of my heart, first. And I've been told that my twenties is the perfect time for this, and that I'm doing it all right, and that, in and of itself, is such a melody to hear. So when I daydream about the next twelve-odd years of my life and the things that will grow and change for the better, I imagine that I can give myself time. Things will be so, so different and so wonderful and perhaps in that time, I can tend the things in my soul's garden that I've left to the weeds for some time...so that all of me can grow. Then, maybe, we can bring children into the picture.
But I was told by someone recently that our nation is about to nosedive into some hard times, and that I shouldn't worry about bringing a child into the world because it might not be such a great idea. I politely nodded, but inside I was screaming, what?! How defeatist. And ridiculous, and paranoid, and narrow-sighted. Because I was raised with incredible privilege, but am not accustomed to having things simply handed to me. My generation inherited the botched economy and the wounded environment that her generation donated. We know what it is to work hard, to make sacrifices, to learn how to take nothing for granted. We know about debt. We have, somehow, stretched a dollar and twelve cents to last four weeks while learning to stop trying to be self-sufficient and instead to live on grace. Grace. We know about grace. So do you, for one moment, believe that we've had everything presented to us on a silver platter? I don't. We are a generation of survivors, and I intend to raise a child with similar gumption. Now, if I'm not mentally or financially stable, then choosing to bring a child into the world would probably be an extremely irresponsible decision. However, if I can support myself and my family reasonably well, then facing hard times will be a battle that we can fight. My kid will be a fighter. That's all.
Then again, though, I probably want a child so that I can have somebody to save this time. And that is, to an extent, a pretty poor reason. It's a selfish reason. It's because I spend most of my dreaming hours staring at the lit-up stars above my bed and pretending to save somebody. Because it's pretty simple: those of us who have survived some sort of abuse or trauma want to be held closely and safely, but mostly, want to hold tightly to other survivors and tell them that we know, and that it's okay, and that they're safe now. And somehow, go back in time and rescue them behind closed doors where nobody ever went and nobody ever saw and nobody ever heard...but as I dream about this, I'm missing the opportunity to save somebody today. It's the line between dreaming and doing. It's that thick black line. And I couldn't save them then, so how could I save somebody now?
I don't know.
But my default, again, is love. I hope that I can be a resource, and save somebody as others have saved me. So I keep running, and finding those pieces of my heart, and abundantly loving on the people that I find there. Soaking up their love, and life as I know it, and keep going.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
If I Used My Voice
So, on top of learning how the universe actually works, I've chosen this life that is painted in a veil that makes it look like everything gold in the universe, but instead, it so easily kills and snuffs out and burns out and drains for no reason...all to likely have a heart attack before I'm 30?
Nope.
Damned if I don't, though...dead if I do.
So what's better, being dead or being damned? Because I have a life that I love to live and I have no interest in spending it in some mundane, predetermined routine because I take my time and I make my path.
Children of academia, stand up. Stand up and be recognized as a human, the once per semester that you are allowed to do so; today is the day. Some of us are here because we were told we were good enough. Some of us are here because we were told we weren't. And some of us never believed that we were even allowed to exist in the first place so stand up.
I am not interested in being your savior. We won't start a revolution today. But for some reason I wake up in the morning and I find it so impossible to remember that I have the opportunity to decide what I want to make of my own life, and that is such bullshit. I'm not in it to win it all, at all. I'm in it because I love it, and the minute I forget that is the minute I lose, so it's a lose lose situation and we feel like we've exhausted all of the opportunities we felt so lucky to have had but the truth is that we haven't.
The truth is very simple.
The truth is that we are not condemned to feel worthless, or to feel used. No matter how many times you ask yourself because you can't get rid of the throbbing behind your eyes, you probably don't have a brain tumor. It's your academic brainchild trying to hatch its way out of something that you couldn't understand before because that is education and that is the real revolution here.
In every subfield of physics we talk about how so many physical phenomena are path-independent, so why would we ever exclude physics graduate school? I was trained to think straight and narrow while I hid the ways that I still think far and wide. There is not just one way to do this, and scientists can be so uncreative sometimes. I'm not here to rush through. I'm not here to see who can get her PhD the fastest. I'm here to learn, so let me. Let me bounce around. Let me pick up skills here and there. Let me travel, let me explore, let me absorb, let me go.
It's just graduate school. I want the world.
Nope.
Damned if I don't, though...dead if I do.
So what's better, being dead or being damned? Because I have a life that I love to live and I have no interest in spending it in some mundane, predetermined routine because I take my time and I make my path.
Children of academia, stand up. Stand up and be recognized as a human, the once per semester that you are allowed to do so; today is the day. Some of us are here because we were told we were good enough. Some of us are here because we were told we weren't. And some of us never believed that we were even allowed to exist in the first place so stand up.
I am not interested in being your savior. We won't start a revolution today. But for some reason I wake up in the morning and I find it so impossible to remember that I have the opportunity to decide what I want to make of my own life, and that is such bullshit. I'm not in it to win it all, at all. I'm in it because I love it, and the minute I forget that is the minute I lose, so it's a lose lose situation and we feel like we've exhausted all of the opportunities we felt so lucky to have had but the truth is that we haven't.
The truth is very simple.
The truth is that we are not condemned to feel worthless, or to feel used. No matter how many times you ask yourself because you can't get rid of the throbbing behind your eyes, you probably don't have a brain tumor. It's your academic brainchild trying to hatch its way out of something that you couldn't understand before because that is education and that is the real revolution here.
In every subfield of physics we talk about how so many physical phenomena are path-independent, so why would we ever exclude physics graduate school? I was trained to think straight and narrow while I hid the ways that I still think far and wide. There is not just one way to do this, and scientists can be so uncreative sometimes. I'm not here to rush through. I'm not here to see who can get her PhD the fastest. I'm here to learn, so let me. Let me bounce around. Let me pick up skills here and there. Let me travel, let me explore, let me absorb, let me go.
It's just graduate school. I want the world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)