Keep Going With That...
A few weeks ago my therapist helped me see how most of my life I've been protecting those closest to me. Hiding the parts of me I don't think they'll like, lessening myself to make them feel better about themselves or to make them happy, hiding the truth because it might hurt them - thinking I can hold the dark and painful, keep them from suffering. I can suffer. I'm an enneagram 4, who was raised in the church- suffering is what I'm good at it seems. 'Let me suffer for you' tends to be the version of love that I learned. That it's loving for me to completely sacrifice myself for those closest to me. A line I heard in a writing podcast, "keep going with that" struck me hard as I was processing my protection of others and painting rainbows, which to me rainbows have always been a symbol of healing and love. As I kept going, kept looking into this idea of protecting, this came up...
My body was used for a mans pleasure without my consent. Out of shame, I told told my family to bury it. And they complied. No one fought for me. In that shame-filled moment, I thought that was best, I just wanted it to go away. Eleven years later I’m angry as hell about it. But I’ve actually been angry since that moment, I just didn’t know it. Eventually the anger began to grow and build, bubble over in ways I couldn't seem to make sense of. But in that moment, from the messages I’d received growing up, I knew that as a woman it was my job to protect everyone involved except myself. He didn’t have to suffer consequences, the full weight of the incident was on me. Mine to carry. For years after that I hated my boobs, my body. All because this man thought it was his to take and I thought it had to be protected, covered up.
As I’m healing, learning how to love and listen to my body, I feel this story must come out. I must stand up for her. Because it wasn’t her fault and she should have been defended.
This message that our job as women is to protect and defend men, that there is more at risk for men and nothing but shame for women if it comes out, is sadly and deeply true in our world. How many times have you seen a woman blamed for sexual abuse because of what she was wearing or supposedly how she was acting, where she was or if she was drinking too much? Presumably the man is basically an animal who can’t help himself, it’s the woman’s job to dress appropriately and watch herself was the message I received in purity culture. There’s no accountability to control actions, no consequences for the unacceptable behavior of men, just 'men being men' or 'boys being boys'. So what do you do when you’re wearing an oversized baggy sweatshirt with greasy hair and he hands you a Cosmo magazine that had turned him on and proceeds to take what he wants from your body? Completely not my fault, but I found a way for it to be: my boobs were too big (as if I should control them, but then I did by losing more and more weight). Because of shame. Because no one told me differently. Because of the narrative I'd been given.
What really gets me burning is that this man had rumors flying around about him doing these sorts of things to other teenage girls and I constantly defended him because of our close family friendship. My dads best friend. A friends dad. I trusted him. The day before I finally got to make my grand exit out of Kansas, he was there with the worst kind of parting gift. I was almost home free. Now I had this new weight, this darkness and shame to carry into my new life adventure. And every time I came back home he seemed to be there. In my house, invited by my family.
Once in Seattle I told no one except a close friend and my sister who lived there. I’d actually convinced myself it didn’t happen until I began to wonder why I blew up at my parents every time I saw them. Why I hated going back to Garnett and avoided it as much as possible. Why I’d get anxiety just driving from Kansas City back to my hometown and begin to relax when I was driving away. Then as anger really began to well up, my sister reminded me of the event and how I wasn’t defended. That hit me like a bomb. The experience had been eating me alive for years. Causing me to act in way I wouldn’t have if it would have been addressed and fought for from the beginning. The unhealed trauma keeping me in a loop of reactive behavior.
There was always talk of forgiveness. How I needed to forgive in order to heal. How really, forgiveness just looked like being a 'good' Christian and sweeping it under the rug. So I said I did, I thought I actually had for years, but in reality had just pushed it as far to the back of my mind as I could. Until the day I saw him holding my three month old baby at my grandfathers funeral and I utterly lost it inside. I wanted no person in my family being touched by him, ever, especially my children. How could they leave my three month old alone with him?! Yet my rage wasn’t allowed. The anger wasn't understood. Apparently with sweeping it under the rug we’re supposed to also keep trusting and being placed in harms way. That’s the message I’ve always got about forgiveness. Turn the other cheek. More, please and thank you.
Also let’s talk justice. How many times women are asked, or I’ve asked myself, what good will telling our story will do. Are we just seeking revenge and justice? And somehow I’ve had that in my head. That to tell my story on this kind of level is revengeful, spiteful. Again, the ‘good Christian’ thing to do, I had been told all my life, is figure this out, heal and let it be (aka keep quiet), let God deal with the justice. But that’s not enough. We can act justly here and now. We can call the systems out and say men don’t get away with these things any more. We can stand up for ourselves and tell our stories and allow men, abusers, to deal with consequences. We must if we want it to end.
And that’s where I’m at. I’m done. I can’t anymore. It’s time this was out. When the #metoo movement was sweeping the social world I was too terrified to share. I desperately wanted to join in, but the thought of others potentially getting hurt and my own shame held me back. Now I’m realizing this is my story. I need to tell it because not telling is hurting me more than I ever realized. The rage stays until I can put words to it, get my story out and tell the truth. Then. Then I can really begin to move on. I shouldn’t have to keep carrying that, I’ve suffered more than enough for what I didn’t consent to. Reading about trauma, the fight, flight or freeze reactions and realizing that in my freeze reaction, the adrenaline got trapped in my body. Unhealed and with no outlet for my body to release the energy, I began running. Marathon after marathon fueled by that trauma energy, the adrenaline looking for a place to go. Eventually my body began to heal through processing while running, a divine experience in nature, acupuncture, conversations, grieving, and research. Then that energy became creative. I feel like writing, painting, using my creativeness has been the last bit of release of that adrenal energy. Putting this into the universe feels like a final act of healing, of freedom and release coming forth. My freedom is wrapped up in sharing my story, owning my story and not protecting others any more. This is about my liberation and joining the ranks of others against this systematic oppression of women, of those abused by men.
And maybe it’s not just protecting. Maybe it’s carrying in our body years and years of the women before us, generation after generation of being abused and being silenced. If there’s anything I’m learning from books like The Body Keeps the Score, You Are Your Own, and personal embodiment work is that trauma and experiences are carried in our body- in our muscles, limbs, blood, tissue and DNA. There’s this deep, inate built-in knowing from the generations of women before us that sees fighting against a man and his word as generally futile in getting due justice. The hundreds of years of patriarchy are carried in our body. Still working to silence us. How women can silence and shame other women over these things because they too carry this in their body and are terrified as well to step against the system. Until we can break that cycle, heal the trauma, and move forward in a new way we will keep passing it down to women in the generations after us. I’m insanely grateful to be apart of this healing, this new way forward. And beyond thankful for the women who have paved the way for this, who have bravely spoken their truth and fought for justice.
If you’re hiding your own story of being taken advantage of, in any way shape or form, my heart breaks for you, as it has been broken for myself and others who have their own story. I want to you know how deeply loved your are. How deeply worth being fought for you are. You are not to be blamed no matter what the culture and the men, or even the women protecting the men say. I see you. You are good and you are loved. And in the sharing my story, I have actually found solidarity. So many other women have similar stories and processing them together has been so life-giving. Seeing other women, validating other women, me feeling seen and validated... We all desperately need that. Because the way to true healing and love is to keep going with strings attached to our trauma, processing, releasing, sharing, healing, finding deep love.
My body was used for a mans pleasure without my consent. Out of shame, I told told my family to bury it. And they complied. No one fought for me. In that shame-filled moment, I thought that was best, I just wanted it to go away. Eleven years later I’m angry as hell about it. But I’ve actually been angry since that moment, I just didn’t know it. Eventually the anger began to grow and build, bubble over in ways I couldn't seem to make sense of. But in that moment, from the messages I’d received growing up, I knew that as a woman it was my job to protect everyone involved except myself. He didn’t have to suffer consequences, the full weight of the incident was on me. Mine to carry. For years after that I hated my boobs, my body. All because this man thought it was his to take and I thought it had to be protected, covered up.
As I’m healing, learning how to love and listen to my body, I feel this story must come out. I must stand up for her. Because it wasn’t her fault and she should have been defended.
This message that our job as women is to protect and defend men, that there is more at risk for men and nothing but shame for women if it comes out, is sadly and deeply true in our world. How many times have you seen a woman blamed for sexual abuse because of what she was wearing or supposedly how she was acting, where she was or if she was drinking too much? Presumably the man is basically an animal who can’t help himself, it’s the woman’s job to dress appropriately and watch herself was the message I received in purity culture. There’s no accountability to control actions, no consequences for the unacceptable behavior of men, just 'men being men' or 'boys being boys'. So what do you do when you’re wearing an oversized baggy sweatshirt with greasy hair and he hands you a Cosmo magazine that had turned him on and proceeds to take what he wants from your body? Completely not my fault, but I found a way for it to be: my boobs were too big (as if I should control them, but then I did by losing more and more weight). Because of shame. Because no one told me differently. Because of the narrative I'd been given.
What really gets me burning is that this man had rumors flying around about him doing these sorts of things to other teenage girls and I constantly defended him because of our close family friendship. My dads best friend. A friends dad. I trusted him. The day before I finally got to make my grand exit out of Kansas, he was there with the worst kind of parting gift. I was almost home free. Now I had this new weight, this darkness and shame to carry into my new life adventure. And every time I came back home he seemed to be there. In my house, invited by my family.
Once in Seattle I told no one except a close friend and my sister who lived there. I’d actually convinced myself it didn’t happen until I began to wonder why I blew up at my parents every time I saw them. Why I hated going back to Garnett and avoided it as much as possible. Why I’d get anxiety just driving from Kansas City back to my hometown and begin to relax when I was driving away. Then as anger really began to well up, my sister reminded me of the event and how I wasn’t defended. That hit me like a bomb. The experience had been eating me alive for years. Causing me to act in way I wouldn’t have if it would have been addressed and fought for from the beginning. The unhealed trauma keeping me in a loop of reactive behavior.
There was always talk of forgiveness. How I needed to forgive in order to heal. How really, forgiveness just looked like being a 'good' Christian and sweeping it under the rug. So I said I did, I thought I actually had for years, but in reality had just pushed it as far to the back of my mind as I could. Until the day I saw him holding my three month old baby at my grandfathers funeral and I utterly lost it inside. I wanted no person in my family being touched by him, ever, especially my children. How could they leave my three month old alone with him?! Yet my rage wasn’t allowed. The anger wasn't understood. Apparently with sweeping it under the rug we’re supposed to also keep trusting and being placed in harms way. That’s the message I’ve always got about forgiveness. Turn the other cheek. More, please and thank you.
Also let’s talk justice. How many times women are asked, or I’ve asked myself, what good will telling our story will do. Are we just seeking revenge and justice? And somehow I’ve had that in my head. That to tell my story on this kind of level is revengeful, spiteful. Again, the ‘good Christian’ thing to do, I had been told all my life, is figure this out, heal and let it be (aka keep quiet), let God deal with the justice. But that’s not enough. We can act justly here and now. We can call the systems out and say men don’t get away with these things any more. We can stand up for ourselves and tell our stories and allow men, abusers, to deal with consequences. We must if we want it to end.
And that’s where I’m at. I’m done. I can’t anymore. It’s time this was out. When the #metoo movement was sweeping the social world I was too terrified to share. I desperately wanted to join in, but the thought of others potentially getting hurt and my own shame held me back. Now I’m realizing this is my story. I need to tell it because not telling is hurting me more than I ever realized. The rage stays until I can put words to it, get my story out and tell the truth. Then. Then I can really begin to move on. I shouldn’t have to keep carrying that, I’ve suffered more than enough for what I didn’t consent to. Reading about trauma, the fight, flight or freeze reactions and realizing that in my freeze reaction, the adrenaline got trapped in my body. Unhealed and with no outlet for my body to release the energy, I began running. Marathon after marathon fueled by that trauma energy, the adrenaline looking for a place to go. Eventually my body began to heal through processing while running, a divine experience in nature, acupuncture, conversations, grieving, and research. Then that energy became creative. I feel like writing, painting, using my creativeness has been the last bit of release of that adrenal energy. Putting this into the universe feels like a final act of healing, of freedom and release coming forth. My freedom is wrapped up in sharing my story, owning my story and not protecting others any more. This is about my liberation and joining the ranks of others against this systematic oppression of women, of those abused by men.
And maybe it’s not just protecting. Maybe it’s carrying in our body years and years of the women before us, generation after generation of being abused and being silenced. If there’s anything I’m learning from books like The Body Keeps the Score, You Are Your Own, and personal embodiment work is that trauma and experiences are carried in our body- in our muscles, limbs, blood, tissue and DNA. There’s this deep, inate built-in knowing from the generations of women before us that sees fighting against a man and his word as generally futile in getting due justice. The hundreds of years of patriarchy are carried in our body. Still working to silence us. How women can silence and shame other women over these things because they too carry this in their body and are terrified as well to step against the system. Until we can break that cycle, heal the trauma, and move forward in a new way we will keep passing it down to women in the generations after us. I’m insanely grateful to be apart of this healing, this new way forward. And beyond thankful for the women who have paved the way for this, who have bravely spoken their truth and fought for justice.
If you’re hiding your own story of being taken advantage of, in any way shape or form, my heart breaks for you, as it has been broken for myself and others who have their own story. I want to you know how deeply loved your are. How deeply worth being fought for you are. You are not to be blamed no matter what the culture and the men, or even the women protecting the men say. I see you. You are good and you are loved. And in the sharing my story, I have actually found solidarity. So many other women have similar stories and processing them together has been so life-giving. Seeing other women, validating other women, me feeling seen and validated... We all desperately need that. Because the way to true healing and love is to keep going with strings attached to our trauma, processing, releasing, sharing, healing, finding deep love.
I finally got to read it.
ReplyDeleteTruth. No hiding. No protecting abuse. Not aligning with lies. This is the Gospel and you gave it to yourself. 💚
You have lived with this pain long enough. Shame on the man who did this to you. I hope he gets what he deserves. Wishing you more courage, peace, & strength.
ReplyDelete