The Moment of Honesty You Didn't Ask For

At the ripe old age of 34 I am reliving trauma from my childhood in ways that I didn't think were possible. It's Spring of 2019 and sexual abuse is not longer taboo. It's being talked about and addressed in very public forums. I find myself disengaging in most conversations because even though, not only do I have a seat at the table of this conversation and should be one of the loudest voices, I am scared. I find myself muting my voice and quite literally saying nothing at all. It's as if I'm keeping a secret all over again. Except this time the secret is not only the abuse, but how it's rooted itself so deep that my closest friends and family seem to forget or dismiss it.

Maybe that's on me. I DO always seem to wear a banner of strength and armor of indestructibility every time I'm in a room. The weakness I experienced as a human needed to be destroyed somehow. I couldn't allow myself to continue to be weak, so I made myself an armor. It took quite a while to get it strong enough to be seen, but eventually it seemed to be all that people could see. I've actually lost friends over the past two years because I'm the "strong one" and seemed to have it together, so the need to support me was gone. I was left unsupported and had to figure out how to be strong on my own...again.

So now, here I am in an era where everyone's opinions are blasted across social media, publicly viewable and suddenly that old school tradition of not talking about politics and shying away from topics that may hurt someone you love, those don't exist anymore. Many times I have to stop scrolling or delete social media apps so that I don't unexpectedly come across the differing and harmful opinions of someone I trust.

Here is where it gets juicy. Here is where it gets real. I know anyone who reads my blog (which by the way; who are you guys? Does anyone read this anymore?) mostly appreciates the honesty that I write with and this is where it's starting:

My friends and family have vastly different opinions on whether or not we can/should still listen to the music of someone who is undeniably a sexual predator. My question for them is; "If my father had power and influence; would you still listen to his music?" The reality of this is that these men ARE someone's abuser. They HAVE stolen a LIFE from these men and women. My abuse started when I was NINE (the age of my daughter now...and that's a whole can of worms there). I am STILL finding new ways of staying healed. New depths to my healing. Because it doesn't stop. Whenever I learn about the abuses, I will and always will side and connect with the "victim" in the situation. And in doing that, NOT listening and supporting the predator is how I (again) silently support them. When someone I trust says that they "don't get it" or "don't care" I internalize that. To me that means that they "don't get" or "don't care" about how I'M being effecting.

I know this because someone from my immediate family told me that they "don't get" why I would live with my dad "if" he "did all that stuff" because they "can't come to understand why the fuck you'd do that." (And yes...that is a direct quote, I went back and took it directly from the text message). This person later went on to justify that they were simply "asking a question." Even in doing this, their harmful opinion was what mattered to them. Not how it effected me.

I know this because a family member from my dad's side asked me to stop publicly speaking about my abuse because it could be damaging to the family and family members. And I respected that for years. I silenced myself for years. 

I know this because I have friends who share stories of someone else's sexual abuse and don't think twice about it being a sensitive topic for me. I know this because to everyone else, it seems like it's just another story to talk about, but for me, it's life. This is what I live every day.

I watch my oldest daughter turn nine and (my husband doesn't even know this) I cried in the shower the day of her birthday. Because suddenly she wasn't protected by the veil of childhood, at least not in my eyes. Because I remember what it was like to be nine. I remember what happened. I remember feeling afraid and powerless and like I had no where to go. So I would stare at the wall while my father forced himself against me and called it "hugging." I remember the first time I was violated and I tried to tell my mom that my stomach hurt so that she would come to my room and I could tell her that some monster had done something bad to me, and she sent in my dad. I remember my first sexual experience being at the hands of my biological father. And I remember that I didn't feel like a child anymore. And I was triggered to remember all of this every day because my daughter is now nine. And I have another daughter and she will turn nine one day.

And this is my life. And this is just a blip of some of the emotions and abuse roads that I have to navigate. Ones that I didn't think would exist. Because as children we are taught that when someone hurts you, you forgive and you move on. The move on part is a bit tricky and not one that people talk about. But that's where I am. Continually forgiving, continually moving on.

And if you're reading this and you feel certain parts are about you, maybe they are and maybe I was too scared to say anything because I've been taught that my role in all of this is to be silent. This was my way of staying silent, not to offend anyone DIRECTLY and PUBLICLY, but to anonymously address it so that maybe now you'll be more informed. No one knows about your offenses but me and maybe now you. I apologize if this hurts you, I apologize if I should have stayed silent a little bit longer, but I don't just want to take up space at the table anymore.

I'm speaking out. Please hear me.