The Screams of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend. 

Maybe 'friend' isn't quite the word I'm looking for. You see, I am a survivor of sexual abuse.  A silent survivor. One of a multitude. A vast and tragic multitude. This friend, this darkness, is something I have lived with for a very long time. 31 years. 70% of my life. It comes and goes and most of the time I am fine. Most of the time I don't have to think about it. Most of the time it is just a part of who I am. I have learned to live with the experiences, the feelings. And most of the time I have adjusted. I have learned to cope. 

But sometimes things happen that bring it all back. The emotions wash over me. Flooding, pelting, pouring, drenching. Threatening to drown me. And mostly I suffer alone. 

Silent once more.

It happens when a man makes me feel unsafe. It happened with the Larry Nassar case. The #metoo movement. And again this past month with the Brett Kavanaugh nomination.

I have been silently screaming for weeks. I am in agonizing unspoken pain. I think a lot of women are. Far, far too many.

I cannot go anywhere or do anything without seeing or hearing something about Dr. Ford and her experience. Without someone voicing their ignorant and uninformed opinion. Someone who doesn't believe her. Someone who contradicts her. Someone who mocks her. Someone who questions her motives. Her integrity. 

Someone who is not a survivor of sexual abuse. 

I am reminded again of all the reasons I have remained silent. Of all the reasons why so many do. Because they think they will be doubted, humiliated, discredited, and shamed. And they are right. We are all watching together as these fears are realized, as they unfold on a national scale. We are being shown, once more, that sexual abuse survivors have nothing to gain and everything to lose. 

I won't quote data. I won't give you statistics. They exist. They are facts. You can look them up if you want to. Or not. I will say this: No one is entitled to an opinion about whether or not someone's experience is true. No one.

And everyone deserves the chance to speak. To be heard. To be listened to. 

The thought of breaking my silence, even now, has my heart pounding. It has me crying and shaking.  

There are countless reasons to stay silent. And not a lot, if any, to speak up. But maybe...just maybe...it’s time to scream out loud.

When the World Stopped Turning

Where was I? At home asleep. I had worked a late shift the night before and my husband had just come home and crawled in bed next to me after a graveyard shift. The house phone rang and I ignored it. (This was when you had to get up and go into another room to retrieve said phone.) When it rang twice more, almost immediately, I knew something was wrong.

I had no clue that something was so. so. very. wrong.

"Turn on the TV right now!" was all my friend said. I did. And my heart broke into a million-billion pieces, along with the rest of the world. I can remember so clearly the shock and confusion and tragic sense of loss I felt, along with rest of the world. I sobbed and watched and sobbed some more, along with the rest of the world.

It didn't go away, that feeling. It just compounded as things just. got. even. more. terrible. The days and weeks following that abhorrent morning had me sad and hopeless and terrified. I was pregnant that morning. 7 months along with a beautiful daughter. My other beautiful daughter was in kindergarten. I cursed myself for being so stupid as to bring not one, but two children into such a merciless and depraved world. What was I thinking!? How could I be so irresponsible?? What had I done?!

Fast forward to 14 years later. My oldest was now 19. My youngest was 6. I had brought not one or two but four amazing and incredible children into the world. 

I was laying in bed and got a text from my 14 year old. "MOM! Another school shooting happened today. I just can't. Why?? Why does stuff like this keep happening? Why do we have to live in a world like this??" And tears streamed down my face as I remembered cradling her body that was inside of my body as I asked myself the very same question with my soul fractured and shattered. 

I texted back and said: My sweet, beautiful daughter. I wondered the same thing the day of the World Trade Center attack. I was pregnant with you at the time and I felt so horrible for so many weeks because I had been selfish enough to bring a child into the world. I was downward spiraling in the worst way and I didn't know what to do or how to cope. And then you were born. And I held you. And, I was filled with indescribable peace and hope. I realized that dark would always exist in the world. Evil, malicious cruelty. Hate. Senseless violence. Tragic savagery. And the only way to fight it was to bring light. You are a bringer of light. You are kind and compassionate and tenderhearted. You are lovely and talented and helpful. I'm so very sorry you were born into a world and time that is filled with so much dark. I'm so sorry you have to worry and be sad and feel helpless. But we need you. We need your light.

On the day of the attacks and the weeks, months and years following, there were so many bringers of light. I was reminded of that again when I got the chance to visit the Memorial Museum. It was so mournful I almost couldn't bear it. But there were stories, examples, displays everywhere that showed unbelievable courage and sacrifice and compassion. Bringers of light. 

There will be darkness. Lots of it. Bickering, betrayal, needless bloodshed, hurtful words, hurtful acts. It can be so overwhelming and depressing and bleak. I find myself worrying and anxious often. Anxious for myself. Anxious for humanity. Anxious for my children and for their future children. But I hope they choose to have children. To go through the agony of having them born into this sometimes terrible world. 

Because we really need them to bring their light.

Swimsuit Shopping: The Original Suidical Ideation

A repost from a couple years ago. Because the dang catalogs are arriving again. And it's all still very relevant. And I miss blogging. 

Swimsuit catalogs are arriving in the mail. And not a moment too soon. YAY swimsuit season. (I mean, it's months and months too soon if you live in Cedar City, Utah. But, I digress. And I also like to pretend like I may get whisked away on a tropical vacation at any time.)  

There's just one teensy, weensy thing: 
I hate buying swimsuits. I hate trying on swimsuits. I hate wearing swimsuits. 

I want to say that the last time I felt good in a swimsuit was about...4 children and two decades ago. (And really I probably was too stupid, young and self-conscious to feel good in a swimsuit even then. Foolish girl.)

My youngest child is 8. I think I might've finally hit my pre-pregnancy weight when he was...maybe 4. (And that was my pre-pregnancy with HIM weight. Not my pre-childbearing weight.) 

I started eating better and exercising more a few years ago. I am [almost] to the point where I {sometimes} feel fairly confident about how I look in (most) clothes. 

Do you know what looking good in clothes does not translate into? That's right. Looking good in a swimsuit. 

The first catalog to arrive was Victoria's Secret. This is the suit I want:

OK. That's a lie. I mean, the swimsuit is cute as heck, but let's be honest: I could give a crap about the suit. What I really want? To LOOK like that in a swimsuit. Any swimsuit. I'm not picky.

I was feeling pretty daring last year and thought maybe I could pull off one of those cute high-waisted numbers like this:

Because I think possibly 2 inches of my stomach might actually be free of PTBW (Post Traumatic Baby Wounds.) THAT specific 2 inches. So I ordered one online. I even got it two sizes bigger than what I normally wear. (Because fool me once, China...) And then it arrived. What they didn't tell you? Apparently that model's torso is exactly 6 inches long. From collarbone to navel. Because that gap was more like 18 inches. (And I DEFINITELY have PTBW on that part of my stomach.) Also, that they don't make this swimsuit in regular people sizes. Because an XL fit my 5'6" 104 lb 13-year-old. EXTRA LARGE!

The DownEast catalog came next. And there's some really cute suits in there too. But again, everything looks cute on a 98 lb 20-year-old. I mean, come on...

Who do they think they're fooling?? Women with thighs like this, do NOT buy swimsuit bottoms like this. Oh, you didn't know those were her thighs? You thought those were two loose threads hanging down? Yeah, me too.

I know exactly what you're thinking. I am setting feminism back 80 years by whining and moaning about how I look in a swimsuit.

Because I should be judging myself on how I nurture, and love, and think, and create.

Whatever.

I wish I was setting women back 80 years.

Because then we'd all be wearing swimsuits like this:

And I'm pretty sure I could ROCK that look.