Dualities, or, Hard Stuff

The truth is that lately, when I think about blogging, I think about breaking silence (once more, always more).  The truth is that there are many reasons I'm not close with most of my family; the truth is that there's more than one reason I've adopted my mom's last name.  Disclosure:  TRIGGER WARNING.  The following will not include any graphic depictions of sexual violence.  However, if you, like so very many of us, were sexually or otherwise abused, especially as a child, you might not want to read this.  Or maybe you do.  Maybe, like me, every now and then, you need acknowledgement of the fact that this happens, that it happens to so many of us.  Maybe this is my shout out to you for having survived (it is).

I went through a phase in my [healing process, life, whatever you want to call it] when I could have sex with someone once without disclosing my survivor status.  Once.  If we were going to have sex again, I had to tell them that I had been sexually abused as a child, by my uncle.  I couldn't really tell you why.  Or, I'm going to try.  I mean, I'm lucky enough to not have flashbacks, as such.  I have memories for sure, and I never managed to completely forget them, but I have desensitized myself.  Proof of this:  I'm not crying writing this.  Nope.  There was a time I would be, for sure.  There was a time I wouldn't have dared write this.  Way too much shame (that should have, for the record, never been mine).  No, I'm not ashamed.  I'm pissed, and occasionally depressed, and deeply saddened, but I've done my best to rid myself of shame.  It's taken years.  Years that could have been spent in other pursuits, but hey, priorities.  I don't regret the work I've done, to feel good, to feel whole.  I'm a little bitter that I had to do that work.  But, like shame, bitterness isn't really worth holding on to. 

I was going to try to tell you why I had to disclose.  It's just... suffocating sometimes.  And before I desensitized myself to the fact that I'm a survivor, sometimes it could be all consuming.  And when something is so incredibly present in your brain, if you don't let it out, it feels like your brain is going to break.  And it's hard to be present with someone else when you're so in your head.

People tell me I'm brave sometimes.  You know, for like, dealing with this or something.  I agree.  Shit's hard; sometimes it's easier to sweep it under the rug.  Except not really, because it doesn't actually go any where, just gets your rug dirty from the underside.  Builds up.  But you know what I want?  Like, if I could choose between people telling me I'm brave and something else?  I would choose... fuck, now I do want to cry.  I would choose all of us ridding ourselves of our shame, and teaching our children that their bodies' belong to them.  If we, as people, could collectively get our shit together, learn to talk about our feelings, learn to talk about our bodies, learn to not shame one another, and teach kids, in words and deeds, that their bodies' are theirs, that they don't have to participate in fucked up gender roles, if we could watch their backs... we could make changes.  We could change the horrifying statistics about how many people will be abused during their lifetimes. 

Yeah, it's a big fucking job, but the alternative is worse.