It’s Gonna Be Alright

So. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt like writing…I suppose those last two may have done me in a little bit. At least for awhile, anyway. Life happens and then the next thing you know, you haven’t written a word in almost a month and you’re wondering if you really care to do so.

And then, you talk to an old friend/mentor who urges you not to stop, not to get off of that horse…and so here I am (thank you for the push, Mo).


You know, it was primarily my own spite that forced me to post the account (I HATE using the word “story” here) of my rape.
I wanted to begin a conversation about the atrocities of rape on my facebook page and I noticed that no one would comment on it. HOWEVER…when I posted some stupid cat photo ten minutes later, people were all over it (cats ARE awesome, though).
I thought to myself: “Why…I’ll show you; I’ll show you ALL. Let’s talk about this because it’s important. Because it’s something YOU don’t want to talk about but I DO.”
Because I’m alllllllllllllll about making people uncomfortable.
It’s kind of like a favorite pastime of mine, really.
So. Anyway. I guess I also have to thank myself for my stubbornness and tenacity.
I never thought I would be able to share my horrible, life-altering experience online, to the few people I do know and the millions I do not.
After I did it, I kind of felt a twinge of remorse, like “Oh. Shit. What did I just do?”
I anxiously waited to see how my account was received.
And you know what??
I had NO idea the overwhelming response I would get from people. Like, overwhelmingly positive and loving.
During my therapy session that particular week, I read comments people had left, text messages people had sent and excerpts of emails people had sent to me.
I read them aloud and was shocked at how incredibly emotional I became.
I shook all over as I read through tears and sobbing.
I had a HUGE breakthrough that evening.
My fourteen year-old self, who has felt for the past 25 years that she was not being heard, was not being cared about or attended to, finally felt heard. Finally felt validated. Finally felt like instead of being judged for what happened to her, she was being loved and supported by those who care about her.
It’s funny how the mind works.
I noted about three hours after my therapy breakthrough that I had an early Beatle’s song running through my head. The Beatles, whom I had not (and still have not) listened to at length since I was 14 years of age. Since before I was raped. I used to listen to them on cassette tape on the one Walkman in my family’s home. (Yeah, THAT is how old I am!)
I felt like that was a sign from my younger self.
A postcard.
To let my now-39-year-old-self know that my 14-year-old-self was finally going to be okay.
And she is okay.
And I am okay.
And we are gonna be okay.
I will be back with more words. Very soon.
Just. You. Wait.

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