I type that flippantly but mean it seriously. Truth being told always here, but today I'm not sure where to start. Earlier in the week, I reached out to a friend of mine and asked if I could highlight an event they're putting on; they agreed, and now I feel compelled to try to write about uncomfortable truths from my life.
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You're likely wondering what my uncomfortable truths have to do with an event that I'm being cryptic about. I'm being cryptic, not to create smoke or mirrors, but to draw your attention for a little bit longer, as I often do. I'm uncomfortable writing this, and I don't necessarily want you to be uncomfortable reading it, but you're probably a little uneasy already. Super fair, I'm the one being vulnerable and putting little bits of myself out into the public space. I have complete control over what I put out. Why would I do something admittedly uncomfortable? This is a great point I bring to your attention. I might beg the question, "Why does anyone do anything?" We think it's important. What I'm going to share with you does come with a content warning for sexual assault. TLDR for everyone and anyone who, at some point, might not want to keep reading- April is Sexual Assault Awareness month, there is a "Donate Here" button at the bottom of my newsletter today through the end of April supporting Family Resources in the Quad Cities. (My hometown) If you are local to the Quad Cities, consider stopping by Bent River's Rock Island location on April 18th for a community pop-up market.
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If you're still here, that's pretty cool, and I completely understand if this makes you feel any type of way. I'll be the first to validate you. I am not having an easy time organizing my thoughts in such a way that makes me feel confident sharing with the world. Fact is, there is no easy way to admit that I've been sexually assaulted more times than I care to recount here. I've spent a considerable amount of time over the past few days thinking about some of them and trying to figure out which one lands the softest, because who wants to open a newsletter and be hit with the harsh reality that someone you know has had their autonomy stripped from them? That's the world we live in, though, because according to the CDC, nearly half of all women and one in six men have experienced some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetimes. Let that sink in.
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I have such guilt, even if I think for a moment I'm making people feel anything other than happiness or joy. Maybe I can blame that on having waited tables as my primary source of income for the majority of my life, maybe I can blame that on knowing the feeling of not being in control, and never wanting to impose that on anyone. That's why this is hard. I don't know how to casually tell you that my first experience with sex was assault. Even that felt weird, but it's out in the open now. I don't want to tell you details, but there's another part of me that says we should face each other's uncomfortable truths. That somehow, my writing down that I was raped at a party when I was 15 gives that version of me a moment to be seen for what actually happened, not what I told myself at the time. Maybe it's okay to tell stories that don't have happy endings, even if they involve being drugged at a bar, waking up hours away from home, at 28 and a half years old. That some facts are jarring enough on their own, and that can be enough.
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It's human nature to do things to fit in. We are shaped by what interests us, and the things that interest those who interest us. I told y'all a few weeks ago I didn't really fit in as a kid, and things didn't change much as a teenager. I wanted to be accepted, and I had a whole new audience of upperclassmen who hadn't already concluded that I didn't fit in. I remember whose parents went out of town, and what kind of dogs they had kenneled. I remember smoking wine-flavored wood-tip Black & Milds on the back patio. I don't really remember drinking that much, but I was 15. I don't remember making out with a football player (cliche, I know), but I remember the kudos I received for doing so. I don't remember when the party died down. I do remember the feeling of hot skin on a leather couch, the condensation of breath in my ear, and the feeling of being figuratively paralyzed. I remember what that hot breath in my ear said. In the morning, I remember finding my only real friend from the party and walking back to her house, carrying a mix of emotions I wouldn't fully understand until much later in life. I remember the shame I felt going to school the following week, because in my mind, everyone knew. I remember trying to take it back, scrambling to find someone willing to have casual sex with me, a 15 year old, because the deed had already been done, my virginity wasted. I was desperately trying to take back control of my body.
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Facts. Not for you to argue with. Not for you to determine the validity of. My truths. That is what was written today. A list of facts. Sure, some wit, some rounding of the corners for my own sanity. I don't expect that many of you have enjoyed this. I didn't. It is uncomfortable still, even with it typed out, it will be uncomfortable even after it is sent, waiting in your e-mail inbox to be opened. It will be uncomfortable because it is.
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If you feel so inclined, there is a button below to support Family Resources in the Quad Cities. Their website is incredibly informational, and I'd recommend giving it a look regardless. My inbox is always open. You can always reply. I will always read it. You're not alone. 1 in 2 women. 1 in 6 men.
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