That Fateful Day

Marriage

On a fair Georgia day late in November my life changed forever. Six months of stress and overwhelming decision-making finally led up to that beautiful, much-anticipated, perfectly romantic day. I donned the most stunning pure silk gown, adorned with elegant beading, simple yet chic sparkling flats and a magical feathery hairpiece to tie it all together. He was handsome, with kind, excited eyes. We stood before our closest family and friends in an enchanted garden courtyard and made a promise to each other…

Thirteen months since that unforgettable day I’m pleased to report that I’m still very satisfied with my spousal selection and predict our happiness will grow with continued fervor for many years to come. Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m married. Quite often I repeat to myself “I have a husband,” “I am a wife,” “Hello, I’m married now.” It comes partly from a place of amazement, and partly due to pure pride in my accomplishment of having so finely selected a life-long mate of such caliber and compatibility. Within my inner monologue, I rerun these self praises that sound something like this: I am the best at picking a husband! No one else can pick a husband as well as I can! We are the most compatible, stable, amazing couple ever created!! He is the greatest man alive! Way to go, self! You did it.

I think it means so much to me because as far back as I can remember, I dreamt of being married. I spent countless hours wondering who he would be, when we would meet, where we would meet, the exact description of his physical features, his hobbies, the fun times we’d have together, what he was doing that exact moment in time…Anything and everything about him, I pondered and anticipated, anxiously awaiting this vital puzzle piece that would connect the rest of my existence together. I couldn’t wait to meet this mystery guy. Consequently, every male of marrying age (which in my teenage brain meant 14 up to age George Clooney) was a potential suitor. Every single man I came into contact with was involuntarily scanned through my inner spouse- detector machine. Each applicant thoroughly assessed, weighed, inspected and secretly auditioned for the part of Mr. Forever in a production only I was aware of. Thousands of poor, unsuspecting men have been mercilessly rejected, many for reasons out of their control, like a failure to be born Italian, or without the ability to grow facial hair. But a fair share were rejected based on factors that are adjustable but nevertheless reveal a deeper character concern, for example, an unhealthy desire to play video games, a basic lack of hygiene, or the audacity to pop his collar. Alas, many mediocre men had to be sacrificed in order for one to stand strong among the ashes.

Despite my love quest obsession, I don’t exactly remember when the search for Mr. Right began. Unquestionably, the manhunt was in full swing by middle school, as my best friends (and diary) can attest. But perhaps my search found its roots much earlier than that. Perhaps in kindergarten, where I met my first friend that was a boy, a little Asian kid who would hold my hand in class even though we were both too shy to speak. Or maybe it was first grade with the boy who spent every recess chasing me around the playground; interestingly we also never spoke (because I always outran him). Or the blonde, blue-eyed boy that sat nearby in Mrs. Burns’ second grade class until he moved to another state and took my little heart with him. I don’t remember at exactly what point I understood the fact that I was searching for a husband but certainly by middle school I knew that I longed to be married and felt that a part of me would not rest until that desire was satiated. I felt deep in my heart that I was built to love another and it was simply a matter of time before my fullest and truest self could rest within the heart of the man built for me. It was the most exciting prospect of my young life!

Ironically, I met the man that I would some day marry when I was only 15 at a summer camp 1,000 miles from home. Although, I did not know he was the man until 7 years later. He caught my eye immediately but in truth I thought he was too cool for me, after all he was 19 and in college while I had only finished my freshman year of high school. We had mutual family friends and remained acquaintances for several years, all the while I continued the search for my future spouse. As time went on we became better friends and spent more time together, although never one on one. He could always make me laugh harder than anyone I knew and I found myself drawn to his fun-loving personality. Amazingly though, the realization that he was the man I spent so much time dreaming about hadn’t occurred to me yet. At the time, I was nearing the end of a two-year relationship with a man who meant the world to me but ultimately had very different goals in life. It was at this moment, when my relationship had fallen apart and I was sitting alone in my apartment that I thought to call my friend, the man who could always make me laugh. After years of solid friendship I knew I could be myself with him, I didn’t have to pretend and I knew he wouldn’t mind if I crashed on his couch while I nursed my broken heart. Two weeks later I knew beyond a doubt that I would marry this man.

Unfortunately, the gently winding path to the alter I had dreamed about was more like a craggy mountain road under construction. Things were complicated, confusing and heartbreaking. And at the same time deeply satisfying and his presence in my life fulfilled some part of me that I’d been longing for. My friends and family cautioned me and had obvious concerns about our relationship at the time. I listened to their words, and even agreed with them but I knew in my heart that someday we’d come together when the time was right. After spending a year apart on opposite ends of the country, our fates aligned and he travelled over 2,200 miles to find me and confess his love. From that day on, he’s had my full heart and on that fair Georgia day late in November we sealed the deal forever.

I think the other reason why I’m so pleased with my selection of spouse is because I come from a broken home. In fact, I come from a long line of broken homes. My parents divorced when my dad walked out on my family 20 years ago. My mom’s parents divorced and my great-grandparents divorced and my great-great-grandparents before that. If history has ever taught me anything, it’s that I’m fighting a losing battle. Divorce has been my greatest fear. I understand all too well the consequences of a failed marriage and I see the devastation it leaves in its wake, even decades after the papers are finalized. I do not want that for my family. I don’t want that for my children. I want to change the legacy for my family, break the curse that’s been passed down through the generations. My marriage will succeed and I pray to God for the help that my husband and I will need. But I feel hopeful and confident in our abilities and the friendship that first drew us together.

So on November 27, 2010, I married the man of my dreams. My heart was satisfied and peaceful. The all-consuming quest to find love finally culminated on that beautiful day and all my years of searching seemed in a way, kind of silly. Life has since moved forward as we enjoy life together, growing, and changing. Marriage is beautiful and intricate, it’s challenging yet natural and simple. I am still me; the same me with all my past struggles and baggage. Marriage didn’t magically change who I am or make all my problems disappear like I sometimes dreamt it would. We bear each other’s burdens and we walk it out day by day. But my heart knows a deeper level of peace now and I’m proud to be married to such a wonderful man. He makes me laugh, he fixes stuff in our house and he truly knows me.

Travels with Sojo- Week 5: Reflection

When I arrived in eastern Kentucky five weeks ago I brought my suitcase, an overly ambitious stack of books, my journal and a lot of expectations. After months of planning, volunteering in Kentucky was to be the beginning of a five-month solo excursion across America. Actually, in truth, the original plan was to trek the country on a volunteer extravaganza, serving in each of the 50 states for a week at a time. I wanted to volunteer with different types of organizations and different causes in each state. It would be the experience of a lifetime, not to mention a networking dream. But after a few weeks of researching organizations, trying to coordinate projects, and coming to grips with reality- a week in each state is a year of traveling with no income and no companionship- I settled for a new plan consisting of a month in Kentucky, a month serving in New Orleans, two weeks in Texas rescuing sea turtles, followed by a road trip through all the National Parks out West and in Alaska. This trip became my focus for about five months as I planned, routed, applied and budgeted for my big adventure. After some careful thought I decided to drop New Orleans because originally my plan would have put me there by myself, during Mardi gras, serving in impoverished and dangerous areas. As much as I wanted to participate in the Katrina relief efforts, I decided my safety must take first priority, given my past. Not long before I was scheduled to begin my stint in Kentucky, I learned that the work I wanted to do in Texas wouldn’t be available until later in the year, once again throwing off my schedule. Disappointed but not deterred, I continued preparing for my month in Kentucky and several months driving out west and up to Alaska.

One day my mom asked me if I was sure this whole thing was a good idea. I told her it was, not to worry, besides if its too difficult or lonely or dangerous, I can always turn around and come home. But that night I thought a lot about what she said. I remembered all the comments people said when I told them about my adventure: “Wow, that’s amazing! Who’s going with you?” “No one, just me” “Oh… wow…” or “I would never let my daughter do that!” and “By yourself? That seems risky.” Suddenly I had terrifying flashbacks to three years ago when I was preparing to go to Jamaica, where I was later attacked and raped. People said the exact same things about that trip: “Wow, that’s a dangerous place, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

That’s when I fell apart. What the hell am I doing?! Driving across the country for five months by myself, camping in my car, putting myself in an extremely vulnerable situation after all the healing that I’ve found from the rape three years ago?! Shouldn’t I know better than that!! Why did I not realize how dangerous this is months ago before I put all my time and money into planning this! What is wrong with me?? This is the worst idea I’ve ever had! I can’t travel the country on my own, someone will murder me or rape me again, the chances are extremely likely. I was so angry. I was mad at myself for not recognizing sooner how foolish I was being and I was mad at the world and all the disgusting people out there that make this an unsafe place. I should be able to drive across the country on my own, hike in national parks on my own, sleep in my car at campsites on my own. I should be able to do that. I feel enraged by the fact that I can’t. I want to do this, I want to feel free and adventurous and I want to be able to do things on my own so I can be proud of myself and feel brave. I believe God has instilled in me a spirit of adventure. I’ve never felt satisfied staying in one place, or working a job just to get a paycheck or being content to just see the world through the television. As a kid, I didn’t care about Barbie dolls or make-up, I played with GI Joes, built tree forts and waded through murky ponds to catch turtles. I wanted to be a missionary or somehow get paid to travel the world. Traveling has always been one of the few things that really awakens the passion in me. But three years ago when I was raped and nearly killed while traveling in another country, everything changed. It was an attack on my body and my mind but also my future. The rape not only took my innocence, it stole my power and independence and replaced them with fear. Suddenly, everywhere and everyone became dangerous. Violence lurked around every corner, nothing was safe. The world I wanted to help became too threatening. I could care less about traveling to other countries; I could barely leave my front door. It was devastating. I floundered as I thought about what to do with my future; an anthropology degree isn’t much good if I don’t care about other cultures anymore. I felt a deep sense of sadness. I mourned the loss of the life I always thought I’d have and just tried to stay focused on more pressing issues like how to walk from my apartment to my car without having a panic attack.

When my big adventure started to unravel, I fell into a depression and cried everyday for a week. I was so angry about the situation it was blinding. I wanted to go so badly but I couldn’t take that risk. At the same time, I just couldn’t give up on it- the desire was so intense I feared if I didn’t go I would certainly regret it later in life and by then I would have a family and a career without the option of taking off on my own for an undetermined amount of time. I felt stuck. I determined I would still go to Kentucky no matter what, it was safe(r) and would provide a time of well-needed rest and reflection. Plus it would give me a month to stall my decisions concerning the rest of the adventure.

So as I said, I came to Kentucky with a lot of expectations. I knew what I wanted that month to be- restful, productive and clarifying. I wanted to deepen my relationship with God, I wanted to take care of myself and in many ways be self-focused, and I wanted to make a final decision about traveling the country on my own. Kentucky was an amazing month because it exceeded my expectations. I read powerful books that increased my faith, had difficult but healing conversations, dealt with a lot of shame and insecurities that flushed up, had many vivid dreams and even made an unexpected friend who turned out to be very instrumental in helping me decide that I should indeed travel onward. I feel very satisfied with my time in Kentucky and I feel encouraged that I showed up with expectations for myself and for God and all of them were met. Although truthfully, when I left Kentucky, I was still unsure about my travel plans. It wasn’t until I left and headed for Savannah, Georgia that I gained the clarity that I sought.

During the past year I’ve had several different people tell me how amazing Savannah is and how I should visit there. Each time, I tucked the information away and thought, “Ok, I’ll have to check that out someday.” Yet another person mentioned it to me while in Kentucky but this time I thought, “I’m going there as soon as I leave here!” I had a week after Kentucky where I had no schedule or plan and decided Savannah would be the perfect destination. My new friend offered to let me stay at her house, which was right on the way. Plus I would get to pass through the Smokey Mountains National Park! Even if I didn’t go on a national park tour out west, I was damn sure going to one park and getting my first National Park stamp in my passport!

When I arrived at my friend’s house, nestled in the Smokey Mountains, far from the noise and busyness of life, the sun was setting and I was astonished at the beauty surrounding me. I was alone, as I had been all day and would be all night. I sat peacefully drinking wine from a mason jar. For a while the only sound I heard was that of crickets, a calm, familiar backdrop for my thoughts. But it only took one rustle in the woods beyond the porch to steal my peace and replace it with fear. My first thought is never deer or raccoon, but murderer or rapist lurking in the darkness. Waiting for me. I don’t have the luxury of believing “it won’t happen to me,” because it has and it can again. My muscles are tense now, ears alert, eyes locked in the direction of the movement, I sat motionless. Paralyzed. I convinced myself its nothing, who would be out here? I was far from town, surely it was a squirrel. I believed it long enough to get back inside, where I hid behind walls and locked doors, illusions of safety.

All I want is to feel safe again. To feel safe on my own. Brave, independent, fearless. I should be able to spend a quiet, peaceful night in the woods by myself. I should enjoy this alone time. I have always loved being by myself. I’ve always been one to re-energize by myself, journaling, driving, anything away from others. I know people that come alive when they’re around others, they feel recharged and rested. That’s never been me. I recharge by myself so I can handle being around others. That’s the way I like it. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy people, I do. I love people and I know I need people in my life. But quiet time is critical for me. That’s when I rest, regain my sense of self and stoke myself up for another day of conversing and interacting with others. I guess that’s why the idea of a solo road trip across the country lives for me so passionately. I thrive off that alone time… in the daylight. I’ll drive all day, singing my heart out, contemplating life, reflecting on memories that have all led me to where I am now. I feel alive, strong, brave, adventurous. I feel unstoppable. I feel like me. But as soon as the sun goes down I’m terrified. Lonely, anxious, full of fear. It’s not fair. I want my life back. I want my ignorance back. I want that sense of control back. I wish I could go outside at night and appreciate the stillness or the stars. Instead, I feel fear and panic.

The next night was the same. I arrived in Savannah after dark, by myself without making prior sleeping arrangements. I found a hotel but couldn’t tell if the area was safe or not because of the darkness. The room was decent but the walls were paper thin, I knew there was a man next door, I heard him coughing so clearly we could have been in the same room. I knew the people around me could hear me as clearly as I could hear them so I tiptoed around, didn’t flush the toilet and whispered on the phone. I figured anything I said or did could alert dangerous men around me that I was alone and fearful. I felt frustrated by the reality of my situation. I felt weak and vulnerable and that no matter what I did I would never be able to protect myself enough. But I woke up in the morning, alive and feeling fearless in the sunlight once again. I realized the neighborhood I was in was fine and that many of my fears the night before were exaggerated. With some well- needed encouragement from my boyfriend, I realized I have to do more traveling. If for no other reason than to push through my terror, I have to do this and I can. My desire to travel has been squelched for the past three years, the fact that I even want to travel across the country is important to me and shows me that I am making progress in my healing. I need to nurture this desire back to health because I refuse to let this trauma steal the rest of my life. It’s taken enough from me already. I may never have that same sense of safety I used to know, but I’m wiser now and I’m learning to trust my gut. I know that I could be hurt again, possibly even worse than before but I can’t live in fear. I can’t play it safe all the time because of what might happen. This is my world too and I have a right to enjoy it.

So my new, revamped plan for my journey across the country is significantly different than before- some details have been tweaked to accommodate more safety and its much shorter, meaning more realistic in terms of what I think I can handle at this stage in my healing. I have to admit I’m scared. No plan is ever foolproof and I can’t control other people but this is something I need to do for myself. I’m anticipating many restless nights but every morning will be a victory. I’ll be hitting the road soon, with my suitcase, an overly ambitious stack of books, my journal, and a lot of expectations…

Travels with Sojo- Week 2: Healing

It’s been two weeks since I began my restful, reclamation-of-my-life journey. I’m already amazed at what has come up for me as I live and breathe in silence. I didn’t know what to expect when I got here, I just knew it would be good. And just as I thought, it has been. I should probably clarify- I’m not sitting alone in the woods meditating or reading self help books all day long while I breathe in positive energy. I’m not sure whether or not that’s the image I’ve created as I write. I’m actually quite busy and my life looks fairly normal from the outside. I’m volunteering full time at a food pantry here in one of the poorest areas of the country. I wake up Monday through Friday at 7:45 am, much to the dismay of my body, and serve all day long. It’s a really heartwarming environment, despite the reality that I’m packing up boxes of government food for people that are near starving. If the Appalachian people weren’t so friendly and open about every detail of their lives, you’d never know they were hungry or cold or lacking the basic necessities. But that’s what I love about the people here, they’ll tell you anything about themselves like you’ve known each other for years. Except, they’ve only just stepped into the pantry and we’re smiling at each other for the very first time. The women call me honey, sweetie, and dear like they’re my grandma; I let them hug me as if they were. They have the most impressive way of interjecting stories into conversations, sometimes when we’re not even having a conversation. They talk about their recent hysterectomy, their visit to the doctor, the neighbor’s cousin’s health, the grandkid that lives at home, their recent aches and pains, their vision to build a prosperous rabbit/worm farm and their furniture. I’m always captivated but often unsure how to respond.

I really love people. I’m fascinated by people’s life stories. How they became who they are today; what brought them to where they are; who they love; what they love and why. I’m intrigued by tragedy and how people respond to it. One middle- aged lady came to pick up food three weeks after her husband had passed away. She brought it up so casually I assumed he’d been gone for a long time, but then I saw the deep sadness in her eyes and a dazed look on her face that took my breath away. It was the first time she’d been shopping without him. She paused before every item she chose because normally she planned her meals around what he liked. She looked lost and it broke my heart.

An older couple came in the other day; one of them had recently had a birthday and started receiving social security. Their income had to be reassessed, only to find they now make $5 over the accepted limit to receive food. They were turned down by the woman who manages the pantry (who I’ve discovered lives life by the letter of the law instead of the spirit of the law [she didn’t get the memo about the new testament]-I’d love to understand her life story). Five dollars. Because of five dollars they won’t be able to eat this year. Even though it wasn’t my decision to reject them, I could barely look them in the eyes. I felt embarrassed and had to turn away before they saw the tears welling up. I heard the woman say, “No one has to know,” desperately pleading for help. Her tone was not devious, simply desperate. Heartbreaking.

It’s the honesty and openness of the Appalachian people that resonates most for me. I thought a lot about honesty this week. I thought about lies I’ve told and lies I’ve been told. I thought about Adam and Eve in the garden and how they hid when they knew they had sinned. All these years later, despite whatever social progress we’ve made, that’s my first instinct too. Hiding. I hide especially when I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed when I know I’ve done something wrong. I discovered the worst lies I’ve ever told came from a place of brokenness. And the worst lies I’ve ever believed came from someone else’s brokenness. But I think honesty sets you free. There’s something powerful about speaking the truth, my truth. Giving my hurt a voice somehow takes the power away from it and gives it back to me. As soon as I own my faults, my lies, my shame, my brokenness, a weight it lifted from me, like I can breath again. But its in speaking it forth that true healing comes. I guess that’s why I’m such an advocate for speaking out about rape. Rape has the power to destroy a life if it’s kept in secret. But speaking brings healing and forgiveness which have the power to transform a life. I realized more than ever this week that everybody gets hurt throughout life but its how we deal with that hurt that determines how our life will look. And just because I ignore my pain it does not go away.

As I’ve said before, my purpose in being here for the month is to rest and reflect on my story and how it’s led me here. I was honestly disappointed to find when I arrived that I still have full cell phone coverage and wireless internet access. As much as I love my iphone, it’s a constant source of escape from every present moment. Being a telephone is the last thing it can do and I find it pulling me away from my purpose. I know in order to get the most out of this time I need to put it down and pick up my books and journal like I had so much the first week. I’m going to work on that…

I mentioned in my last post that I was able to find healing through different people over the past few years. I love to think about these people because they will forever have a special place in my heart. I feel indebted to each one because I know without them I wouldn’t be here today. The first person is Julio. Julio will never read this and I know he’ll live a full life never understanding what he did for me but that’s exactly why he is so special. The next person is Margy, her story and her words have strengthened my heart and provided a place of safety amidst a world full of danger. And lastly, are two friends I made along the way, who believed in me, fought for me and gave me back the hope I had lost.

Its kind of strange the course of events that led me to meeting Julio. It took place over years, beginning long before I was assaulted. First, a friend of mine got a job through a temp agency at the Indiana School for the Blind and Visually Impaired, working in the textbook library. She helped one of my best friends and roommate at the time, to also get a job there. The summer after I was raped, I was looking for a job and my roommate put in a good word for me at the Blind School. After working in the textbook library for the summer, the superintendent of the school mentioned to me that they needed help in one of the dorms and that I’d be able to work around my school schedule. Not long after that I was spending a few days every week with eight-year-old Julio. Julio is blind, has cerebral palsy, a developmental delay and no speech. This boy changed my life. I would come to work every day after a long, frustrating day at school and be so excited to be alive. My heart had a soft spot for Julio instantly because of all the boys in his dorm he was the most neglected. He didn’t speak so he was quiet and he loved to play the keyboard. While the other two boys played with their caretakers or with each other, Julio sat quietly in the corner playing on his keyboard. No one liked it when he was near the other boys because his only way of expressing himself was biting and scratching (or humming if he was happy). In my eyes, Julio needed more love and attention than anyone around, even myself. So that’s what I did. I loved Julio, I paid attention to him, I got to know him, I learned what he enjoyed and what he didn’t, I figured out how to make him laugh and smile, I taught him things and helped him grow. I gave Julio everything I had because I knew he needed it and I knew, even though he could never look me in the eyes or speak to me, that he loved me too. When he came to the dorm after class, he would wait patiently for me to get there, as soon as he heard my voice he would stand up and rock back and forth excitedly with a huge smile on his face. He would outstretch his arms and search for me until he found my hand, make sure it was really me then pull me as fast as he could to the door- he wanted to swing. Everyday. He loved the swing and knew I would take him (I found out about a year later that his past caregiver wouldn’t let him swing because she said it gave him seizures- he never had one while I was with him, so luckily for him, we swung nearly every day!). I really believe Julio understood how much I cared for him, and that was really my only goal- I wanted him to feel loved, cared for, noticed, special. The longer I worked with Julio, the better he behaved. He stopped biting himself (he had a thing about biting the top of his hands, they were completely callused from years of the habit) and his hands began to heal. He stopped biting and scratching others which enabled him to spend more time around his peers. He hummed more often and he even tried to speak. Everyday I would encourage him to use his voice because he had one, we heard it when he hummed and when he screamed and laughed. He began to make noises and would consistently say “yaya”! I was ecstatic about his progress and continued to pour out my love on him.

My time with Julio was exactly what I needed to find healing and a place of safety. Julio had a lot of needs and I recognized right away that it would require all of me to really be there for him. I didn’t have time to think about my struggles or fears or loneliness or to relive my nightmares. I had to be present. I had to pay attention to him. And as hard as that was some days, nothing made me happier. Without knowing it, Julio provided a desperately needed escape from my self. He gave me something to look forward to when everything else seemed meaningless. He never asked me about my life because he couldn’t and it didn’t matter, I was there for him. He was my joy, my friend and the best support I could ask for. Te Amo, Julio.

I spent a lot of time in and out of counseling after the rape. I went to a crisis center immediately following the attack and when I returned to school I saw a therapist there. The lady at the crises center spoke a lot of important truth into my life, things that I needed to hear right away. She emphasized that what happened to me was not my fault, words that would echo in my ears for years to come. She also told me often times victims of sexual violence will either become sexually repressed or sexually aggressive. I tucked that information away and wondered which one I would be. I figured it out about two and a half years later. More importantly, she reassured me I was still valuable and pure and that I could still live a full and happy life, although my battle was just beginning. Her influence in my life was profound and the timing was pivotal. As I moved forward in school, I met with a lady there. Our time together was not quite as productive as with the crises counselor. We didn’t talk much about the rape, instead I came in once a week overwhelmed with schoolwork and complained about it for an hour. I was angry, shut down, confused and alone. I didn’t understand many of my feelings and was unsure how to even begin talking about them. Even though I wasn’t getting much out of those sessions I continued going for the rest of the semester, mostly because I felt like I should. I realized later that I just wasn’t ready to process a lot of my feelings and that that is okay. I took the summer off from therapy and did my best to feel normal. I hoped that a time would come when I would feel ready to delve into my mess of a life.

By the time Fall came I knew I was ready again. I knew I needed to find a counselor that I connected with, someone that understood my struggle. So I started googling. I got numbers to several offices that accepted my insurance; then I started praying. Living with the emotional chaos that was going on inside me was stressful enough, whether I engaged with it or not, and I knew I didn’t have much energy to find a therapist by trial and error. I feared if I met with someone that I didn’t connect with I would stay there anyways just because the thought of starting over with someone else seemed exhausting. So I prayed and I listened and I waited. I called two offices, one of them wasn’t accepting new patients, the other one only had a male therapist available. I didn’t have a good feeling about meeting with a man so I tried one more number. I knew right away this was the place I was going to find help. This is where I met Margy.

Margy and her husband have a practice by themselves, its very small and very cozy. I felt comfortable there as soon as I walked in. I spent the next year in and out of that building, crying, talking, listening, and healing. I really liked Margy, she never wore shoes and her eyes were full of compassion. She listened to me, she understood me, she shared some of her life with me, she interrupted harmful thought patterns I developed, and she encouraged me. I had no idea how much I needed encouragement until she spoke into my life. She believed in me, and I felt that she genuinely liked me as a person. She thought I was strong, valuable, smart, perceptive, brave and adventurous. Over time I started to believe those things too. During this time I found myself gravitating towards people that were positive. I understood in an all too familiar way how ugly and destructive the world can be and I just wanted to laugh, smile and be happy. Margy helped me see the good in the world and in myself. She helped me regain some of the passion and adventure that was taken from me when I was attacked. Talking with her built my vision for what my life could be and I began to be restored. After meeting with Margy for a year, we both agreed that it was time for me to move forward on my own. I had come along way from the angry, defeated, broken girl that walked in a year earlier. I felt confident, victorious, passionate and valuable. I think about Margy quite often. I thank God for her encouragement and I hope that everyone can find someone who believes in them because its truly life changing.

There are two more people that profoundly changed my life during this time. They have done more to heal my past and restore my future than any one else. Right after the rape, I was so broken I couldn’t even function. I laid in bed for almost a week straight, crying and mourning the loss of my innocence and my old life. During this time, my mom did everything she could to fight for me but when the pain became too much for her to bear, these two people fought for us both. They fought for my whole family. They were our advocates. They, like Margy, cared about me and believed in me. They thought my story was important. It was so freeing to feel that what happened to me mattered (even if it only mattered to them), especially because most people I came into contact with communicated a different message.

I guess looking back, what really made a difference for me was being honest about what happened to me and how it made me feel, finding encouragement and positive affirmation, and being told that my story matters. There are a lot of other people that I’m thankful for that I didn’t mention here. There were many people willing to listen when I needed to talk about how I was feeling and many people I knew loved me, even though they didn’t necessarily know how to relate. I feel very blessed to have the life that I have. A couple years ago I read the verse Joel 2:25: “I will restore to you the years that the locusts have eaten.” I clung to that verse and it gave me hope. Now I see that the Lord has restored to me the years that were taken. He has restored my life tenfold. I have a new found strength, understanding, passion, wisdom and a clean slate to move forward. God never forgot about me, even though I was often tempted to believe he had. He kept his promise to me, and for that I am forever indebted.

Ps. I meant to mention a while back that Sojo is my car. Actually, his real name is Lewis Sojourner Supertramp Seger but he goes by Sojo, or Lu.

Travels with Sojo- Week 1:Time Out

Sometimes when I reflect upon my life, I’m amazed that this is my story. Daughter of an abandoned father, raised by a single mother, high school graduate with high hopes and world traveling under my belt, Mid-west resident, fellowshipping Christian, rape victim, college graduate, brokenhearted partier, painter, aimless wanderer, justice seeker, finder of healing and a new beginning, passionate for adventure and sunshine, a lover, and longing for rest from a weary life of obligations and disappointments. That brings me up to today, where I find myself in the mountains of Kentucky, resting. This is my story. This is my new beginning. This is my Adventure…

In 1962, John Steinbeck wrote Travels with Charley, a book about his journey across the United States with his French poodle, in search of a first hand experience with the country he so famously wrote about for many years. Steinbeck, defenseless against the power of restlessness set out on an adventure to find something he was missing, all the while stirring up intense longing in each person he met who coveted his freedom, his movement, his ability to be anywhere but Here. I imagine that had I met Steinbeck and Charley along their way, I would have most certainly become overwhelmed with a sense of adventure and longing to participate in their discovery of the unknown. He had everything he needed, packed up in his camper, “I had to go alone and I had to be self-contained, a kind of casual turtle carrying his house on his back.” I love this book. I love the way Steinbeck writes. I love the depth with which I relate to his story and I love the adventure that comes alive in me when I read it.

This part particularly spoke to me: “Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” I found this to be very true as I’ve been planning my adventure for the past six months. The details of the excursion have changed many times, in fact they’re still changing. But the more planning I did, the more the trip meant to me, the more it became an individual, different than any other trip and uniquely mine. I also found that the more planning I did, the more the trip morphed into something different than its original purpose: rest. At this point, I have a half planned adventure which I’m a week into, lots of big ideas but one goal in mind: rest.

The past three years of my life have been nothing short of exhausting. It may not seem that way at first glance but underneath all my jobless wandering has been a lot of restlessness, loneliness, confusion and what seemed like endless transition. I think there were three main catalysts for these changes, a) surviving a violent sexual assault, b) the breakdown of the church I grew up in and c) graduating college. Each has played a unique and significant part in my story and its development. The first, is undoubtedly the single, most influential day of my life. I hope it does not make you uncomfortable to hear me talk about rape so openly and unashamedly. I recognize it is not a topic often talked about publically, but that is exactly why I feel the need to do so. I am not ashamed or embarrassed by what happened to me, any more than I would be if I were injured by a drunk driver or stricken with a deadly disease. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t have to keep a dirty secret that eats away at me from the inside out because I’m consumed with fear or shame. I don’t have to because its not fault, I didn’t do anything wrong. Or shameful. Or dirty. Somebody else did something shameful to me; he’s the one that has to walk around with that dirty secret, not me. He should be ashamed. I live in freedom, healing and confidence. That is true for every rape survivor, regardless of the situation. Rape is NEVER the victim’s fault; it is never acceptable to invade someone else’s body.

I say all of this because I believe it’s important but also because I discovered that the effects of rape last infinitely longer than the time it takes to actually penetrate a person. I thank God I survived the attack but realized quickly that my new life, post-rape, would be drastically different than the life I once knew. For months and into years, my mind was bombarded with memories of the attack on a daily basis, hourly basis, minute by minute even. Over and over again the scene replayed in my mind- walking, man, knife, alone, darkness, alone, anger, pain, struggle, alone, escape, fear, blood, naked, alone, empty, violated, sadness, tears, tears, tears, tears…. Walking, man, should have run, knife, give me all your money, alone, darkness, struggle, help, alone, pain, fear, escape, empty, bruised, sadness, alone, tears, tears, tears….

I could give a crap about school, research projects, making friends, writing papers, making money, paying bills, making decisions. Nothing seemed to matter as much as the violence that consumed me. It felt like in the movies when the main character moves in slow motion through a rapidly moving crowd, all the noise around her is stifled into one non distinguishable sound, everything seems distant and unimportant. That may seem dramatic but that’s how life felt for the first year and a half afterwards. I didn’t fit anywhere, I felt isolated, neglected, overlooked and misunderstood. Long after my friends and family moved past the shock and sadness of the incident, I was left alone still struggling to keep my head above water. The attack still dominated my mind for years yet people always seemed surprised when I expressed that, as if they’d forgotten it happened or just completely misjudged the impact of the event. That was the most frustrating part. Others had moved on (or so it seemed) leaving me to deal and heal on my own without support where I thought I needed it most.

The burdensome obligations of life, school and work (but mostly school) drove me further and further into myself. Professors, advisors, administrators, other students, expected me to care about their assignments, rules, projects, busy work, waste of time bullshit. They had no idea what was going on in my life; all they cared about was that I finish my paper on time and with the correct length requirement met. It didn’t matter how many assignments there were, the expectation was the same- get it done and on time. My resentment grew and grew until I hated college completely. It was all one giant obligation, a prison sentence I was serving for some crime I never committed, with no opportunity for early parole or release for good behavior. I had to serve my time. Not to mention the tens of thousands of dollars I was paying to be tortured in this way. I shutter just thinking about that time in my life. It was only recently that I was able to walk onto a college campus without having a panic attack. Literally.

I realize there are probably a lot of people that hate the bullshit obligations of school. In fact, I hated school long before I was raped and felt misunderstood. Our education system is bullshit to begin with. But for the first time in my life I really felt like I just needed a break, I needed someone to cut me some slack, I needed life to slow down for a while so I could get my feet on the ground again, I needed a Zack Morris Time Out but the only options I had were to stay in school, buckle down and just get it done, or quit and most likely never return. Feeling the pressure to have a piece of paper that somehow makes me legit so the rest of my life will go as planned- good job, lots of money, house, family, happiness, retirement, death- I felt trapped to stay in school. The emotional and psychological turmoil caused by the rape exacerbated every already difficult or stressful situation in life. And there was no Time Out option. I think I just resented life, or the system, or America, whatever it is that makes it so people can’t just rest when they need it most, can’t escape to a place where time doesn’t matter and just heal. It’s possible that had I been raped at another time in my life I would have taken out my anger and frustrations on work, or family or whatever obligations I had at that time, but I do feel (probably because I don’t yet have a family of my own or a job for that matter) that school is especially invasive on a life, providing very little personal time.

What I learned throughout this though, is that it is possible to find healing amidst the chaos and obligations of life. In fact, I’m afraid it might be the only way to find healing because life will never stop happening around us, we have to figure out a way to stay afloat, survive, dare I say, thrive in life despite life itself. So amidst my loathing of school for the 18 months after the rape, there were many people and situations along the way that saved me by providing a little bit of the rest I so longed for in places I never thought to look. I’ll go into more detail about those miracles later.

The second factor necessary for understanding the past three years of my life is the breakdown of my church. This was not the typical church-church, where we gathered early Sunday mornings in our local community, praised Jesus, heard a sermon, chatted with other members, then returned home. It was more like an all- consuming lifestyle. We didn’t go to church, we were a church. Our congregation spread out over the country, even other countries. My youth group didn’t meet every Wednesday night; we came together from across the world for a week every summer and a long weekend every winter, with some extra weekends here and there if you were fortunate. We typically came in clusters- many from Michigan, many from Indiana, North Carolina, Arkansas, Kansas, California, Canada, Florida. I do not regret any time that I spent fellowshipping within this church. In many ways, it has shaped me into who I am today. I am grateful for it. But when things started to fall apart (for reasons I think are unimportant now), it was one of the best things that ever happened in terms of my own personal and spiritual growth. Its been a continual process of understanding exactly how true that is for me as I walk forward in a new, renewed relationship with myself and my God. In saying all this, it is by no means my desire to blame this ministry, its doctrines or any of the people that carried out its messages. Like I said, I cherish that time for what it was and am grateful for the foundation it laid in my life. There was much good that came from its teachings, but probably unavoidably, some negative messages that were planted deep in my heart that I now seek to uproot.

In my home growing up, I was taught to love. Love God first, then love others. This seems like a simple message, maybe it is, I’m not sure yet. But whether its simple or not, it’s the most valuable lesson I’ll ever learn. It’s more important and more powerful than anything else, even gravity. To understand what it means to be loved by God is something I’m still trying to wrap my brain around. How infinite must the possibilities be to be loved by Love. To be loved truly by the one who made love and is love- how transformative must that be. I think I’ve gotten a taste of it, but just a taste. I know there is so much more. I know that I feel more loved by God when I feel deeply loved by people. And I know when I feel deep love for people I also feel more love for God. I think my main issue with God though, is trust. What I know about people and relationships is that it’s difficult to love someone with my whole heart if I do not trust him. If my heart doesn’t feel safe with him, I keep myself at a distance, or care for him to an extent but keep the rest protected so I won’t be hurt, or disappointed. This is where I’m at with God. I’m not quite sure He’s going to show up when I need him most because, as a human with limited knowledge of heavenly things, my experience has taught me He wont show up. He can’t stop me from being raped, He can’t prevent my friend’s parents from getting cancer, He can’t. He can absolutely take those painful events and wring them out so tight all that’s left is healing, blessings, knowledge, understanding and thanksgiving but He can’t prevent free will decisions or disease or tragedy. I believe this time of rest is also a time to begin to understand how God loves me and how I can trust Him in return. I’d like that.

Actually, my point in all of this is to communicate that while apart of this church, I learned a lot of “knowledge” about God; I learned a lot of passionate doctrine, the How-To’s, the What If’s, the “Truth.” What I missed out on was learning to love God and be loved by Him. The heart, not the head. Ultimately, the message drove home to me was that I am not enough for God. I don’t read my Bible enough, I don’t pray enough, I don’t know or understand enough, I don’t witness enough, I don’t follow the rules enough, I haven’t examined by own sin enough. Enough. Turns out I had examined by own sin so much that I hated myself. I felt guilty about everything. I longed for confidence and thought I could find it “in God,” which really meant “in the church.” But I didn’t realize I was stuck in a cycle of never being good enough no matter what I did. That was the freedom that came for me when the ministry fell apart and I stepped away. I stopped caring about every little thing I did or said. I allowed myself to live without the pressure of trying to be good enough. Maybe I went a little overboard, but its what I needed. I drank myself ridiculous, I stopped reading my Bible completely, stopped praying, stop talking about God, stopped striving for something I didn’t even want to be and just Lived. I let myself make mistakes and bad decisions and it was one of the best things I could have done. For the first time, I started to like myself. I’m cool, easy- going, I relate to others, I like people! All different kinds of people, I’m compassionate, adventurous, independent, fun, funny, accepting and I’m enough for God. I started to really appreciate people for who they are instead of picking apart their lives to point out where they could improve. As a result, I made a lot more friends- and they liked me and that increased by confidence. I learned how to make mistakes and grow from them. I felt free and alive. I was loving people, finally. And I loved myself. I believe this was part of God’s plan for my life. I believe God is way more flexible and unconventional then we give Him credit for. He knows my heart and how to reach me; helping me break free from the confines that bound me, although it looked like a step (or fast break!) away from God, has actually brought me to a much deeper, more meaningful relationship with Him. That’s how much God loves me. That’s what I want more of in the years to come.

Lastly, many of my actions over the past few years can be attributed to graduating college. Not the typical actions people take after graduation that your professors and parents tell you about. I have no fancy job to show for myself. I don’t have expensive possessions or vital networking connections. So far, my $54,000 Bachelors degree in Anthropology has only given me freedom, peace of mind and mobility. My prison sentence has been served. From the time that I was five years old, every single year of my life was controlled by a strict schedule where my only hope were those glorious three months in the summer that flew by only to begin all over again. School, school, school, school… Not any more. I am free. Trust me, I realize when I get a “real” job that once again, my time will be owned by someone other than myself, but I welcome that because I can choose my job, my hours, my location, and instead of paying someone else for my time, finally, someone will pay me for all my hard work. And when I leave my job, my work is done. It won’t follow me home and creep into all my personal, private time (at least not the job that I want). A job has immediate benefit, unlike school that is one, forced, and two, all based on the assumption that it will lead to something better.

When I finished school (I still love saying that) I celebrated harder than I’ve ever celebrated anything. For months after, every time my friends and I went out for drinks, in my mind, it was to celebrate my freedom! It was by far one of the best times in my life. I got a job painting houses, which was the perfect job at that time because I could be outside, working hard for long hours with my crazy partner Jim, turning something old into something new, making money and I had plenty of time to hang out with friends. It was everything I believe life should be. And it was simple. There was no stress of impending assignments or upcoming projects, or endless pages of reading to pretend to do. I was happy.

By the time winter came that year things had changed. There was no more painting to be done, good friends had moved away, the sun was hidden behind gloomy, snow filled clouds and I became restless. So I moved. Again and again. I was searching for something and nothing at the same time. Eventually, I moved back to where I started, before college, and waited. I had no money, no direction, no job but I was rich with friends and family so I stayed and enjoyed the company until whatever I was waiting for came along. What I was waiting for did come, in the form of closure, a clean start, with a huge heaping serving of love on top. Far greater than what I even imagined. The rest that I craved so feverously three years ago was finally made available. In as many ways as possible, life has slowed down so I can breathe again. My Time Out. In my rest, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with thankfulness to God. He has always made a way for me. Now instead of grasping for healing, I am humbly bowing. In awe that this is my life story. My adventure has taken me to the mountains of Kentucky, to rest, to give thanks, to be quiet, to know that I am loved, to reflect on my life with deep thanksgiving and satisfaction, to praise God for taking my sorrows and turning them into joy and instead of grieving, rejoicing. This is my adventure...