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.