TW (Trigger Warning)

The night after surgery was a rough. I was in a lot of pain but of course the morning came. I was still in a lot of pain but able to get up, eat, and Lavender had opened the windows so it was bright and cheery. I was feeling better. The miracle of science and the human body… I mean less than 24 hours earlier I was cut open and an organ was removed and here I was feeling better.

Then I got a delivery, an Edible Arrangement and a get well soon balloon. The card was signed “Mom ‘C’.” It took me awhile to figure out that it was from my step-mom. At first I was like whatever and ate a piece of the fruit.

In the last 17 years I have had less than ten phone conversations with my step-mom and my father. When people ask why I don’t talk to my father I say something like “I got pregnant at seventeen and kicked out of my house.” That usually is enough information to get people to move on to the next subject. It’s not a lie just not the truth to that question.

See the truth is 17 years ago my father and his family were living overseas. He had flown to the states on business and decided to stop by and visit me. We were catching up in his hotel. I was telling him all about his granddaughter. He was filling me in on my brothers and sisters. Fast forward thirty minutes to him on top of me, I said, “Please don’t do this daddy.” Up until that point, even with all that went wrong between us in the past and the fact that I was 20, I still considered myself a daddy’s girl. But when the pain became too much in my soul and body as he forced himself onto me, I willingly took him in my mouth.

When I talked to my step mom on the phone in the coming weeks she first told me that she heard I had gotten fat and then informed me that she knew what happened. My father had told her that stuff had gotten out of hand. She said something about how bad he felt and that I should call him. I hung up the phone, shocked.  And so began 17 years of minimal contact.

The day that I got the delivery from my step-mom, I drifted in and out of medicated consciousness. The pain grew worse. My thoughts were getting uglier. My dreams were haunted and I felt like I couldn’t move. I felt miserable. By night time I had a slight fever and started dry heaving and then throwing up. Seventeen years later and I still could taste him in my mouth. Recovery from surgery didn’t go as planned.

I want to wrap this up with a nice neat little bow and talk about surviving and managing and things getting better but it might always be a mess. I might have to live with triggers and the pain of that night forever. I might always feel like white trash. I might always mourn the loss of that family. I might always replay the details in my head. I might always have dark and twisted thoughts. I might always be afraid of him. It might not ever get easier.

I keep getting up and I keep going on.

The "Get Well" balloon fixed up with a pair scissors, canvas, and oil paint.

Lesson #3 That I Have Learned from Running- Keep Running

TW (Trigger Warning)

In a 1999 longitudinal study of 3,000 women, researchers found women who had been victimized before were seven times more likely to be raped again. (Acierno, Resnick, Kilpatrick, Saunders and Best, Jnl. of Anxiety Disorders 13, 6.)

The last time I was a victim of sexual assault was about 5 years ago. I still have a hard time calling it the “R” word because I didn’t scream, I didn’t kick, I didn’t hit, and I didn’t get any bruises. I just pleaded for him to stop.

This man had made me a victim for the last 12 years. I felt powerless over him. He was not directly a part of my life anymore and because I don’t want to reveal his identity, I can’t tell you why he was in my life but just trust me when I say it was not by my choice.

This time I decided it had to stop. I couldn’t go on living in fear of when the next time might happen. I went to the hospital. I told them that I thought I might have been raped. I went through the exam embarrassed and ashamed. I hadn’t shaved my legs. I just got done working so I needed a shower. I was wearing granny panties. I wasn’t sure I should even be there.

The police were nice to me. They reassured me that yes I should be there. Yes, this needs to stop. They were nice until they found out I was gay. The detective investigating the case actually said to me that I wasn’t raped but that I just missed having sex with a man and that afterwards I must have felt guilty so I decided to call it rape.

What followed after that is the worst months of my life. I was able to successfully get a two year restraining order on the guy but the detective thought the man who did this to me was right when he said I was a “lesbian that just needed some good dick” filed a false informing charge against me. I was facing court, fines, and jail time. I was in the lowest place of my life.

The charges were dropped but the emotional scares I have are more like open gapping wounds. Police trigger me; they scare me and do not make me feel safe or protected.

A few months ago I found out that the guy who attacked me moved in just a block away. There is nothing a can do the restraining order has long been expired. My first reaction was that I was never going to be able to leave my apartment by myself. Then I thought about running and how much joy it brings to me. I am not about to let this man take away my joy again. So, the next day after I found out I ran the snow covered dark morning. I was scared but I knew I wasn’t going to be trapped in my house.

Running has made me a stronger person physically and mentally. Now that he lives so close to me our paths have crossed a couple of time. I don’t break down into tears or run out of the grocery store when this happens. I don’t speak to him. I just walk away. I also don’t make any stupid moves. I don’t run without my cell phone. I only run where there are people and street lights. I keep running because it is my therapy. It is what gives me strength and peace. I keep running because neither my attacker or the police or my fears are going to take that away from me. It’s been a long road to get to where I am today and I literally have miles left to go before I am finished.