Too Much. Not Enough.

I had big plans for 2020. This was supposed to be the year that I became a better version of me. Melissa 3.1. And then very slowly but seemingly all at once, the world stopped turning and now when we ask "how are you doing?", we mean it. 

My aspirations weren't too high. I was going to pay off the last of my student loans. Take solo cultural vacations. Start dating again. Take the GMAT. Lose that extra 10. Start writing again. 

I wanted to better myself. I wanted to BE better. 

Getting What You Deserve

One thing (probably the only thing) that's been consistent on my blog is honesty. I've always been transparent about how messy my life is and have avoided sugarcoating it. I think it's important to remember that the internet is full of filters and edits and everyone is hiding the ugly. I won't be sharing the following on social media because it doesn't seem appropriate but this is in many ways my online journal, so my thoughts live here. 

The After

*This is the original piece I submitted to Elite Daily which was then edited to fit their audience and published as "Going To Group Therapy After My Rape Helped Me Rebuild My Life."

The After. That's where the pain is. Everyone thinks it's in The During. But that's the easy part. In The During, you're in so much disbelief that you don't even get a chance to think about the pain. But in The After you have a lot of time. You have the rest of your life.

The Hard Stuff

I tend to write a lot about hard stuff. Some people find that depressing. But the simple truth is life is hard and it's even harder when people post their filtered lives on social media, airbrushing away all the very real pain that is surely there. I want to be honest here.

I live in New York City, a place many only dream of living and a place most can't. I have my own apartment and an amazing job. I'm in a healthy relationship. I have friends and family that would do anything for me. It would be very easy to only show you these parts of my life - the parts that aren't messy. But that's not reality.

Therapy Saved My Life

I recently got a request to post something (how about anything?) lighthearted on the blog and while I agree that it would be nice to post something less heavy than my norm, it's gonna have to wait.

This time of year can be extremely difficult for many. In fact, I think this time of year is difficult for most to some degree but society tells us that we're supposed to walk around like we're lit on eggnog all the time, and so we perform. We shove the stress and anxiety and depression and inconvenient thoughts down, down, down. I get it. I am so good at that game. Which is why before I post something lighthearted, I need to post something that could potentially save someone's life. 

A little over a year ago I was beginning to spiral. I've written about my struggle with mental health in many of my previous posts so I won't do it again here, but for those who are new to the blog you can read about my sexual assault and PTSD here, here, here, and here. Yeah, I talk about it a lot because it needs to be talked about.

You wouldn't think so, but it's actually easy to recall the details of what it was like during the worst of the worst. It's easy because I can't imagine that I'll ever be able to forget those days. They are extremely vivid memories. But what I haven't talked a lot about is how I got to that really bad place.

It was happening slowly but it happened before I knew it. I began to withdraw. I would cancel on friends. Shut myself in my bedroom. Self-medicate with sleeping pills. Essentially, I wanted to "not be." I didn't want to feel. If someone would have asked me if I was suicidal, I would have answered emphatically, "no." And I truly wasn't. But I was also desperate to not feel anything anymore. To make matters worse, I was really good at hiding all of this. The "I'm too busy" or "it's too cold out" texts were frequent and the "I don't want to talk about it" reply was automatic anytime someone tried to care. By the time I realized what was happening and reached out for professional help, I was already pretty far gone. I had no idea just how bad it was about to get over the following months.

It scares me to think of what could have happened if I hadn't reached out for help. I'm not telling you my experience with individual and group therapy was easy, if you've read my posts you know I fought hard to get here. But it could have been worse. And I could have found myself in a hole so deep I might not have been able to get out. 

Let me be clear, what we're talking about here isn't some holiday sadness that Hallmark movies tell you can be cured with a puppy and a fiance (side note, I fucking hate those movies). The desperation one feels around this time of year is something that is preexisting and it is only amplified by the holiday pressure to be social, act happy, and show your love by spending thousands of dollars. In my case, I was already feeling the symptoms of my PTSD when the holidays came around.

If you are in pain now, please know that you are not alone. You are surrounded by people who are hurting just like you and you have nothing to be ashamed of. There is nothing wrong with you. You are not abnormal. 

You are brave for getting out of bed every morning. You are brave for fixing that smile on your face before you walk out the door. You are brave for making it through another day. I know it doesn't feel that way. I know you feel weak and unworthy. I know. But I promise you - I can tell you from experience - it. gets. better. 

I implore you - if you are desperate to not feel, especially if you are desperate enough to take your life, please reach out for help. You can cry. You can talk. You can get answers and most importantly, you can get help. 

You are needed here. You are wanted here. You are loved here.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 

1 800-273-8255

Check One, Two. Check. Is This Thing On?

If you're reading this, you likely know me. If you know me well, you likely also know that my solution to just about every problem is to pretend that it doesn't exist. Don't ask me about it. I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine. I'll be okay. Let's move on. 

That defense mechanism worked really, really well for me. Up until it didn't. 

It was around this time last year that the #metoo movement started to pick up steam. At first it was just a couple of tweets here and there - individuals voicing their horrifying truths. And then all of the sudden it was an avalanche. My news feed was made up entirely of women's stories detailing their abuse, trauma, and PTSD symptoms. I took them in like an addict. I had to read every. single. one. Through sobs I reluctantly clicked on link after link, paying close attention to the comments. Reading words from the victim blamers and shamers as if they were speaking directly to me. Each word piling on top of my chest until I could barely breathe. I couldn't stop.

And just like that, the pretty facade I had spent 2.5 years building had completely imploded.

The next six months of my life would be the absolute worst I had ever experienced. My body completely turned against me - a new physical symptom of my PTSD popping up so regularly that I was visiting my doctor every other week. Multiple prescriptions. Acupuncture. Acupressure. Three hours of therapy a week. I was fighting like hell when at the time it felt like I was doing nothing but merely existing. 

I know it's been a while. I've been quiet. But I've been rebuilding. I'm not "healed." But I'm better than I was a year ago. 

Anyways, the point is - I'm not going anywhere. So if you thought you had escaped my passionate and frequently politically polarizing posts (alliteration totally intended), then I am so not sorry to disappoint you. Because I'm back and I'm swinging, baby. 

This is What Healing Looks Like

After tossing and turning for over an hour, I finally give in and check the time on my phone. It's 3:30 AM. In this nightmare, I was being skinned alive while hanging upside down from the ceiling. I feel the panic in my chest start to rise. My pulse increases and the familiar "butterflies" in my heart start to flutter. The heart palpitations mixed with my shallow breaths eventually make me nauseous and before I know it, another hour has passed. It's now 4:45 AM and I know I've gotten only a few hours of restless sleep. If I take a Xanax now it will probably provide relief but I don't want to rely on medication. Instead, I try the "conscious breathing" technique I was prescribed. Slow breaths in, slow breaths out. It seems futile. I know the palpitations and nausea will last all day. My alarm goes off. 

I roll out from my cocoon of blankets and pad barefoot into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. My doctor told me to stay away from any amount of caffeine but the migraines and insomnia have won and I'm not left with a choice. It's not until I look at my meetings for the day that I remember it's Thursday. After work I'll be in two hours of intensive group therapy for victims of sexual trauma. 

I know I should curl my hair and put makeup on today. People at work have started commenting on how unhappy and tired I look. But I don't have the energy for it. So I put my hair in a bun for the fourth day this week and turn the bathroom light off. I hate looking in the mirror. When I leave my apartment it's cold and bright and loud outside and I'm sensitive to it all. For the entire 20 minute walk to work, I tell myself that I only have to act like a human for the next eight hours. That's it.

It's 8:30 PM and I've just left group therapy. The 4 Train is crowded, even this late at night, so I try to keep my head down to hide my face. My eyes are swollen and red from sobbing for almost two hours. I feel numb and raw at the same time. I clutch my "grounding stone," running my fingertips over the smooth edges. It's supposed to distract me from my thoughts and emotions. The train jerks me back and forth and I realize that's exactly how I feel inside. 

It's Friday morning and I've finally slept with the help of Ambien. Like the Xanax, it's addictive so I only take it when I'm desperate. Desperate. That word sounds so hollow compared to how it feels. Work is almost unmanageable today and I only have time to leave my desk to go to the bathroom. For the next 24 hours I will be unable to stop crying. My office has glass walls and as my coworkers walk by I can tell how uncomfortable I make them feel. 

I look down at my phone and see the unread text message notifications. My best friend had surgery three days ago. Another is publishing a book this month. I care. I'm concerned. But I don't have the energy to have a typed conversation. Or any kind of conversation. I turn my screen off and tell myself that I'll respond later. I won't. 

I come home and spend twenty minutes sitting in the shower. It's become another kind of therapy. In addition to the group therapy. The individual therapy. The acupuncture. The prescriptions. I spend Friday night in my bedroom alone watching TV because it's easier than having a conversation with someone about how hard their day was. 

Saturday is a good day. I have a party to go to. I get a blowout and a spray tan. I put makeup on. Today I'm supposed to be happy. And I am. For almost 12 hours I am talking and laughing and drinking. Later I'll see pictures of myself and realize I don't look happy at all. I spend all day in bed the following day recovering. Not from the alcohol. From the "having fun."

This is four days. I've been doing some version of this for almost four months and I've never felt so alone in my life.

It's been almost three years since my rape and I am just now scratching the surface of what it means to "heal." The symptoms are endless and they tell me it's called PTSD. Don't ask me if I'm okay. I'm not okay. I'm not fine. 

What Nobody Told Me About Being a Rape Victim

There is a very real possibility that you will see your rapist in public. 

Or, in my case, on a dating app. It's going to take your breath away and then you will go lock yourself in the bathroom for 45 minutes due to your immediate need to throw up and shit your brains out at the same time.

You're probably not okay

No matter how many times you say it and no matter how many times you actually really do feel okay. One minute you'll be all "the past is the past" and "I'm totally fine, I don't need therapy" *flips hair off shoulder* and then some fucking moron will post something on social media blaming victims and you'll totally lose your shit on them and promptly ask to go home early because you can't stop shaking and crying.

Some things will trigger you and some won't.

You might be able to watch a rape scene in a movie while continuing to shovel handfuls of popcorn into your mouth but then read about a massive sexual harassment scandal in the news and be unable to focus the rest of the day. *shrugs*  It doesn't make sense to me either.

People will constantly apologize for making references to rape.

There is a difference between making a reference and making a joke. Rape jokes aren't funny and reveal a lot about someone's character. If you're saying you took an Uber home from the bar because you didn't want to get raped on your walk home, that doesn't tell me you're a jackass that tells me you've got street smarts. Maybe try Uber Pool though and save a couple bucks?

Some people won't want to date you because you have been raped. 

FUCK THOSE PEOPLE. There is nothing wrong with you and the fact that you are still alive and willing to date in the first place is a testament to your resilience and strength. They should be so lucky to date you.

You might feel guilty about wanting to have sex. 

Wanting to have sex again after you've been raped doesn't mean there is something wrong with you or that you deserved to be raped or that you weren't raped in the first place. You're a human being with very natural desires. Orgasms are great (sorry, mom!). And have you heard the news? Females can achieve multiple o's! 

Assholes will react like assholes to your rape story. 

"Did you get an STD test?" and "I don't have the stomach for that" are just some of the gems I've heard. Dude - Fuck. You. Hey, if anyone was wondering about a foolproof way of responding to hearing someone's rape story, here it is. Ready? 1) Look concerned. 2) Say you're sorry (it doesn't matter that you didn't rape me, it's just a nice thing to say). 3) Try not to tell me about someone else's rape story you heard (this is about me right now, not you). 4) And thank me for trusting you with this information. 

On a very serious note, I want to put out the reminder that there isn't a textbook on how to survive a sexual assault. There is only one rule: don't harm yourself. If you're a survivor, I hope you know that you are brave and strong for not only enduring your assault, but for continuing day after day while dealing with this shit. This isn't a club I'd ever want to be a part of but now that I'm here I gotta say, we're a bunch of bad asses and I'm pretty proud of that. 

A Dirty Martini and a Meltdown

A couple of weeks ago I had a bit of an emotional breakdown. Just kidding, if you were one of the unfortunate souls that saw/heard from me that day you know it was actually a complete shitstorm. To summarize, I was having a horrible day/week and then I opened a 33oz bottle of sparkling water (necessary detail: mandarin orange flavored) which exploded all over me and my office literally one minute before I was supposed to be in a meeting. In a soaking wet silk blouse that was clinging to my body (that wasn’t supposed to sound sexual but I’m going to roll with it), I walked very calmly to the bathroom where I proceeded to lock myself in a stall and totally lose my fucking shit.

You guys, I was a wreck. This breakdown was essentially the culmination of multiple stressful situations occurring simultaneously in which I had absolutely no control. So naturally, after work I went to a bar that makes the best dirty martini in NYC, conveniently located two blocks from my apartment. It helped. 

As I was sipping on my dinner, I was thinking about all of the problems swirling around in my head and feeling sorry for myself. As one does. Don’t get me wrong, about 90% of these problems were legitimate problems. I wasn’t overreacting. But I have enough self-awareness to recognize that I am extremely lucky to be where I am in life. After all, I’m alive.

There’s been a lot of super shitty shit (that B.S. in Creative Writing coming through for me once again) going on in the world lately. Between natural disasters, (preventable) mass shootings, and our Oompa Loompa of a President leading us into a Third World War via Twitter, emotions are high.

You might be feeling the impacts of some or all of these situations. No doubt you have your own shit to deal with. Maybe your cancer came back. You had a miscarriage. Your spouse cheated on you. Your mother died. You lost your job. You lost your house. Maybe you lost everything. Whatever it is - big or small - whatever your own 33oz bottle of mandarin orange-flavored sparkling water is, please don’t give up.

I know the pain is real. It's fast and it isn't fleeting. I know what it’s like to feel everything all at once and to wish the pain would just stop. Today is hard. It's hell. I can't promise you that tomorrow will be better. Or even the next day. What I can promise you is that you can survive it. And I can promise you that there are people who are counting on seeing you tomorrow. There are people who want to help you ease this pain. They want to see you get better.

This is your reminder that it’s okay to feel pain and vulnerability. And it’s also okay to talk to someone about it.

Promise Me

That voice inside of you. Maybe today it's quiet. Maybe today it's louder than it's ever been before. It's telling you that you can't do this. Everything is different now. You can't possibly exist in this strange place.

I imagine that the pain you're feeling must be palpable in the space around you. This heaviness, there isn't a name for it. No word, no language could possibly capture the gravity of what is inside of you. It's black and full and takes up the space between your ribs so that even one breath becomes a small victory. I can't pretend to know what that must feel like. I hope I never have to.

Death never comes when we're ready for it. There's always more life to be lived.

All at once you've lost your best friend, your partner, your lover. He knew you in ways that can't be described and in ways none of us could ever understand. I hope you cry. I hope you scream. I hope you say words you've never dared to say out loud before. I hope you listen to sad songs and have too many glasses of wine. I hope you get angry and feel sorry for yourself. I hope you feel everything there is inside of you to feel. You should. You're owed that. And so much more. But I hope you never give in to that voice.

You can do this. You will do this. Because you have three boys that need you to show them how to become men. They need you to show them how precious this life is. How short it is. How it can burn you and break you. And yet time and time again you heal. It's a test you weren't ready for, you didn't ask for, you aren't prepared to take. But you will surprise yourself.

I won't pretend that this is fair. I don't understand it and you don't deserve it. No one should have to feel the pain you feel now. But promise me, even on the darkest nights that are surely ahead of you, promise me that you won't listen to that voice saying that you can't. You can. There's always more life to be lived.

If you're interested in ways to support the Woeber family, you can do so here.

Letting Go of Toxic Relationships

You might think it's really easy to write. You might think the words just flow. No pauses. No questions. No edits. Some days I can write and write and write and there are still more words inside of me. But some days the idea of writing is painful. Some days there aren't words in the English language to describe what I'm feeling. And sometimes what I'm feeling is so exhausting that I can't even muster the energy to write about it.

My cursor has been blinking on this post for over a year. Partly because I'm having a hard time finding the words and partly because I'm not positive whatever words I do come up with should be floating around the internet. I don't want to be dramatic. I don't want to be mysterious. I'm not fishing for questions and comments. I really don't even want to publish this post. But I need to get this out.

Recently, I've let go of someone very important to me. It wasn't an easy decision and it's an unnatural goodbye. But the relationship had become so toxic that its poison was seeping into almost every area of my life. I tried repeatedly to remedy the situation. I put aside my feelings for the sake of the relationship. I stifled words that should have been spoken a very long time ago. I tried caring too much and I tried not caring at all. And still...here I am.

Part of growing up is realizing when to walk away from situations that cause you harm. It's even harder to do so when you don't want to walk away. I feel guilty. Selfish. Uncaring. Like a horrible human being. And then I have to remind myself that there is nothing wrong with prioritizing my own mental health and happiness. This has been the hardest lesson I've had to learn as an adult. Sometimes you have to love from a distance.

If you're struggling in a toxic relationship, I hope you know it's okay to walk away. I know it's not going to be easy. It doesn't matter if it's a sibling, lover or parent. I want you to know that regardless of what kind of love it is, it shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't manipulate. You are allowed to preserve your happiness. 

I Know

TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains information about sexual assault which may be triggering to survivors.

---

It's just a dress. A short, blue dress with crochet details on the back straps. I've worn it maybe three times my entire life. It's hanging in the far left corner of my closet with dresses I've convinced myself I will eventually fit into again. The fact that I haven't thrown it out amazes even me. Every single time I see it I think about him. It doesn't send me into a tailspin. But it gives me pause and I instantly think of a summer night in 2015. Back when I thought rape was something that happened to other people, not to me.

It's not my intention to beat everyone over the head with my story. Most of you will skim this and click the back button in your browser to continue doing whatever it is you were doing on Facebook. Something less depressing. Something that doesn't make you think so much. This post isn't meant for you.

This post is for the woman who can't look at her naked body without feeling ashamed. This is for the girl who hears a certain song play on the radio and has to turn the station. It's for the female college student who smells his cologne while walking to class and immediately runs to the bathroom for safety.

I see you. I know that you are terrified of your truth. I know that your mind won't stop buzzing with questioning and self doubt. I know how much it hurts to remember. I get how one day you want to scream the truth and the next you bury it as far down inside of you as possible. I know. I know.

Today might not be the day you are ready to say it out loud. I still struggle with that. But I hope today is the day you realize that you are not alone. I'm here. I know.

***

April is Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month. If you need confidential advice or just someone to talk to, please reach out to me or to someone at RAINN. 

A Letter & a Birthday Wish

Dear 17-year-old Melissa,

The first thing you're going to notice about her - after you stop staring into her gorgeous blue eyes - is her mouth. Brace yourself. She's going to tell you when you're wrong. Especially when you're really wrong. She's going to tell you that your hair looks like shit and you can't possibly meet the man of your dreams if your hair looks like shit. She's going to have opinions. She's going to have opinions about your opinions. So make sure your opinion is also her opinion. She's going to make you laugh. The kind of laugh that will make strangers stop and turn to see what's so funny. The kind of laugh that makes you cry and wheeze and your abs sore the next morning. And that's not even with the aid of alcohol. Oh god, the alcohol. You guys are going to drink so. much. alcohol. Don't drink the Four Loko. Actually, do. Because some pretty great memories happen from Nights of Four Loko. She's going to be late to everything. Literally. Everything. You're going to cancel on her to hang out with a boy instead. You are going to argue. A lot. But my god, she's going to love you. And that kind of love you just don't want to pass up. She's going to save your life. She's literally going to be the phonecall that keeps your life from ending at the age of eighteen. She's going to be your soulmate. Your person. She's going to tell you all the things you want to hear when you need to hear it most. She's going to cry with you when you cry. She's going to celebrate when you celebrate. Hold on to her and never let go.

Happy Birthday, Nanners. Cheers to your 28th year.

Love,
Meemo

If You're Happy and You Know It

Keep it to yourself. Just kidding. Kind of.

I recently had a friend (thanks, David) challenge me to set some pre-30 goals for myself. I was a little offended when he handed me the piece of paper with headers like "Physical Goals" and "Career Goals." Uhmmm I have the body of a goddess and I lean all the way in. I don't need goals. And then I actually thought about it.

I had realized long before this that I was unhappy. In my personal life. In my career. With my body. In fact, for at least the last year I had been asking myself, "What the eff do I want?"

And I wasn't able to come up with an answer, in large part, because I was terrified of the unknown.

What happens when I admit that my career isn't where I thought it would be? What happens when I admit that I thought I'd be married by now (gross)? What happens when I admit that I hate my body?

I was afraid of the truth and how that would affect my life. If I acknowledged that I was this incredibly unhappy I would also have to acknowledge that a change has to take place. And change is scary.

So I'm not happy and I'm not clapping my hands. But in the spirit of my midyear resolution of trying to be more positive, there is a silver lining here. Because I'm actually going to do something about it.

I have many goals that I want to accomplish by the time I'm 30 and I have listed them all below (more so for my own accountability than your approval) but I wanted to talk about three of them that I think will resonate with a lot of you. So over the course of the next few weeks, I'm going to write about these three areas - what they are, how I'm going to accomplish them, and ways for you to accomplish similar goals.

I hope I challenge you to be a better version of yourself regardless of whether you're 27 or 72. I hope I challenge you to stop and take stock of where you are at in your life, wherever that may be. Life gives us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, I hope you jump at them.

30 Before 30

Stop judging my writing style (and accept the genre I'm most clearly cut out for)

Write a novel (AKA, actually finish one that I start)

Continue blogging at least twice a week

Obtain a management position

Cut out all dairy from my diet

Drink at least the daily recommended amount of water (I am so bad at this)

Drink less coffee

Regularly work out five days a week

Learn how to play tennis (I'm serious)

Be able to do the middle splits (Yup, serious about this one too)

Run a full marathon

Attend regularly scheduled check ups with a therapist

Wear more sunscreen

Visit Europe

Visit Asia

Vacation on the west coast

Move to NYC (eek!)

Pay off all debt (including student loans)

Acquire $10k in savings (which I should totally already have but Crate & Barrel exists soooo)

Acquire $5k in an emergency fund

Triple what's currently in my retirement account

Move into a one bedroom apartment

Go skydiving

Learn a second language (this one might be lofty)

Learn how to change a tire

Learn how to sew 

Go on one date a month

Go on second dates

Stop ghosting on guys and actually tell them why I'm not interested

Stop taking it personally when someone isn't interested in me

One

It's been one year.

I found him on Facebook the other day. I'm not sure what I was looking for. Would he have changed his profile picture to show him wearing a red 'R' on his chest? No, he's smiling at the camera while taking a selfie. Would he have typed some public, vague apology in a status update? No, he's posting about transgender bathroom rights.

And it's like I have to fight all over again. I fight him. I fight myself. I fight everyone else's thoughts about the situation and opinions about me. All at the same time.

* Did it really happen? * Did I imagine it? * I said no, right? * Maybe it was just an accident * Maybe I'm overreacting * It wasn't that bad * He didn't really hurt me * He must have had too much to drink * I guess I was dressed kind of provocative that night * I'm alive, aren't I? * He can't be a monster, he's in the Secret Service * I shouldn't have had that much to drink * Why didn't I have more to eat? * I should have drank more water * I shouldn't have gotten in his car * I shouldn't have gone in his apartment * What did I think was going to happen? * He did apologize the next day * 

It's amazing what your mind will do to you. And keep doing to you. Even after a year.

Last month, a woman was raped at knife point at 10am on a Tuesday while riding Metro - Washington, DC's public transit system - the same system I use almost every day. While I was checking emails, getting coffee, and probably bitching about work - she was below our feet being forced to pull down her pants as a man tried to penetrate her.

And I thought, I'm glad that wasn't me. But then I remembered.

You don't think it's going to happen to you. It's something that happens to people who aren't careful. Or maybe "they asked for it" (Just so you know - by definition, you can't ask for rape). You think it's something you see on the news. Or it happened to a roommate's friend in college. But never you. Yeah, I thought that too.

It's been one year.

And I can tell you that now more than ever I have a voice. I'm angry. I'm angry that this happened to me. And I'm angry that this continues to happen to millions of girls all over the world every day. And no one is saying anything about it. Because it wasn't them. It wasn't their daughter. Or mother. Or sister.

It might not be you today, but it might be you tomorrow. Please start saying something.

Me Too

I originally planned on simply typing out a quick Facebook status to thank everyone for the incredible support you showed me regarding my last post. But then I got a private message. And then another. And another. And I couldn't simply slap a thank you up on social media. I had to talk about it. Because not a lot of people are.

"Me too. That happened to me too."

My heart aches for all of you. I hate that someone took something so precious from you. I hate that now you have to wonder when to tell a guy. When is too soon? When is too late? I hate that you're afraid to tell your truth because you worry he'll be afraid to touch you. I hate that you're afraid for him to touch you.

"My mind was racing back through the years thinking of different situations...the way you so blatantly put some of that had me wondering if I could have been guilty of anything like that."

Please know that it's not enough to teach your daughters to be careful. It's not enough to tell them to never leave their drink unattended, always walk in packs, carry pepper spray. It's not enough because that doesn't prevent rape. Teach your sons to respect women. Teach them that sex is not something you take or beg for. It's something that should be willingly given.

Throughout this experience I've learned quite a bit about the process. I've learned that there are going to be fucking idiots who say the absolute worst thing you could possibly say to a sexual assault victim ("Did you learn your lesson?"). I've learned that there are a lot of these idiots out there. I've learned that not everyone is going to believe you. And I've learned that those people don't deserve to be in your life. I've figured out that you'll be fine for months and then one day something will remind you of him and you'll spend the rest of the night sitting in your shower trying to get clean.

I can't promise you that it will get better. Because the truth is, you've changed. There's no going back. But I can promise you that talking about it is the most liberating thing you can do. For me, it was the only power I had over him. He wasn't holding his hand over my mouth anymore.

I really struggled with whether or not I wanted to go public with this. I realized the risk. I realized that some people wouldn't be able to look at me the same. But if I was able to give comfort to someone or make someone else stop and think about their actions, I'd say it was worth it.

If you need someone to talk to, someone who has been through something similar, I'm here. Because it happened to me too.

I Didn't Know I Was Raped

On June 5th, 2015, I went out with a friend and had way too much to drink. I wore a short, tight dress with high heels and I made out with a guy I had just met. He was attractive, sweet, and funny. When we left the bar and started walking to his car which was parked in the White House Ellipse, I felt safe because he had told me he was in the Secret Service. He even showed me his badge. When I got into his car, I didn't have sex on my mind. I simply wanted to keep making out with this gorgeous man who I had just met. He told me he only lived a few miles away from my apartment.

Four hours later I'm sneaking out his front door to take a $60 Uber ride home. He did not live a few miles from me. He actually lived approximately 30 minutes from me. Instead of an innocent night of making out, I spent the rest of the night waiting until he fell asleep so I could leave undetected. I felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed. Why? Because I didn't know I was raped.

I've watched enough TV to know what rape looks like. An attractive young girl is jogging through Central Park at night with her headphones in, completely unaware of her surroundings. All of the sudden, she's being pulled into the bushes by a big hulking masked male. She's screaming and kicking and fighting for her life while he beats her until she's quiet. That's rape. No questions asked.

So when I went home with my rapist by my own accord, made out with him until I had a scab on my chin from his beard, and let him kiss my breasts, I thought I had asked for it. It wasn't until he tried penetrating me that I started saying, "No, no no, no." Even as I was saying those words and he was pushing into me, I thought it was my fault. I didn't kick or scream. I just laid there, stunned into silence. Finally, after a few seconds, he pulled out of me and told me "we can just cuddle." So I let him spoon me until I heard his breathing steady and then I picked up my heels by the door and left his apartment barefoot.

He called me the next morning to apologize. He didn't say the "r" word. But he alluded to it. And I felt so guilty and ashamed of myself for having a one night stand that I said "It's okay." I then forced myself to date my rapist for an entire week. In my head, I had to make this into a relationship, even though I cringed every time he touched me. It wasn't until a week later when I told a friend what had happened that I started to see that I was wrong.

The very next day I called the RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) hotline. I explained what had happened to me with the complete stranger on the other end of the line. When I was done, I very timidly asked, "Is that rape?" I could feel the compassion through my phone as she answered, "Yes, that's rape." I felt like an idiot. I'm 26 years old. Shouldn't I know what rape is?

"You can say 'yes' to any sexual act leading up to penetration and still say 'no' to penetration."

When I heard those words it was like someone had flipped a switch. My brain, which had been working so hard to protect me for the last week by not letting me think the worst, finally gave in to the truth. I was raped. And I would have to get very used to saying those three words.

Before filing a police report, I made sure that I wasn't going to be forced to press charges. A police officer - someone you'd expect to be an expert in something like this - actually asked me in an accusatory tone, "Why wouldn't you want to press charges?" I was so fucking pissed someone, especially a man, would have the balls to ask me that question. Why wouldn't I? Well let's see...what if he comes after me, what if he shows up at my apartment, what if he tries to kill me, what if he denies it, what if he calls me a liar, what if people find out, what if people think it was my fault, what if he loses his job, what if I lose my job, what if this is on the news, what if my parents find out...? Also, why the fuck are my reasons any of your goddamn business?

Despite this horrible experience with law enforcement, I decided to meet with a police officer and officially file a police report. I sat in an interrogation room with my hands clutching a soggy, disintegrating tissue on a cold stainless steel table and told him everything that had happened. As he was finishing up his notes, I asked, "If you had a daughter, what would you tell her to do?" He didn't even miss a beat. He calmly looked right at me and said, "I do have a daughter and she wouldn't have a choice." I could have hugged him.

But I'm not an idiot. I've seen rape victims on the witness stand and I've watched as her testimony, her truth, her character, are torn to shreds. Jurors want a perfect victim. They like their rapes neat and tidy and able to fit in the pretty squares society draws for them. They like girls who don't drink and would never dream of having premarital sex. They like the Central Park victim.

The officer told me that regardless of what I eventually chose to do, it looks better to a jury that I follow protocol and go to the hospital for an exam. So that's exactly what I did.

The next day I got up and went to work. At 5:30 pm, I left and showed up on time to orientation at my new part-time job at Crate & Barrel. I smiled at customers and pretended I gave a fuck about how to train a candle to burn properly and why someone should pay $1,300 for a Wüsthof knife set. Around 8 pm, I took a city bus by myself to the nearest hospital that performs the SANE (Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner) exam, or for you Stabler and Benson fans, a rape kit.

When I got to the emergency room, I tried to whisper to the woman at the front desk that I was there to get a SANE exam. But she didn't know what that was. Here it comes. The first time I said it out loud. "I was raped."

She called the social worker on duty and I was escorted to a room I didn't even know existed in hospitals - a tiny living room full of pamphlets and tissue boxes, tucked away from the rest of the exam rooms. She asked me what happened. And I told her everything I had told the others that had asked that same question so many times in the last few days. She phoned the on-call nurse who is qualified to administer these exams. And the nurse told her what I already knew - it had been a week and a half since the rape took place; there was no evidence to collect. The best thing they could do was to admit me to the ER for a pelvic exam in addition to an STD and pregnancy test.

I sat and waited to be triaged. When my name was called, I sat in a chair while my blood pressure and pulse were taken and I provided answers to questions I can't even remember now. I was escorted to a second waiting room and waited and waited with others for a bed and a room to become available. I remember watching the news and thinking how bizarre this all is. Here I am surrounded by people with swollen ankles and upset stomachs and I'm here to make sure I don't have chlamydia and an unwanted pregnancy. My tests came back negative and I ended up taking a cab ride home at 4 am the next morning, my eyes swollen from sobbing and exhaustion.

A few weeks later, I recieved a bill in the mail for $2,000. What a shitty year to have high-deductible insurance. I'm quite literally paying to get raped. I called my insurance company who said they couldn't cover it. I called the hospital charity care service who said they couldn't cover it. I then applied to Virginia's Criminal Injuries Compensation Fund who denied my claim twice because in order to receive support, I have to follow the guidelines which require that I "fully cooperate with law enforcement." AKA, if I want them to pay for it, I need to press charges.

A couple weeks after the rape, I met with an attorney and family friend that handles sexual assault cases to discuss my options. After a few glasses of wine and some soggy tissues we came to a decision.

I know some of you aren't going to get it. In fact, most of you probably won't. Why don't I want to press charges? The following has been playing on repeat in my mind for the last 10 months:  I feel bad that my rapist may lose his job in the Secret Service. Then I am angry with myself for sympathizing with him. I tell myself that I didn't ask to get raped, this wasn't my fault. Next, I feel guilty that I'm even using the term "rape" when there are women who are beaten or even murdered after they have their bodies violated. Then I feel sorry for myself for even letting myself think that. I owe it to the millions of other girls who went through something similar to call it what it was. I was raped.

Add to that the very low chances of this going in my favor and that's when I tap out. I'm not going to put myself through that because I don't know that I'll make it out alive.

The same day I decided not to press charges I sent him a text message telling him what he did was rape and asked him not to contact me again. One text message and five missed phone calls later, he respected my wishes. I haven't heard from him or seen him since.

I still look out for his car whenever I'm coming home. I'm paranoid that he's going to show up at my apartment unannounced. Every time I see a black SUV with tinted windows and Secret Service license plates, I  can feel him staring at me from inside the vehicle. It's an irrational fear and I know that. But it doesn't make it any less real to me.

I'm telling you this because there is very little power I have over this situation. The only thing I can do is write about what happened and hope that someone hears me. I hope that women read this and know that rape is rarely what you see on TV. I hope men read this and know that they alone have the power to eradicate sexual violence.* I hope everyone reads this and remembers to always believe a victim, always support them, and just. fucking. listen.

Survivors, please hear me: whatever you are feeling is what you should be feeling. Whatever you are doing to cope (as long as it doesn't harm you) is the right way to cope. There is no textbook on surviving a sexual assault and we all handle it differently. Do not let anyone tell you that you are doing it wrong. You are fucking surviving. And that is exactly what you are supposed to be doing.

*I recognize that sexual violence is committed by both males and females. For my purposes as it relates to what happened to me, I am defining the perpetrator as a male. 

Good Grief

If I've learned one thing as an adult it's that really shitty things can happen to people who don't deserve it. Cancer. Divorce. Rape. I've known too many people whose routine lives have betrayed them. They lifted their head off of their pillow one morning and laid it back down that very night a completely different person. It can happen in an instant and we're never prepared for it. We're never prepared for our lives to come to a grinding halt and make us question everything around us.

When that happens - when life gives you whiplash - I want you to remember something.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with thinking about it. And talking about it. And thinking and talking about it again. And again. And again. There's nothing wrong with crying in the shower at the end of a really shitty day, letting the tears go down the drain. Moving on doesn't mean pretending it never happened. It doesn't mean never letting it impact you.

The truth is, it's now a part of you. It's something you have to live with. Maybe it's still an open wound. Maybe it's now a scar. Eventually you're going to go all day without thinking about it. But then you'll come home, shed the clothes, shed the makeup and there it is underneath it all -  a permanent reminder of the pain you once felt. The pain you're still feeling now. I want you to know that it's okay to feel that pain.

Don't let anyone make you feel like you've worn out that conversation. That you should be "over it" by now. Or that it's no longer relevant. Don't let anyone tell you that what you went through isn't significant. That you aren't allowed to hurt. You are owed that. You deserve that. You deserve to grieve.

MIA

It's been a while. Like way too long. Here's the thing...

I've talked about my battle with anxiety and depression before (if you want a recap, read about it here). I don't think it's something you can be magically cured from. For me anyways, I think this will be something I will struggle with for the rest of my life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not walking around in a cloud of depression and anxiety 24/7. In fact, for the last 4-5 years, I have been feeling like my "normal" self. But there are times when I start to spiral and it always catches me off guard. It's like I forgot how disabling it can be. And then I quickly remember. Eff. 

I manage my anxiety very well without medication (*brushes shoulder off*). At night, I take hot baths to calm myself down and reset my head. I work through it during the day - sometimes the adrenaline from an anxiety attack is like a shot of espresso and I find myself whooping ass and taking names. This is what my days are like on average. But sometimes during extremely stressful times (aka the last 4 weeks of my life), it has the complete opposite effect. It's debilitating. I can't think. I literally can't move. My heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest. And all of the sudden everything is wrong and I cannot see past the obstacle immediately in front of me.

Most of you won't understand this and I've learned to accept it. I can't tell you how many time I've received the sage advice, "just don't think about it." Oookkkaayyyy.... It doesn't work like that. It's not something I can shut off. Can you turn off your diabetes? Didn't think so. It's an illness that requires management, maintenance, and sometimes medication (didn't even plan that alliteration but you're welcome (I wanted so badly to throw in "meditation")).

Okay, I'm done harping. But I wanted to give an explanation for why I've been absent. To be honest, you're probably going to hear crickets from me for the next 4 weeks. But I'll be back. Promise :)

In the mean time, please watch this video as it will never not be funny.

Not a Friday Favorite

I 100% don't feel like writing a Friday Favorites post today. I had the graphic all set up to go but I just wasn't feeling it. First off, it's a long weekend so basically the only thing on my mind right now is getting as far away from my place of employment as possible, having wine for dinner and sleeping in until noon. Also, my Friday Favorites posts are notoriously my least viewed posts. I'm telling myself it's because people have better things to do on a Friday and not because of the content. Just roll with it. 

So here's a Friday post that has nothing to do with my favorite anythings.

I've learned a lot about myself in the last year. And I'm not just saying that to say that. I've had a lot happen in my life the last 365 days. I'm not going to lie, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. I had to deal with some things I never thought I'd have to deal with. And some of those things I'm still dealing with. But I also had a lot of pretty great things happen to me too. 

Anyways, the number one thing I've learned about myself this past year is that I get bored easily. Which I guess could be a bad thing but it's also pretty awesome. I love to learn new things. I really could go to school the rest of my life if it meant I could study whatever interested me. And I have a lot of interests. Art. History. Yoga. Travel. Literature. I could go on and on and on and never be satisfied. And I don't have the passport stamps to prove it, but I'd love to just get on a plane and go live somewhere different for a year. I want to feel, see and taste different things. Live the way other people do for a change. 

A lot of my friends are married with kids right now. And as much as I hate to admit it, it sometimes bothers me that I'm not at that point in my life yet. More often than not though, I'm so glad I'm not there. I'm much too selfish to give up my own freedom right now. And I'm 100% okay with that. There is way too much to do and way too much to see. I'm not ready to sacrifice that.

So there you go. A Friday post that has nothing to do with favorites. It really has nothing to do with anything. I just wanted to share what has been on my mind these last few days. Also, I apologize that this post was a bit more sappy and a lot less vulgar than usual. 

Happy Friday, loves. Spend your long weekend wisely!