And so what we have learned...

Today is my last day of group.

I started group therapy back in June, not knowing what to expect. I was afraid. Afraid I wouldn't be liked; afraid I would say something wrong. Afraid of sharing my inner most thoughts. Those fears were quickly quelled. I have learned so much from group.

Things I've Learned from Group Therapy

1. I've learned what it means to do self-care.  Six months ago I didn't even know that self-care was a concept, let alone a concept I should employ. When I started group, we talked about self-care and what to do. Although in the past I considered my time on the internet something good, I had began realizing how much of a distraction it was and could be. During group, I became more aware that internet time was less of a distraction and more of switch that turned off my emotions. What I thought was feeling good was actually an absence of feeling in general. It then occurred to me that I didn't know what makes me feel good. I didn't know anything about self care or how to implement it. And as others in group shared their activities, I felt left out. What could I do to make me feel good? Thus, I began to experiment. I played my ukulele, I sang, I took walks, I cooked meals. I tried to be more aware of the things that made me feel good inside. And it worked. I felt good. I no longer see the internet as a form of self-care. I see it more as a way to stay in touch and keep informed. If I want to feel good, I will do things that make me feel good.
2. Giving yourself grace.  Coping and self-care are hard. Really hard. You have to fight the voices inside your head that have had control for a very long time. It is unrealistic to expect that once you have skills to implement or ways to feel good that suddenly the badness will disappear, because it doesn't. And it didn't for me. I fight my voices all the time. The ones who tell me I'm stupid, or worthless or nothing. The ones that tell me I don't matter and that I may as well stay in bed because I don't matter in this world. I fight them. And I lose. But sometimes I win. And winning one battle is worth losing a thousand times because that one moment of feeling good sheds more light than the darkness can ever battle against. So, when I lose, I give myself grace. It's okay if I lose a battle. These battles are hard. So I give myself grace to fail and I keep trying anyway.
3. I'm not alone.  I used to have this emptiness inside me whenever I shared my story. No matter how eloquently I tried to relate myself, I knew that non-survivors couldn't get it. And I felt alone. I reached out to survivor blogs and read testimonies. But I still felt so solitary. For as much as Josh could love me, he will never know what it's like to go what I go through. That is an isolating effect on being survivor. But group has filled this empty spot. When I go there and share my feelings, people get what I have to say. When before I felt like I was rambling, in group I was expressing. Because with numbers like 1 in 4 children being sexually abused, and 1 in 6 women being sexually assaulted in her lifetime, how can I be alone?

I am sad that group is ending. But I'm so glad I took part in it. I feel so much better off and I feel that I can really work on making my life what I want it to be: happy and balanced.

Boundaries (Trigger Warning!!!)

I wonder where my Maid of Honor (MOH) went. She left after the first drag performance and has yet to come back. She looked miserable. Then why was she here? I didn't want to go on Friday anyway. She changed the date. I don't think she wants me to like the show. I look to my sister and suggest that after this performance, we go looking for her.

Before I suppress my memories, I mention them in passing. My mom laughed. My future husband went into full blown damage control, cooing and hushing like I was a frightened child.  I had no emotions and all of them at the same time. What just happened?

We find MOH on the back patio, talking to this Dude-Bro. Does she hate the show that much? The drag queens aren't that bad. We talk to her, shake Dude-Bro's hand. He leaves and MOH whines, complaining that he called her old. I can't figure out why she would stay Dude-Bro when she has us as a convenient excuse. "Sorry, I can't talk right now. My friends are waiting for me." Easy enough.

Something happened.

One of the Mario Bros.,Luigi, comes over, carrying a tray full of shots, dressed in green suspenders and a Speedo. He offers MOH a drink. She says she can't. They engage in some coy banter. Then, he humps her.

"Tell you what," she says. "I'll buy a shot if you do to her what you just did to me." She points in my direction.

I freeze. I don't want this. But everyone is staring at me, like I should acquiesce. The word "no" becomes a grayed out option in a dialog box. I am up against the wall dirty brick wall, covering my face. He comes up to me and humps: his junk on my lower abdomen, rubbing.

"no." I squeak. He doesn't stop.

"please don't." I plead. My voice is quiet. He continues. I push him back, gently, like nudging an annoying animal you don't want to hurt. He just keeps thrusting. I think I've made myself clear, and put my arm down. He comes toward me again and again. My sister does nothing, paralyzed by our shared memory of abuse. MOH stays silent throughout the duration.

"I think that's enough," says MOH. She hands him a dollar and gives me a shot. I take it. It's over. I think he will leave. He engages in some more coy banter with my friend. I don't listen. I just want him to go.  He smiles at me, and humps at me again, rubbing himself on me. I push him back. Someone, other than me, made him stop. I look at him with disgust. He finally sees I'm upset.

"Hey," he says, "it's okay. I'm gay." My face doesn't flinch. "Not really," he adds. "I'm straight." I sneer more. He turns to my friend. I drink my shot and throw away the cup. We try to leave. MOH says she's right behind us, but we end up waiting for her again. My sister sits beside me as we wait. Although she is silent, her presence speaks volumes. I want to be angry with her, because she, too, did nothing. But I know her memories caused the same paralysis that weakened me. No, it wasn't her fault.

MOH shows up and we leave. As we walk, she apologizes profusely. Says that she thought I would like it, or he would stop when I said no. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. Later, I try to be angry with her, but I am just as impotent as I was with Luigi.

I labeled it, the "incident."

There really wasn't any way to describe it. Out of my entire weekend, one month before my wedding, "the incident" was the only negative moment. The rest of that weekend was spent with loved ones. It was fun, relaxing, and enjoyable. Except for that one thing.

Before I suppress my memories, I mention the incident in passing. My mom laughed. My future husband went into full blown damage control, cooing and hushing like I was a frightened child.  I had no emotions and all of them at the same time.

I'm angry that this guy used the excuse of being gay to sexually assault me. I'm also mad that my friend, who knew a survivor, would put me in that situation. She told me that she thought he would stop once I said no.I barely call that an excuse. But I think this is what burns me the most about being a survivor: I'm always left cleaning up after other people's messy actions. Abuse is like someone taking your pristine room and making a mess of it: breaking precious valuables and scattering trash. Only the room is your mind, and you're the only one who can fix it.

Most of all, I'm angry at myself. I couldn't be angry. I couldn't be the bitch I needed to be--the bitch feminism wants me to be. I always believed I could, but when the moment came, all my strength and effort could only produce squeaks and nudges.

I'm not friends with MOH anymore. She did a lot of other shitty things to me afterwards that made me realize how toxic she really was. I've made better friends now.

Myths of Healing

If you had asked me three years ago...hell, even a year ago, what my end goal to therapy and process was, I would have told you that I wanted to be healed.  I wanted to be over my abuse. This had been my end goal since I started therapy in 2008. You see, I had assumed that going to therapy (or counseling, if you will) was like going to the doctor for treatment: that after I had done the right number of session and went through the right process, I would be healed. I would be "over it."

This kind of mindset led to a lot of frustration. I would find myself being triggered in various situations, then punishing myself for my reactions and feelings. That mindset seems so foreign to me now, but back then it was the status quo. I believed that this is how other survivors were and that I wasn't doing enough to make myself "get over" my abuse. I was convinced that if I just took the right steps: read the right book, listened to the right therapists, wrote the right words, that I would become healed and I would finally be like "normal" people. That is, I would be like those who had never been abused.

But that's not what happened. Wounds of the mind are not as easy to heal as wounds of the body. Bodily wounds have a process: clean the wound, bandage it, and wait. Sometimes you change the dressing, but the healing comes naturally. The body does what it needs to. But the mind doesn't heal like the body. You don't just dress it and wait. Instead, the mind builds mechanisms in order to protect itself. It's like being burned by hot metal. After being burned, you're more aware of how hot the metal and take extra precautions. You may jerk your hand back prematurely, wary of  your ability to handle the stove or the toaster.

That's what the mind does. It takes the circumstances of the abuse and applies it to any similar situation. Hence being triggered.  My husband's hair falls like my brother's: trigger. I feel the same pleasure my body used to feel: trigger. An authority figure puts me in the same power dynamics of my childhood: trigger. The task then becomes, for me, how to undo those defenses and coping with the situation, rather than letting my mental defenses do their job--something I'm still working on. Because, if I submit to my triggers, it just reinforces all the power my abuse has lorded over me.

Learning self-care

I've been going to group lately. It was a big step for me. The last time I was told to go to group was at my university counseling center. They implied that I was too much for them and that it was time for me to move on. (I've recently realized how shitty they are to survivors.)  This time was different. I was invited and it was obvious that it was my choice. So I chose to go. I'm so glad I did. The group is discussion based and everyone is encouraged to talk. We were all nervous at first, but we're slowly bonding and learning that we can trust each other.

Part of what comes up in group a lot is self care. My therapist has mentioned this a bit, but hearing other people talk about it has made me realize that I don't really know how to do self care and that I'm not clear on what it is. It seems obvious, doesn't it? To take care of one's self. But I can't find the line between self-care and shutting down. Is self care strictly something I enjoy? Or is it something deeper? I'm not really sure, so I'm trying new things to learn.

First, I'm blogging. I'd like to blog on this site more, but sometimes it's hard to come up with the words to what I'm feeling. I don't want this blog to be like a diary. Second, I'm trying new self-esteem builders. I'm taking self portraits on my phone. Sometimes I post them to my Tumblr. I'm starting to learn how other people may see me. (I can hear my sister right now saying that I shouldn't care in the first place.) I'm also cooking more, and making healthier meals. My friend Hummingbird has taught me how to make pasta dishes without sauce. She's taught me a lot of other recipes as well.

I'm trying to learn the different feeling that actual self-care can bring. So far, I've found that I enjoy creating. For too long, I have ignored my innate creativity because I was so afraid of what other people will think and the negativity it would bring. I've since learned that it doesn't really matter because it makes me feel good and when other people like it, it's just icing on the cake.

How do you practice self-care?

Welcome!

What is Witness?  The dictionary describes a witness as "an individual who, being present, personally sees or perceives a thing" (dictionary.com).  Everyday we witness our lives and the lives of others, but rarely do we testify.  That's what Witness is: a testimony.  I'll write what I witness and invite you to do the same.  This blog is for sharing experiences.  It's for speaking. It's for listening.  It's for belonging.  

I started this blog a couple years ago after going through a rather transformative experience. I thought I could get all my thoughts out there, but in truth, I needed to process internally before I could communicate my revelations. Processing experiences, especially traumatic ones, can take time. They take even more time if you're a grad student like I was. Now, I've graduated and am job hunting so I have all sorts of free time.  So I'm starting again, because it's never too late. 

I want to make clear that I will do my best to make this blog a safe space for readers to share their experiences. Sharing moments of trauma is difficult and should be done in productive environment that I want to provide.

So welcome, everyone!

Breaking the Silence

For Lent this year, I decided to work towards better self-esteem.  I though I may as well because my therapist told me I'm no longer allowed to think I'm bad once spring break was over.  Head start and all.  Anyway, I've found that it's more of an uphill battle than I realized.  I began to notice the intricate ways my mind punishes me into thinking I'm bad.  When I'm feeling genuine happiness, my mind will lead me to an embarrassing memory, one where I usually make a faux pas, or I just look like an idiot.  My happiness is killed in an instant and I can't remember why I felt good about myself.  Mission accomplished, I guess.

My mind takes criticism personally as well.  I can't help but feel disappointed when my professor in creative non-fiction tells me my craft needs work.  Or that Susie Suchandsuch was the best student she ever had.  "You're not good enough," my self-critic tells me.  It doesn't like it when I write.  It has no problem pulling out all the stops.  "You're never going to be good enough.  This whole idea is a joke.  Why do you even think you should write?"  My self-critic says similar things when I think about my abuse.  It tells me to shut up.  I'm worthless.  No one will believe me.  No one will care.  I reminds me of all the shaming memories I can't seem to erase.  All the times I told someone.  All the times I didn't understand, couldn't understand what my abuse meant.  It wants to stop me.  Keep me from telling my story.  It will stop at nothing to beat my self-worth into submission and so that I will shut the hell up.  To be silent.  My crime, the crime done against me, is unspeakable. 

But I won't let it win. 

My name is Ariel Smith and I'm a survivor of sexual abuse.  Let's talk about it.

Welcome to my blog.