I thought that this would be so much easier by now. I’m supposed to be over this by now, aren’t I? I thought things would get so much better when I didn’t have to see you, hear your voice, or remember you. Why can’t I just have that simple little wish?
This is not getting any easier. The tears still come sometimes. I thought the ache had subsided, but I was wrong. It comes back, slashing out at my fragile, healing heart that wants nothing more than to be whole again. It still fucking hurts.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Build Me Up, Strike Me Down
Sominazation Disorder. Insomnia. Chronic PTSD. Eating Disorder NOS. ADHD-like tendencies. Crazy, psycho, belong in a loony bin. Don’t talk to that girl; she’ll contaminate you. A social leper. Girl with a disability-yeah, that’s me.
Fall semester was a dark, twisted mess. It was nothing but a cycle of nightmares, tears, and silent screams. That’s all I’ve ever known-sordid, traumatic memories. It fucked up me up bad-mentally, emotionally, physically. I was a complete, absolute wreck. A concerned counselor required I go for an evaluation. Why? To prove whether or not I was crazy.
For the past five months, I have been going up to UVM once a week for Trauma Therapy. Two weeks ago, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, whatever affects me emotionally or psychologically affects me physically. It started developing when I was a kid. I didn’t grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. Hell, why would I? I was an abused kid. It’s not hard to put two and two together. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood and a difficult future.
I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. A diagnosis is the last thing I need to deal with. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. Some of the only positive effects that come out of it is it offered me some directions, some answers, and a lot of explanations for how I am. The way things are. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open.
No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot-so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.
I expected to have to carry one label, not six. Having six different diagnoses tends to make anyone wonder if they’re fucked up. I know I’m not crazy, but it’s not something I’m going to advertise to the rest of the world. I made that mistake once. The response I got was “Isn’t that a psychological disease? You’ll be okay. There’s plenty of help outside the professional. You have people who love and care about you. You’ll get better.” Never again. It doesn't change me as a person. I'm still me.
Junior year has almost ended. It’s been a hell of a ride. You want to know how it feels to be a college student coping with a disability and trying to finish everything on time? It’s hard. Sometimes I struggle to find even one iota of concentration. Some days I just don’t want to do it anymore. Having AD-HD like tendencies makes it difficult to sit still for hours on end, for class after class. My attention gets diverted in the shortest amount of time. I wish I could use my energy to focus. How would you feel if you had to fight a constant battle and grapple with your priorities on an everyday basis? Two words: It sucks.
Receiving this diagnosis wasn’t the permanent form of relief I originally perceived it to be. Instead, it just becomes another chore, and adds another to-do list to my life. Actually, it just becomes yet another secret that I have to hide. Wonderful. I already have enough of those.
Being labeled presents a whole new ballgame. The recommendations for treatment for my disorder don’t guarantee any significant solid improvements. What do they recommend for the labeled kid? Get this: cognitive behavior therapy, education on proper sleep hygiene-i.e. sleep-study, sleep log, regular habits, etc, and learn how to redirect my emotions. Piece of cake, right?
I can’t let this disorder destroy me. I’ve been through much worse than this, so I ought to be able to transition into this new idea of labels without too much difficulty, right? Perhaps. I’ve already proven that I have iron clad self-will when Life decides to bitch-slap me. So, come on labels and disorders, I’m ready to play ball. Hit me with your best shot. I dare you.
Fall semester was a dark, twisted mess. It was nothing but a cycle of nightmares, tears, and silent screams. That’s all I’ve ever known-sordid, traumatic memories. It fucked up me up bad-mentally, emotionally, physically. I was a complete, absolute wreck. A concerned counselor required I go for an evaluation. Why? To prove whether or not I was crazy.
For the past five months, I have been going up to UVM once a week for Trauma Therapy. Two weeks ago, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, whatever affects me emotionally or psychologically affects me physically. It started developing when I was a kid. I didn’t grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. Hell, why would I? I was an abused kid. It’s not hard to put two and two together. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood and a difficult future.
I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. A diagnosis is the last thing I need to deal with. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. Some of the only positive effects that come out of it is it offered me some directions, some answers, and a lot of explanations for how I am. The way things are. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open.
No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot-so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.
I expected to have to carry one label, not six. Having six different diagnoses tends to make anyone wonder if they’re fucked up. I know I’m not crazy, but it’s not something I’m going to advertise to the rest of the world. I made that mistake once. The response I got was “Isn’t that a psychological disease? You’ll be okay. There’s plenty of help outside the professional. You have people who love and care about you. You’ll get better.” Never again. It doesn't change me as a person. I'm still me.
Junior year has almost ended. It’s been a hell of a ride. You want to know how it feels to be a college student coping with a disability and trying to finish everything on time? It’s hard. Sometimes I struggle to find even one iota of concentration. Some days I just don’t want to do it anymore. Having AD-HD like tendencies makes it difficult to sit still for hours on end, for class after class. My attention gets diverted in the shortest amount of time. I wish I could use my energy to focus. How would you feel if you had to fight a constant battle and grapple with your priorities on an everyday basis? Two words: It sucks.
Receiving this diagnosis wasn’t the permanent form of relief I originally perceived it to be. Instead, it just becomes another chore, and adds another to-do list to my life. Actually, it just becomes yet another secret that I have to hide. Wonderful. I already have enough of those.
Being labeled presents a whole new ballgame. The recommendations for treatment for my disorder don’t guarantee any significant solid improvements. What do they recommend for the labeled kid? Get this: cognitive behavior therapy, education on proper sleep hygiene-i.e. sleep-study, sleep log, regular habits, etc, and learn how to redirect my emotions. Piece of cake, right?
I can’t let this disorder destroy me. I’ve been through much worse than this, so I ought to be able to transition into this new idea of labels without too much difficulty, right? Perhaps. I’ve already proven that I have iron clad self-will when Life decides to bitch-slap me. So, come on labels and disorders, I’m ready to play ball. Hit me with your best shot. I dare you.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Just Like A Rose
Cultures are set within their ways, and to the outside world anything different seems foreign, “alien,” or sometimes, according to some, “wrong.” Like a lot of things in life, people tend to think that their way is the correct way of doing things, and for those who don’t follow the same guidelines, rules, or practices, many think they are “evil” or “corrupt.” The honest question is, who are we to judge anyone’s lifestyle?
While you may not agree with or believe in the practices of others, it is our common concept as human beings to live within a functioning world. In order to maintain a functioning world, we all have to practice the art of tolerance, or at least make an honest try. In order to practice tolerance (for a religion, race, culture, belief, etc.), we have to reach the concept of making an attempt to understand. Understand what? Life, love, passion, religion, birth, death, pain, sorrow, joy, laughter, power, weakness, greed, selflessness, honor, all these are felt and recognized by every single human being on this planet. And just as we each feel these things differently, we practice them differently as well. But that doesn’t mean any of us does it wrong. It just means that we stem from the same cloth, but it is our actions and our choices that make us the individuals. We all develop differently because we come from different environments, habitats, and atmospheres. But underneath all that difference is a common concept-we all have a free-will, and how we choose to shape and develop this will makes us into the “good” or “bad” people we are perceived to be. So, is it really our actions that define us? Perhaps.
In the honest, bare, naked truth, human rights will challenge the mind, the will, the spirit, even the soul. There are concepts to human rights that we can’t even pretend to understand. All we can do is make an attempt through study, discussion, even action. A lot of the questions raised about human rights are just what exactly are they? Are they a natural, guaranteed right? Do they differ for each person? Yes. Just as we each define our morals, values, and beliefs systems, human rights will have a different meaning for each of us. For some, human rights brings out the harsh, naked, bare truth of the cruelty, turmoil, trauma, torture, everything within the true ugliness of the world. No, we, as a society don’t like to think of the ugliness of the world, but of it’s beauty, wonder, and magnificence. We like to see it as one of endless possibilities and goodness. While yes, in some areas it is all those pleasant things, the reality is that there is also ugliness in this world. Much of it remains in the darkness, and only through exploration, perseverance, and countless risks is the truth brought to light.
Some people on this earth hold a passion and an understanding for human rights that others do not share. Perhaps it is because of their own pasts, possibly twist, secret, hidden, and dark, that they feel a connection with the subject and can relate to others around the world that are experiencing the same thing. No, not all circumstances are the same, but within the rubble comes the foundation of a common ground, a sort of bonding, if you will. Not all stories are the same, just like not all of us are the same. But within each story comes the concept of very similar emotions, though they are all felt, experienced, and dealt with in different ways. Some are felt in constructive ways, others are not.
Perhaps it is for the people who have their own hidden pasts that find a passion within the controversy of human rights, and feel a relief, a connection, that finally, somewhere, someone understands. Perhaps out of all the negative experiences a person goes through, they find an inspiration that could lead them to a better, brighter future. This could be there chance to use their experiences to help others, to prevent them from feeling the same sense of suffering they had to endure for much of their lives. Just as we are given free choice in this world to be what we wish, we are given the opportunity to choose a career for our own future, perhaps through the experience of a diplomat, a politician, a soldier, or a journalist who advocates for human rights.
Just as a single rose can grow on a twisted stem, yet it is the thorns that we must avoid, for they are what causes us physical pain, it is the misinterpretation and misdeeds within the controversy of human rights that causes us emotional, physical, and psychological pain, or triumph. Our very life is a balance between time, consequence, and fate. So therefore, couldn’t it be that it is the concept of how to balance both the good and the evil on this earth that gives a true meaning to human rights and just what that means to each of us? We each were born with free will to choose who we want to be, just how we want to affect this world, and how we want to live amongst ourselves and others. Just like we were given a choice at the beginning, at the end, we are also given a choice of how we want to be remembered when we leave this life.
While you may not agree with or believe in the practices of others, it is our common concept as human beings to live within a functioning world. In order to maintain a functioning world, we all have to practice the art of tolerance, or at least make an honest try. In order to practice tolerance (for a religion, race, culture, belief, etc.), we have to reach the concept of making an attempt to understand. Understand what? Life, love, passion, religion, birth, death, pain, sorrow, joy, laughter, power, weakness, greed, selflessness, honor, all these are felt and recognized by every single human being on this planet. And just as we each feel these things differently, we practice them differently as well. But that doesn’t mean any of us does it wrong. It just means that we stem from the same cloth, but it is our actions and our choices that make us the individuals. We all develop differently because we come from different environments, habitats, and atmospheres. But underneath all that difference is a common concept-we all have a free-will, and how we choose to shape and develop this will makes us into the “good” or “bad” people we are perceived to be. So, is it really our actions that define us? Perhaps.
In the honest, bare, naked truth, human rights will challenge the mind, the will, the spirit, even the soul. There are concepts to human rights that we can’t even pretend to understand. All we can do is make an attempt through study, discussion, even action. A lot of the questions raised about human rights are just what exactly are they? Are they a natural, guaranteed right? Do they differ for each person? Yes. Just as we each define our morals, values, and beliefs systems, human rights will have a different meaning for each of us. For some, human rights brings out the harsh, naked, bare truth of the cruelty, turmoil, trauma, torture, everything within the true ugliness of the world. No, we, as a society don’t like to think of the ugliness of the world, but of it’s beauty, wonder, and magnificence. We like to see it as one of endless possibilities and goodness. While yes, in some areas it is all those pleasant things, the reality is that there is also ugliness in this world. Much of it remains in the darkness, and only through exploration, perseverance, and countless risks is the truth brought to light.
Some people on this earth hold a passion and an understanding for human rights that others do not share. Perhaps it is because of their own pasts, possibly twist, secret, hidden, and dark, that they feel a connection with the subject and can relate to others around the world that are experiencing the same thing. No, not all circumstances are the same, but within the rubble comes the foundation of a common ground, a sort of bonding, if you will. Not all stories are the same, just like not all of us are the same. But within each story comes the concept of very similar emotions, though they are all felt, experienced, and dealt with in different ways. Some are felt in constructive ways, others are not.
Perhaps it is for the people who have their own hidden pasts that find a passion within the controversy of human rights, and feel a relief, a connection, that finally, somewhere, someone understands. Perhaps out of all the negative experiences a person goes through, they find an inspiration that could lead them to a better, brighter future. This could be there chance to use their experiences to help others, to prevent them from feeling the same sense of suffering they had to endure for much of their lives. Just as we are given free choice in this world to be what we wish, we are given the opportunity to choose a career for our own future, perhaps through the experience of a diplomat, a politician, a soldier, or a journalist who advocates for human rights.
Just as a single rose can grow on a twisted stem, yet it is the thorns that we must avoid, for they are what causes us physical pain, it is the misinterpretation and misdeeds within the controversy of human rights that causes us emotional, physical, and psychological pain, or triumph. Our very life is a balance between time, consequence, and fate. So therefore, couldn’t it be that it is the concept of how to balance both the good and the evil on this earth that gives a true meaning to human rights and just what that means to each of us? We each were born with free will to choose who we want to be, just how we want to affect this world, and how we want to live amongst ourselves and others. Just like we were given a choice at the beginning, at the end, we are also given a choice of how we want to be remembered when we leave this life.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Bittersweet Memories
I thought I was finally over this. Everything is going so well. There's so many bright stars in my near-future, and I have to pick the darkest one to see tonight. Why, why, why does this have to keep coming back. I thought that, finally, I'd be able to forget. Soft touches, soft words, burning looks, gentle kisses. Your warmth. Everything.
You have me so fucked up. So twisted, so confused, so broken.
And here, tonight, in this darkness, all I can find are bittersweet memories.
Why do I miss you?
You have me so fucked up. So twisted, so confused, so broken.
And here, tonight, in this darkness, all I can find are bittersweet memories.
Why do I miss you?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Champions
Finally, things are taking an upturn for me. Even through all this chaos, this confusion, and the things that are determine to break me, I’m still fighting. I’ve decided that I’m not going to let the opposing forces defeat me. I’ve made it this far, so why not keep going? I’m just getting tired, tired of having to fight for every single good thing that has happened to me. For once, can’t just one good thing be given to me without any catches?
Luckily enough, Tim has granted this wish for me. At the beginning of this semester, I was so lost, so confused about which way to turn, and so I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do for an internship. I withdrew from the world, and I barely spoke to anybody. Often, a lot of people thought I’d dropped off the planet. So, naturally, Tim became concerned about how I was doing. I figured that I better get in touch, and let him know that yes, I was still alive, even though sometimes it felt like just barely. Over the course of the semester, we met several times, and I confessed I had no idea what I wanted to do for an internship, but I had a couple of outlines for what I wanted to do with my future. So, Tim, in a series of brainstorms and excitement, actually came up with a solution, and gave me my answer. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand everything he’d said. I probably only comprehended and maintained one of every hundred words he threw at me, but I got the general concept. To be honest, I was working through a lot of things that threatened my sanity, and well, my will to keep fighting. But, of course, I was so excited, so pleased that I was being given this opportunity.
As the weeks progressed, things just steadily worsened. It seemed like I wasn’t ever going to catch a break. I was dealing with the twisted emotions of a messy breakup, fighting a sickness that my body couldn’t get rid of, going through trauma therapy, dealing with the aftermath of the rape cases, and losing just about everything, or everyone, that I considered stable in my life. A couple of times, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and say fuck it all. But I couldn’t, it would mean giving up. No matter how tired of it all I was, how exhausted I’d become, it’s not in my nature to give up. One day, I just woke up and decided I would keep fighting, and that I was sick of being miserable. Sure, my life was spiraling out of control, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t smile. Some days were better than others, some worse. But each day, some things seem to get easier. For once, I am completely sure that yes, I am a fighter. I am a survivor.
I haven’t slept in weeks, or when I do, despite what time I go to bed, I have been up at 4 AM every single morning. And I cannot go back to sleep. It’s annoying, it’s irritating, and frankly it pisses me off. This insomnia is getting ridiculous. But it’s just another thing on my plate that I’ll have to deal with. Hell, I’m used to it by now. Sleep is just something I wish for. Or, on the nights that I actually do get to sleep, I have nightmare after nightmare, often ones I struggle to wake up from. When I do wake up, I’m clammy, disoriented, and terrified of trying to go back to sleep. And let me tell you, these nightmares, or dreams, are fucked up. I have no explanation for them. So, while I’m up at the early morning hours, my mind is whirling a thousand miles a minute, and I am thinking about everything I have, everything I want, and everything I am willing to fight for. The biggest thing I’m willing to fight for: my future.
I will not, will not falter. I know it’s going to be another struggle, another fight, another tear, time and time again, but this is what I want. This is what I’m excited for. So, the other day, I met with Tim, and he was kind enough to buy me a coffee. We settled at a corner table in Jazzman’s and discussed everything that had happened this semester, the diagnosis, the capstone, my writing, and just what I wanted for my future. What I want is to be successful, to be happy, and to change the world. What I want is something to be excited about. And Tim gave me just that, which I’m so thankful for. So, it is official, this summer, I will be interning as an Editorial Assistant for CCPI, and working in all sort of areas that will challenge, but also enhance my writing abilities and gives me a chance to prove myself. What I’m most excited about is that I’ll be working with people from all over the world, in a variety of areas, and it will really be a learning experience, one that I am going to value so much. Unfortunately, I’ll be returning to Poultney this summer and working for Gulf, that unsatisfactory shithole, but Tim understands that I have to do what I have to do. We’re going to work around that schedule, and for the first time in almost three years, I am looking forwards to my summer after college. I am so happy, so eager for this chance to prove myself. It’s just one more step towards what I hope to be a better, brighter future.
As far as Fall of senior year goes, I’m excited for that too. For the first time, I got into ALL the classes I wanted, though it means having classes every day of the week. But I can deal with that. And surprisingly, I have an easy course load. I’m actually only taking four classes, because I have extra credits from the previous semesters. I’m actually excited about this, because an easy semester is exactly what Tim thinks I need--and I agree wholeheartedly. When I come back in the Fall, and everything settles down, Tim talked about introducing me to one of his contacts at an NGO in Shelburne, and learning about just how an NGO operates and what their projects are all over the world. There was even talk about finally, finally going to Egypt! I have wanted this for years, and before I came to Champlain and met so many wonderful people, it never seemed like a possibility. I am so excited I can barely contain myself or keep the smile from my face. I finally know what I want in my future--to be an investigative journalist who advocates for human rights, and a creative writer-and these are finally steps that are leading in that direction. For once, something is going right for me. I finally have hope that yes, perhaps I will have a happy future.
None of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for my counselor, Jen, my understanding professors, or especially Tim, fighting for me, and along side me, every step of the way. I have never had so many people who care about me, believe in me, and are willing to do whatever they can to help me. It’s finally here, at Champlain, that I’m beginning to learn what healthy, stable relationships are, and what it’s like to actually have people care about you, and root for you to do everything you love. It’s such an incredible feeling, and each and every day, I want to prove them right, that yes, I have what it takes. No words can express how much it means to me, how much it’s changed me. I just want you all to know, I am eternally grateful. So, in these six little words that mean worlds to me, thank you so much, for everything.
Luckily enough, Tim has granted this wish for me. At the beginning of this semester, I was so lost, so confused about which way to turn, and so I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do for an internship. I withdrew from the world, and I barely spoke to anybody. Often, a lot of people thought I’d dropped off the planet. So, naturally, Tim became concerned about how I was doing. I figured that I better get in touch, and let him know that yes, I was still alive, even though sometimes it felt like just barely. Over the course of the semester, we met several times, and I confessed I had no idea what I wanted to do for an internship, but I had a couple of outlines for what I wanted to do with my future. So, Tim, in a series of brainstorms and excitement, actually came up with a solution, and gave me my answer. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand everything he’d said. I probably only comprehended and maintained one of every hundred words he threw at me, but I got the general concept. To be honest, I was working through a lot of things that threatened my sanity, and well, my will to keep fighting. But, of course, I was so excited, so pleased that I was being given this opportunity.
As the weeks progressed, things just steadily worsened. It seemed like I wasn’t ever going to catch a break. I was dealing with the twisted emotions of a messy breakup, fighting a sickness that my body couldn’t get rid of, going through trauma therapy, dealing with the aftermath of the rape cases, and losing just about everything, or everyone, that I considered stable in my life. A couple of times, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and say fuck it all. But I couldn’t, it would mean giving up. No matter how tired of it all I was, how exhausted I’d become, it’s not in my nature to give up. One day, I just woke up and decided I would keep fighting, and that I was sick of being miserable. Sure, my life was spiraling out of control, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t smile. Some days were better than others, some worse. But each day, some things seem to get easier. For once, I am completely sure that yes, I am a fighter. I am a survivor.
I haven’t slept in weeks, or when I do, despite what time I go to bed, I have been up at 4 AM every single morning. And I cannot go back to sleep. It’s annoying, it’s irritating, and frankly it pisses me off. This insomnia is getting ridiculous. But it’s just another thing on my plate that I’ll have to deal with. Hell, I’m used to it by now. Sleep is just something I wish for. Or, on the nights that I actually do get to sleep, I have nightmare after nightmare, often ones I struggle to wake up from. When I do wake up, I’m clammy, disoriented, and terrified of trying to go back to sleep. And let me tell you, these nightmares, or dreams, are fucked up. I have no explanation for them. So, while I’m up at the early morning hours, my mind is whirling a thousand miles a minute, and I am thinking about everything I have, everything I want, and everything I am willing to fight for. The biggest thing I’m willing to fight for: my future.
I will not, will not falter. I know it’s going to be another struggle, another fight, another tear, time and time again, but this is what I want. This is what I’m excited for. So, the other day, I met with Tim, and he was kind enough to buy me a coffee. We settled at a corner table in Jazzman’s and discussed everything that had happened this semester, the diagnosis, the capstone, my writing, and just what I wanted for my future. What I want is to be successful, to be happy, and to change the world. What I want is something to be excited about. And Tim gave me just that, which I’m so thankful for. So, it is official, this summer, I will be interning as an Editorial Assistant for CCPI, and working in all sort of areas that will challenge, but also enhance my writing abilities and gives me a chance to prove myself. What I’m most excited about is that I’ll be working with people from all over the world, in a variety of areas, and it will really be a learning experience, one that I am going to value so much. Unfortunately, I’ll be returning to Poultney this summer and working for Gulf, that unsatisfactory shithole, but Tim understands that I have to do what I have to do. We’re going to work around that schedule, and for the first time in almost three years, I am looking forwards to my summer after college. I am so happy, so eager for this chance to prove myself. It’s just one more step towards what I hope to be a better, brighter future.
As far as Fall of senior year goes, I’m excited for that too. For the first time, I got into ALL the classes I wanted, though it means having classes every day of the week. But I can deal with that. And surprisingly, I have an easy course load. I’m actually only taking four classes, because I have extra credits from the previous semesters. I’m actually excited about this, because an easy semester is exactly what Tim thinks I need--and I agree wholeheartedly. When I come back in the Fall, and everything settles down, Tim talked about introducing me to one of his contacts at an NGO in Shelburne, and learning about just how an NGO operates and what their projects are all over the world. There was even talk about finally, finally going to Egypt! I have wanted this for years, and before I came to Champlain and met so many wonderful people, it never seemed like a possibility. I am so excited I can barely contain myself or keep the smile from my face. I finally know what I want in my future--to be an investigative journalist who advocates for human rights, and a creative writer-and these are finally steps that are leading in that direction. For once, something is going right for me. I finally have hope that yes, perhaps I will have a happy future.
None of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for my counselor, Jen, my understanding professors, or especially Tim, fighting for me, and along side me, every step of the way. I have never had so many people who care about me, believe in me, and are willing to do whatever they can to help me. It’s finally here, at Champlain, that I’m beginning to learn what healthy, stable relationships are, and what it’s like to actually have people care about you, and root for you to do everything you love. It’s such an incredible feeling, and each and every day, I want to prove them right, that yes, I have what it takes. No words can express how much it means to me, how much it’s changed me. I just want you all to know, I am eternally grateful. So, in these six little words that mean worlds to me, thank you so much, for everything.
Demons Evolve Answers
I want to be a writer because I want to change the world. Yes, I know that sounds clichéd and somewhat monotonous, because everybody says that-but it’s the truth. I want to do something great, I want to be widely known, and I want to make a difference. I want my voice to be heard, because honestly, given everything that’s happened, I feel like I have something important to say. And no, it’s not self-indulgent. I’d like to think I could use my experiences to help people, and make even the slightest difference.
I started writing when I was four years old. Even though I couldn’t write in anything but chicken scratch, I filled up page after page of composition books, notebooks, blank pages, napkins--anything I could get my hands on. Sometimes, even I couldn’t read what I’d scrawled, but oddly enough, I understood it, because it was always stored in the back of my mind. Writing has always been my solace, and my way of escape from what was going on around me. I grew up in an unstable environment, and never knew where I’d be sleeping each night. Some nights, it was a matter of survival for my siblings, my mother, and I. My dad would come home in drunken rages and storm about the house, shouting, at all hours of the night and early morning. Often, he was pissed off. Yeah, I’m saying it right now, I was an abused kid. I used to be ashamed of it, and it was something that I became an expert at hiding from the world, but now I don’t. I’m tired of pretending, tired of lying about it, and trying to cover up the reasons for why my own father never loved me like he should of.
For nineteen years, I was often emotionally, verbally, mentally,and sometimes physically, abused by my father. The sad thing is, it took me nineteen years to realize it. They often say that abused kids live in denial, or aren’t aware that it’s just that--abuse. So, no, I’m not going to advertise it, but if you ask me about it, I’m not going to lie. No, I don’t have any contact with my dad, or try not to anyways, and if you ask me how I’d feel if he died, I’d give you a straight answer-ask me when it happens, and I’ll let you know. As far as I’m concerned I have no father, and my mother is doing one hell of a job considering what she went through for twenty-three years.
Writing became the only way to keep my sanity, and possibly one of the only things that kept me from becoming one of those “problem children.” Every time I felt anything at all, any sort of emotion, I wrote about it. Parents are always like “come to me if you have a problem,” but I could never go to mine. So, those notebook pages and pens became some of my best friends. It’s the only thing I ever felt a connection to, because I always felt that somehow, I was…different from the other kids. I always felt like my mind processed things totally different from any one else, and nobody ever understood, or accepted, what it was like. I guess I can say that I’m used to feeling withdrawn from the rest of the world, considering I have no idea what healthy relationships, or stable environments, are supposed to be like. And no, I’m not using my abusive childhood as a crutch for anything, or an excuse, because it doesn’t change who I am as a person, it just explains a lot of the reasons why I see the world so differently. Actually, sometimes, I guess discussing my past can actually be used as a tool to help others, or maybe that’s why I’m so good at solving others’ problems, but never my own.
I ultimately knew I wanted to be a writer when I entered high school. That’s when I really had to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my future, just where I wanted to go to school, and what I wanted to go for. Before that, I had the usual childhood dreams of race-car driver, explorer, and even considered attending medical school at one point. From the time I was a child, I knew I wanted to help people and to tackle a world where so few know the harshness of it, and even the smallest things can make a difference. In sixth grade up until sophomore year, I wanted to actually be an archeologist and Egyptologist until about five years ago. Yes, Ancient Egypt holds my passion, and my love for adventure, but I’m also smart enough to know it’s not going to pay the bills. I grew up with nothing, so, no, I do not want to have nothing in my future as well. I decided to pursue my passion for writing when my favorite English teacher, Ms. Paquette, told me I should consider a career in writing, during my sophomore year of class with her. She told me I had such a fierce passion, a fearlessness, and a considerable style of voice in my writing, that I should let the rest of the world hear it. So, that’s when I decided why not be a writer, it’s the thing I’m most passionate about. And well, it’s the thing that defines me the most. So, why not follow a dream, and attempt to change the world.
I feel like I have been asked so many times about what I want to write about, but each time the answer changes. Truthfully, I want to write about everything. I want to write about love, lust, romance, death, loss, pain, sorrow, joy, exploration, discoveries, wonder, life, everything that deserves to be written about. I want to write about the unknown, the mysterious, the taboo, everything that others are too afraid to write about. Because, that’s what I do. That’s what I am. Fearless, as Jim Ellefson often told me in my writing during his classes. I write with my voice, my own thoughts, my own style, and god forbid anyone stand in my way. I don’t let others tell me what to do or how to do it, I discover on my own, and charge full force. That’s probably why I earned the nickname Trouble. Sometimes I’m a little too impulsive, a little too forceful, a little too crude, a little too careless, a little too in-your-face, a little too aggressive. But that’s how I am, and I can’t change it. Nor do I want to. It’s made me into who I am, and how I write. I write the same way in which I live--with enthusiasm, with an open, curious, colossal sense of wonder, and with passion. I live (or try to) to the fullest, so why not write to the fullest?
I’m going to be completely, absolutely honest for once in a long time. I am tired of hiding my past, tired of holding back the tears, and tired of pretending everything’s okay. The truth is, it isn’t. It never has been for me. And something tells me it never will. I have been through more, much more than a lot of people I know, than I should have in the last twenty years. I never had that fairytale. My entire life has been an unstable, rocky path and whenever it seems to get clear, some other boulder comes tumbling down. So, the only thing that has ever kept me going is my dreams, my passion, and my ability to write. It’s the only way I know how to make any sort of sense out of the chaos that is my life. No, I’m not saying I’ve been through the worst, or that others don’t have it worse than I do, but I’m not going to sit here and tell you everything is okay. It’s not, and it’s high time I use this outlet to finally let go of what’s been building up inside me.
For the last couple of months, I have been going up to UVM for a sort of trauma therapy. I was going for an evaluation of sorts, I guess. So, last Wednesday, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, I guess it’s been developing since I was a kid. I didn’t know grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. I have no idea what stable, healthy relationships are like, and even how to recognize one, or handle one. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood. It’s no wonder why I write with such emotion.
I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. This was the last thing I wanted dropped on my head. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. But instead of regretting this, it actually gives me some directions, some answers. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open. No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from all of the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot--so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.
Along with this Somanization Disorder comes a long list of other things, among them: Chronic PTSD (which I’ve already known I’ve had since the age of twelve) and borderline ADHD like tendencies. A lot of the other things that come with it, I’d rather not discuss at this time, because it would just lead people labeling me as fucked up or crazy. But what this had made me realize is that now I have so much more to write about, so much more to explore, and so much more to know that I’ve survived. It also gives me a foundation, an outlet to reach out to others and use my experiences to help people. Not help them into experiencing the same things, of course, but help them realize they are not alone, that someone actually understands. Like I was talking to Tim about the other day, all this just gives me so much to write about, so many ways to make my voice heard. And, well, maybe in some twisted, fucked up way, it gives me a chance to change the world. It shows me that even when I’m breaking, slowly, and silently, some resistant part of me wakes up and pushes me through, determined that I keep going. It shows that I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.
So, with this long list of trauma, comes the courage to write about it. It’s a way to go into the silence and bring back what’s not being heard, what’s not being dared to talk about. The world can be an ugly, unstable place full of malice, turmoil, and heartache, and somebody has to write about it, so why not someone with a sort of experience? This, this is what I want to write about--what so many others are afraid to. People need to know, and maybe it’s me that has the right to write about it. It seems that perhaps I even have the courage, the determination, and the heart to do so. Yes, a lot of it scares the shit out of me, and tears me apart to write about, but it’s something I have to do. In a way, it seems like it’s the only way I’m ever going to heal from any of my mental or emotional scars.
How am I going to write about it, or display it as a portfolio of my work? The answer actually hit me the other day, funnily enough. I have this thick, black, leather book I write in, almost everyday. It’s filled with blank, white pages, and is probably meant to be a sketchbook, but I use it as my everything. As an account of the world and experiences through the eyes of a redhead who’s seen too much for her short life. Within the book is my collection of thoughts, my feelings, questions, answers, drawings, random sayings, poems, stories, quotes, anything I’ve ever written recently, anything that just pops into my mind. But what I think it shows the most, is the inner me, my true self that I very rarely let anyone see. The person that I’ve become so adept at hiding. I also think it shows my growth as a writer because this is it, it’s real, it’s emotional, it’s truth. A lot of writers start out with using their own personal experiences to help others, and honestly, I think I’m at a point in my life where I can begin that. I can use my own experiences, my own traumas, to inform others of how life can really be, and to do so in a collection of letters. They wouldn’t be addressed to anyone in particular, but a sort of journal--a creative nonfiction one.
I would also love to write about Egypt within these letters, because that’s the one other thing that’s held my love and passion for so many years. So, no, I don’t have a solid, concrete idea of what these letters would consist of or contain, but in truth, ideas change all the time, as often as the weather or the seasons do. All I know is I’d write in the fashion that I do, or live, everything else-with enthusiasm, interest, determination, compassion, sympathy, energy, love, creativity, and most of all, with passion. For my life would be nothing if I didn’t have passion.
I started writing when I was four years old. Even though I couldn’t write in anything but chicken scratch, I filled up page after page of composition books, notebooks, blank pages, napkins--anything I could get my hands on. Sometimes, even I couldn’t read what I’d scrawled, but oddly enough, I understood it, because it was always stored in the back of my mind. Writing has always been my solace, and my way of escape from what was going on around me. I grew up in an unstable environment, and never knew where I’d be sleeping each night. Some nights, it was a matter of survival for my siblings, my mother, and I. My dad would come home in drunken rages and storm about the house, shouting, at all hours of the night and early morning. Often, he was pissed off. Yeah, I’m saying it right now, I was an abused kid. I used to be ashamed of it, and it was something that I became an expert at hiding from the world, but now I don’t. I’m tired of pretending, tired of lying about it, and trying to cover up the reasons for why my own father never loved me like he should of.
For nineteen years, I was often emotionally, verbally, mentally,and sometimes physically, abused by my father. The sad thing is, it took me nineteen years to realize it. They often say that abused kids live in denial, or aren’t aware that it’s just that--abuse. So, no, I’m not going to advertise it, but if you ask me about it, I’m not going to lie. No, I don’t have any contact with my dad, or try not to anyways, and if you ask me how I’d feel if he died, I’d give you a straight answer-ask me when it happens, and I’ll let you know. As far as I’m concerned I have no father, and my mother is doing one hell of a job considering what she went through for twenty-three years.
Writing became the only way to keep my sanity, and possibly one of the only things that kept me from becoming one of those “problem children.” Every time I felt anything at all, any sort of emotion, I wrote about it. Parents are always like “come to me if you have a problem,” but I could never go to mine. So, those notebook pages and pens became some of my best friends. It’s the only thing I ever felt a connection to, because I always felt that somehow, I was…different from the other kids. I always felt like my mind processed things totally different from any one else, and nobody ever understood, or accepted, what it was like. I guess I can say that I’m used to feeling withdrawn from the rest of the world, considering I have no idea what healthy relationships, or stable environments, are supposed to be like. And no, I’m not using my abusive childhood as a crutch for anything, or an excuse, because it doesn’t change who I am as a person, it just explains a lot of the reasons why I see the world so differently. Actually, sometimes, I guess discussing my past can actually be used as a tool to help others, or maybe that’s why I’m so good at solving others’ problems, but never my own.
I ultimately knew I wanted to be a writer when I entered high school. That’s when I really had to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my future, just where I wanted to go to school, and what I wanted to go for. Before that, I had the usual childhood dreams of race-car driver, explorer, and even considered attending medical school at one point. From the time I was a child, I knew I wanted to help people and to tackle a world where so few know the harshness of it, and even the smallest things can make a difference. In sixth grade up until sophomore year, I wanted to actually be an archeologist and Egyptologist until about five years ago. Yes, Ancient Egypt holds my passion, and my love for adventure, but I’m also smart enough to know it’s not going to pay the bills. I grew up with nothing, so, no, I do not want to have nothing in my future as well. I decided to pursue my passion for writing when my favorite English teacher, Ms. Paquette, told me I should consider a career in writing, during my sophomore year of class with her. She told me I had such a fierce passion, a fearlessness, and a considerable style of voice in my writing, that I should let the rest of the world hear it. So, that’s when I decided why not be a writer, it’s the thing I’m most passionate about. And well, it’s the thing that defines me the most. So, why not follow a dream, and attempt to change the world.
I feel like I have been asked so many times about what I want to write about, but each time the answer changes. Truthfully, I want to write about everything. I want to write about love, lust, romance, death, loss, pain, sorrow, joy, exploration, discoveries, wonder, life, everything that deserves to be written about. I want to write about the unknown, the mysterious, the taboo, everything that others are too afraid to write about. Because, that’s what I do. That’s what I am. Fearless, as Jim Ellefson often told me in my writing during his classes. I write with my voice, my own thoughts, my own style, and god forbid anyone stand in my way. I don’t let others tell me what to do or how to do it, I discover on my own, and charge full force. That’s probably why I earned the nickname Trouble. Sometimes I’m a little too impulsive, a little too forceful, a little too crude, a little too careless, a little too in-your-face, a little too aggressive. But that’s how I am, and I can’t change it. Nor do I want to. It’s made me into who I am, and how I write. I write the same way in which I live--with enthusiasm, with an open, curious, colossal sense of wonder, and with passion. I live (or try to) to the fullest, so why not write to the fullest?
I’m going to be completely, absolutely honest for once in a long time. I am tired of hiding my past, tired of holding back the tears, and tired of pretending everything’s okay. The truth is, it isn’t. It never has been for me. And something tells me it never will. I have been through more, much more than a lot of people I know, than I should have in the last twenty years. I never had that fairytale. My entire life has been an unstable, rocky path and whenever it seems to get clear, some other boulder comes tumbling down. So, the only thing that has ever kept me going is my dreams, my passion, and my ability to write. It’s the only way I know how to make any sort of sense out of the chaos that is my life. No, I’m not saying I’ve been through the worst, or that others don’t have it worse than I do, but I’m not going to sit here and tell you everything is okay. It’s not, and it’s high time I use this outlet to finally let go of what’s been building up inside me.
For the last couple of months, I have been going up to UVM for a sort of trauma therapy. I was going for an evaluation of sorts, I guess. So, last Wednesday, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, I guess it’s been developing since I was a kid. I didn’t know grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. I have no idea what stable, healthy relationships are like, and even how to recognize one, or handle one. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood. It’s no wonder why I write with such emotion.
I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. This was the last thing I wanted dropped on my head. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. But instead of regretting this, it actually gives me some directions, some answers. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open. No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from all of the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot--so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.
Along with this Somanization Disorder comes a long list of other things, among them: Chronic PTSD (which I’ve already known I’ve had since the age of twelve) and borderline ADHD like tendencies. A lot of the other things that come with it, I’d rather not discuss at this time, because it would just lead people labeling me as fucked up or crazy. But what this had made me realize is that now I have so much more to write about, so much more to explore, and so much more to know that I’ve survived. It also gives me a foundation, an outlet to reach out to others and use my experiences to help people. Not help them into experiencing the same things, of course, but help them realize they are not alone, that someone actually understands. Like I was talking to Tim about the other day, all this just gives me so much to write about, so many ways to make my voice heard. And, well, maybe in some twisted, fucked up way, it gives me a chance to change the world. It shows me that even when I’m breaking, slowly, and silently, some resistant part of me wakes up and pushes me through, determined that I keep going. It shows that I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.
So, with this long list of trauma, comes the courage to write about it. It’s a way to go into the silence and bring back what’s not being heard, what’s not being dared to talk about. The world can be an ugly, unstable place full of malice, turmoil, and heartache, and somebody has to write about it, so why not someone with a sort of experience? This, this is what I want to write about--what so many others are afraid to. People need to know, and maybe it’s me that has the right to write about it. It seems that perhaps I even have the courage, the determination, and the heart to do so. Yes, a lot of it scares the shit out of me, and tears me apart to write about, but it’s something I have to do. In a way, it seems like it’s the only way I’m ever going to heal from any of my mental or emotional scars.
How am I going to write about it, or display it as a portfolio of my work? The answer actually hit me the other day, funnily enough. I have this thick, black, leather book I write in, almost everyday. It’s filled with blank, white pages, and is probably meant to be a sketchbook, but I use it as my everything. As an account of the world and experiences through the eyes of a redhead who’s seen too much for her short life. Within the book is my collection of thoughts, my feelings, questions, answers, drawings, random sayings, poems, stories, quotes, anything I’ve ever written recently, anything that just pops into my mind. But what I think it shows the most, is the inner me, my true self that I very rarely let anyone see. The person that I’ve become so adept at hiding. I also think it shows my growth as a writer because this is it, it’s real, it’s emotional, it’s truth. A lot of writers start out with using their own personal experiences to help others, and honestly, I think I’m at a point in my life where I can begin that. I can use my own experiences, my own traumas, to inform others of how life can really be, and to do so in a collection of letters. They wouldn’t be addressed to anyone in particular, but a sort of journal--a creative nonfiction one.
I would also love to write about Egypt within these letters, because that’s the one other thing that’s held my love and passion for so many years. So, no, I don’t have a solid, concrete idea of what these letters would consist of or contain, but in truth, ideas change all the time, as often as the weather or the seasons do. All I know is I’d write in the fashion that I do, or live, everything else-with enthusiasm, interest, determination, compassion, sympathy, energy, love, creativity, and most of all, with passion. For my life would be nothing if I didn’t have passion.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hell on Earth
Rape. It’s poison. On my tongue. On your tongue. On their tongues.
For most, it’s a taboo subject. For others-when it happens-it’s a dirty little secret that they want to shove so deep into the darkness that it can never come up again. According to some, it “doesn’t happen” or they “ask for it.” Here’s the reality. It happens. Face it.
Rapists prowl everywhere. In the darkness, the light, in shadows, abandoned parking lots, hotel rooms, bedrooms, and in secret. It could be your sister, a friend, a neighbor, or a loved one. It could be you.
Nine months ago, it was supposed to be me. Instead, it was my best friend, Leah. My other friend, Marie, was sexually assaulted. A summer night of innocence turned into a night of tears, pain, and shame. A night of Hell on Earth. For legal reasons, I can’t reveal the full story, but to make a twisted, complex story short, a playful, spirited group of friends meet a couple of boys at a gas station, exchange banter, and exchange phone numbers. Because of one stupid mistake, that night changed everything.
For months, I felt my insides dying away. Because there was nothing I could’ve done to save Leah. I felt…guilty. Guilty that I had gotten away, that I wasn’t there to save her, that I wasn’t the one who had to undergo months of extensive medical treatment and police business. All I could do was stand by and watch. That, and put my own life on hold for the time being and do whatever I could to help her through it. The night it happened, I made a vow that I would be there whenever, and however, she needed me. The guilt that ate away at me the most was that within my own mind, it always whispered it should’ve been me. I was the original one he wanted. It should have been me.
I let that night break me, slowly, silently, and secretly, on the inside. Night after night was filled with darkness, tears, and terrible nightmares. I’d wake up, panicked, clammy, and disoriented, a scream lusting to rip from my throat. Instead I screamed silently inside my own head. Sometimes, though, I cried out into the darkness, wishing it would all go away. I wished we could wake up each morning and have it all be just a horrible dream. Reality check- this was a nightmare that we wouldn’t wake up from.
For so long, I hid the pain, anger, and frustration. I kept my silent tears at bay when I could, and when I couldn’t, I hid my eyes behind over-sized sunglasses so no one could see. But they knew. Especially my mother. She watched me tear myself apart for weeks, before she finally told me it wasn’t my fault and I shouldn’t feel guilty. I had no power to stop it. She told me I needed to accept it, to deal with it, and to find an outlet. I could do one of two things: find a counselor to talk to about it, or bury it so deep inside me that it could never crawl out again.
In September I came back for junior year of college. Leaving behind Leah was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I was given a chance to escape, a chance to forget about it, and a chance to start new. She wasn’t. I felt…horrible, like part of me was being ripped in two. Once here, I couldn’t escape the nightmare, no matter how desperately I tried.
I was still dying, slowly, inside. I would skip classes, or if I stayed, I would feel like the space was closing in on me. I could be sitting in class and instantly come to tears, thinking of everything. Insomnia haunted me each night. My PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) that I developed at the age of twelve came back full force. For months, I was a wreck.
I could do nothing to save my best friend that night. I would give anything to be able to turn back time and change everything to prevent it from happening. But I can’t. Now Leah, Marie, and I must live with that.
Everyone needs to be aware of just how much you can suffer from one mistake. Every story, every victim, every nightmare is different, but what ties it all together is this: the knowledge that it will test what you, and those close to you, are made of and see if you’re strong enough to master the physical, psychological, and emotional repercussions of living through Hell on Earth.
For most, it’s a taboo subject. For others-when it happens-it’s a dirty little secret that they want to shove so deep into the darkness that it can never come up again. According to some, it “doesn’t happen” or they “ask for it.” Here’s the reality. It happens. Face it.
Rapists prowl everywhere. In the darkness, the light, in shadows, abandoned parking lots, hotel rooms, bedrooms, and in secret. It could be your sister, a friend, a neighbor, or a loved one. It could be you.
Nine months ago, it was supposed to be me. Instead, it was my best friend, Leah. My other friend, Marie, was sexually assaulted. A summer night of innocence turned into a night of tears, pain, and shame. A night of Hell on Earth. For legal reasons, I can’t reveal the full story, but to make a twisted, complex story short, a playful, spirited group of friends meet a couple of boys at a gas station, exchange banter, and exchange phone numbers. Because of one stupid mistake, that night changed everything.
For months, I felt my insides dying away. Because there was nothing I could’ve done to save Leah. I felt…guilty. Guilty that I had gotten away, that I wasn’t there to save her, that I wasn’t the one who had to undergo months of extensive medical treatment and police business. All I could do was stand by and watch. That, and put my own life on hold for the time being and do whatever I could to help her through it. The night it happened, I made a vow that I would be there whenever, and however, she needed me. The guilt that ate away at me the most was that within my own mind, it always whispered it should’ve been me. I was the original one he wanted. It should have been me.
I let that night break me, slowly, silently, and secretly, on the inside. Night after night was filled with darkness, tears, and terrible nightmares. I’d wake up, panicked, clammy, and disoriented, a scream lusting to rip from my throat. Instead I screamed silently inside my own head. Sometimes, though, I cried out into the darkness, wishing it would all go away. I wished we could wake up each morning and have it all be just a horrible dream. Reality check- this was a nightmare that we wouldn’t wake up from.
For so long, I hid the pain, anger, and frustration. I kept my silent tears at bay when I could, and when I couldn’t, I hid my eyes behind over-sized sunglasses so no one could see. But they knew. Especially my mother. She watched me tear myself apart for weeks, before she finally told me it wasn’t my fault and I shouldn’t feel guilty. I had no power to stop it. She told me I needed to accept it, to deal with it, and to find an outlet. I could do one of two things: find a counselor to talk to about it, or bury it so deep inside me that it could never crawl out again.
In September I came back for junior year of college. Leaving behind Leah was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I was given a chance to escape, a chance to forget about it, and a chance to start new. She wasn’t. I felt…horrible, like part of me was being ripped in two. Once here, I couldn’t escape the nightmare, no matter how desperately I tried.
I was still dying, slowly, inside. I would skip classes, or if I stayed, I would feel like the space was closing in on me. I could be sitting in class and instantly come to tears, thinking of everything. Insomnia haunted me each night. My PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) that I developed at the age of twelve came back full force. For months, I was a wreck.
I could do nothing to save my best friend that night. I would give anything to be able to turn back time and change everything to prevent it from happening. But I can’t. Now Leah, Marie, and I must live with that.
Everyone needs to be aware of just how much you can suffer from one mistake. Every story, every victim, every nightmare is different, but what ties it all together is this: the knowledge that it will test what you, and those close to you, are made of and see if you’re strong enough to master the physical, psychological, and emotional repercussions of living through Hell on Earth.
An Ugly Truth
Rape. It’s an ugly truth that no one wants to talk about. When it happens, it becomes a dirty little secret. Many think that it can never happen to them. Burlingtonians seem to think that their city is the safest city, and nothing terrible will happen here. Reality-yes, it can. Who, when, and where, nobody can ever be certain. Rape claims its victims everyday, any time, and only one thing is certain-it changes lives forever.
Rape happens right here, on the streets of Burlington, when one least expects it. Shaken by the horrific experience, some victims report the incident to the local authorities, but most live in silence-and in fear. According to the Women’s Rape Crisis Center (WRCC), there are 522 survivors of sexual violence a year in Burlington alone. The WRCC receives 2,284 calls a year, which averages about six calls a day.
Both women and men can be victims of rape, though women’s cases are usually brought to general knowledge more so than men. Eighty-six percent of reported cases are female, while the remaining fourteen percent are male. Many of the rape victims are familiar with their attackers, ranging from acquaintances, to former partners, family members, authority figures, and the last percent are strangers.
Every minute, 1.3 adult women are raped, 78 per hour, and 1,871 per day. As few as 10% of sexual assaults are reported to the police. Victims are often raped in circumstances involving roofies, alcohol, parties, or simply walking down the street.
Survivors have one of two choices to deal with rape: bury the truth so deep inside that it never comes up again, or seek counseling, treatment, shelter, or comfort, from the dark reality, even if just for a little while.
Rape is a hard truth to accept, and an even harder truth to deal with, because the aftermath is going to be much more than anyone bargained for. Emotional, physical, and mental reactions come in waves, and can last for months, or for years, depending on the person. Two to one, they will experience feelings of shame, anger, despair, betrayal, sadness, heartache, and so much more. Physically, they could avoid eating of any sort, be extra cautious, lose trust even in those closest to them, attempt to detach themselves from the world, cease caring about many things, or vomit, sweat, and spend many, many nights crying themselves to sleep.
For some, sleep becomes a loss, as well as a terror. Nights are filled with nightmares, disorientation, tears, and terrified screams. Insomnia becomes a solace because every time they close their eyes, they relive their ordeal all over again. Some may experience a variety of mental health complications, such as anxiety, depression, or PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder), and it will affect them time and time again.
A woman could be at risk for rape in the same place they attend classes every day. As a female student, it is within their own best interests to be aware of the circumstances, because rape does happen right here on Champlain College campus, though it’s not widely reported. Champlain has taken steps to offer support and treatment to rape victims, or those who have had loved ones raped. The Student Life Center houses a team of counselors that are experts in a variety of areas. Though none of them specifically focus on counseling rape cases, they are still there for those who wish for help. There is no set numerical standard for cases seen a year, but even counseling just one victim makes all the difference.
Jennifer Hughes, a counselor and Drug/Alcohol Educator, is one of those sought out for treatment, advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. “This year, I have worked with five young women who have been assaulted at some point in their life and are beginning to work through what that means to them. Additionally, I have worked with several students who have a loved one who has been assaulted and they are impacted by it and they are trying to make sense of the experience as well.”
For those whose sordid experience have lead them to the shelter of a counselor’s office, or a guided word, it could be the first step towards coming to terms with the night, or multiple occasions, that has altered their life. Everyone comes to terms with it at different points in their lives, and through different ways. “It depends, some people never do, others do immediately-most people come to terms with it ay different points in time when it had different meaning to them, depending on where they are at in their lives and if a circumstance changes their perspective,” said Hughes in regards to her own experience in counseling rape victims, “some people deal with it in “waves”-they may do some treatment and take a break and then do some more-others do it all at once, other people will wait years before they are ready.”
How rape affects its victims differs as much as the colors of skin, race, ethnicity, location, reasons, and why it happens does. One thing that rape has in common with all victims, male or female, young or old, is that it “is a disempowering experience.” Sometimes, within the treatment of a rape victim, it is crucial to make sure they know they are in a safe place and it is “important to give the power back to a person by allowing them to have choice about what would support them to work through the experience.”
The knowledge of rape is a tough one to accept and understand; those who’ve suffered, and survived, must face it every single day. For many, a simple attitude of justice served would console the minds and souls of the victims, their families, loved ones, and other support systems-but it’s not that easy. Many of the rapes right here in Burlington go unreported and those guilty of the violence are free to strike again. In an ideal world, those offenders would be put behind bars and never released, but often enough, they walk away free, without so much as a slap on the wrist. “Often, people may report but choose not to press charges because there is not enough evidence to hold the perpetrator accountable, or because the court process can be lengthy and go on for years,” says Hughes. For some of those victimized by the “monsters,” “bastards,” “sick, perverted assholes,” rapists have been called, the whole court process can be a form of closure and they can make an attempt to move on with their lives. Others know themselves unable to heal if they encounter their perps face-to-face because “they will feel re-victimized if the perpetrator is not held accountable.” Whether or not a rapist is convicted and sentenced, justice is not always served for all because there are flaws in every case.
Rape breaks some, and makes others stronger. It will impact a survivor in many ways-change, shape, and help them become who they are, but “at the core everyone remains who they have always been.”
Rape happens right here, on the streets of Burlington, when one least expects it. Shaken by the horrific experience, some victims report the incident to the local authorities, but most live in silence-and in fear. According to the Women’s Rape Crisis Center (WRCC), there are 522 survivors of sexual violence a year in Burlington alone. The WRCC receives 2,284 calls a year, which averages about six calls a day.
Both women and men can be victims of rape, though women’s cases are usually brought to general knowledge more so than men. Eighty-six percent of reported cases are female, while the remaining fourteen percent are male. Many of the rape victims are familiar with their attackers, ranging from acquaintances, to former partners, family members, authority figures, and the last percent are strangers.
Every minute, 1.3 adult women are raped, 78 per hour, and 1,871 per day. As few as 10% of sexual assaults are reported to the police. Victims are often raped in circumstances involving roofies, alcohol, parties, or simply walking down the street.
Survivors have one of two choices to deal with rape: bury the truth so deep inside that it never comes up again, or seek counseling, treatment, shelter, or comfort, from the dark reality, even if just for a little while.
Rape is a hard truth to accept, and an even harder truth to deal with, because the aftermath is going to be much more than anyone bargained for. Emotional, physical, and mental reactions come in waves, and can last for months, or for years, depending on the person. Two to one, they will experience feelings of shame, anger, despair, betrayal, sadness, heartache, and so much more. Physically, they could avoid eating of any sort, be extra cautious, lose trust even in those closest to them, attempt to detach themselves from the world, cease caring about many things, or vomit, sweat, and spend many, many nights crying themselves to sleep.
For some, sleep becomes a loss, as well as a terror. Nights are filled with nightmares, disorientation, tears, and terrified screams. Insomnia becomes a solace because every time they close their eyes, they relive their ordeal all over again. Some may experience a variety of mental health complications, such as anxiety, depression, or PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder), and it will affect them time and time again.
A woman could be at risk for rape in the same place they attend classes every day. As a female student, it is within their own best interests to be aware of the circumstances, because rape does happen right here on Champlain College campus, though it’s not widely reported. Champlain has taken steps to offer support and treatment to rape victims, or those who have had loved ones raped. The Student Life Center houses a team of counselors that are experts in a variety of areas. Though none of them specifically focus on counseling rape cases, they are still there for those who wish for help. There is no set numerical standard for cases seen a year, but even counseling just one victim makes all the difference.
Jennifer Hughes, a counselor and Drug/Alcohol Educator, is one of those sought out for treatment, advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. “This year, I have worked with five young women who have been assaulted at some point in their life and are beginning to work through what that means to them. Additionally, I have worked with several students who have a loved one who has been assaulted and they are impacted by it and they are trying to make sense of the experience as well.”
For those whose sordid experience have lead them to the shelter of a counselor’s office, or a guided word, it could be the first step towards coming to terms with the night, or multiple occasions, that has altered their life. Everyone comes to terms with it at different points in their lives, and through different ways. “It depends, some people never do, others do immediately-most people come to terms with it ay different points in time when it had different meaning to them, depending on where they are at in their lives and if a circumstance changes their perspective,” said Hughes in regards to her own experience in counseling rape victims, “some people deal with it in “waves”-they may do some treatment and take a break and then do some more-others do it all at once, other people will wait years before they are ready.”
How rape affects its victims differs as much as the colors of skin, race, ethnicity, location, reasons, and why it happens does. One thing that rape has in common with all victims, male or female, young or old, is that it “is a disempowering experience.” Sometimes, within the treatment of a rape victim, it is crucial to make sure they know they are in a safe place and it is “important to give the power back to a person by allowing them to have choice about what would support them to work through the experience.”
The knowledge of rape is a tough one to accept and understand; those who’ve suffered, and survived, must face it every single day. For many, a simple attitude of justice served would console the minds and souls of the victims, their families, loved ones, and other support systems-but it’s not that easy. Many of the rapes right here in Burlington go unreported and those guilty of the violence are free to strike again. In an ideal world, those offenders would be put behind bars and never released, but often enough, they walk away free, without so much as a slap on the wrist. “Often, people may report but choose not to press charges because there is not enough evidence to hold the perpetrator accountable, or because the court process can be lengthy and go on for years,” says Hughes. For some of those victimized by the “monsters,” “bastards,” “sick, perverted assholes,” rapists have been called, the whole court process can be a form of closure and they can make an attempt to move on with their lives. Others know themselves unable to heal if they encounter their perps face-to-face because “they will feel re-victimized if the perpetrator is not held accountable.” Whether or not a rapist is convicted and sentenced, justice is not always served for all because there are flaws in every case.
Rape breaks some, and makes others stronger. It will impact a survivor in many ways-change, shape, and help them become who they are, but “at the core everyone remains who they have always been.”
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