Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor.

I really had an argument with myself about whether this blog would be written. It required 2 drafts, a frantic call to the therapist and a total of 3 anti-anxiety pills. I experienced one of those life changing moments in therapy on Saturday and it was such a monumental breakthrough for me; I have to share my story. The full story.

It started with a dress and a smile. I woke up Saturday morning feeling exhilarated; the anti-depressants are finally kicking in and I am beginning to sense the person that I hope to be. I had worn a dress and was in a very good mood as Michael and I went to have lunch before going to therapy together at 1pm. He doesn’t always accompany me to my sessions but sometimes my therapist requests his presence and luckily he doesn’t object or even groan about it. After a decent lunch at a local cafe, we arrived and was immediately met with open arms. ”

“Somethings different!!” She exclaimed! “You look beautiful, you are wearing makeup and a dress!”

I was feeling very optimistic to start the session. Knowing that I had Seattle to look forward to and figuring that this would most likely revolve around Michael, I was sitting pretty in the nice leather chairs waiting for it begin.

Looking back at exactly how it started, I honestly can’t even remember. The beginning sections of the conversation is kind of a blur. I’m always distracted by the cleanliness of the room and the laminate floors, the soft blue paint on the wall, the slightly askew painting of the lighthouse; it’s all very calming but it took a turn when the big question was asked…

“What is the memory that you are most ashamed of? What part of your past haunts you the most?”

I immediately started crying knowing exactly what this memory was and Michael looked at me, not knowing for sure. I was conflicted as to whether I really wanted to divulge that information. It’s very personal and I never talk about it but I was there for a reason so I decided to be honest with her, Michael, the painting of the lighthouse and myself. Before I continue, I would like to announce a trigger warning to anyone that had experience any kind of trauma. You may or may not like to continue…

When I was twelve, my mother attempted suicide for the second time. She was manic depressive and no one would help her seek help. She was in an involuntary hold unit for psychiatric care about 2 weeks. My family refused to take me in. I was forced to stay with my second cousin and his wife that is going through cancer treatments. During my eleven day stay, I was sexually molested consistently. It was deemed my “duty” because I had no where else to go and he wasn’t getting anything from his wife. This included inappropriate massages, “modeling” and one instance of oral sex. It was my first sexual encounter but was never escalated to rape with intercourse. I was in constant fear the whole time and there was never a comfortable moment but I somehow was able to cope knowing that “It could have been worse.” I didn’t even tell my mother what truly happened until I was in college. I am still shaking now just retelling the story in my head as I am typing.

Truth is though, that is what I was always most ashamed of. I never tell anyone because I feel judged and used. It’s been a defense mechanism to tell myself “It could have been worse, I need to stop acting like it was a big deal.”

After telling this to my therapist with some anger behind the words that she now ruined a perfectly good makeup day, she asked me what I could have done to change that, which I naturally listed all the regret that I keep inside.

“No, think of yourself as a 12 year old young girl, you are vulnerable without your mother and knowing you had no where else to go. You are with a family member that is supposed to be safe. What could you have done differently?”

After really thinking about this… “I don’t know.”

“Why do you think it never escalated to rape?”

I really didn’t know the answer to this question. I never did. I always just considered myself the lucky ones. I knew he thought about it but he never acted on it. “I really have no idea”

Her response has honestly changed my life.

“Regardless of how you defenseless you were in this situation, he was thinking of escalating the situation. Whether you said it outright or not. You must have made it perfectly clear that you would not tolerate it. That would be your breaking point. That would be when his life would probably end. You took charge of the situation without realizing it.”

I don’t dwell on this memory very often. I don’t talk about it, ever. But I have NEVER seen this memory from this angle. Having the memory surround a strong 12yr old take charge of the situation versus a vulnerable mouse completely changed my outlook. It changed the worst thing about myself, the darkest corner. I still have some dim aisles and a lot of dusty shelves to work though and organize but one step at a time.

I refuse to allow this memory and this act of abuse define me anymore. I won’t block it off. I want people to trust me as a person, an artist, an activist and as a woman. I will allow myself to stand up for myself and anyone else who needs it. This isn’t a post for attention. The different way I look at this memory has truly changed me, therapy has changed me and blogging is therapeutic.

Well, I leave for Seattle on Wednesday night and I am now in panic mode. I will be bringing my laptop so… <insert evil laugh here>