Start Talking

I think that all the silence is worse than all the violence
Fear is such a weak emotion that’s why I despise it
We scared of almost everything, afraid to even tell the truth
So scared of what you think of me, I’m scared of even telling you
Sometimes I’m like the only person I feel safe to tell it to
I’m locked inside a cell in me, I know that there’s a jail in you
Consider this your bailing out, so take a breath, inhale a few
My screams is finally getting free, my thoughts is finally yelling through

–Lupe Fiasco, “Words I Never Said”

As mentioned in bestlittlelion92’s post from earlier this week, on Monday, the ShoutOut! bloggers went to a presentation on domestic and relationship abuse.  All of us had a pretty raw response to this visceral presentation—it was powerful, yet emotionally draining.

I connected pretty heavily with one part of the presentation in particular, given a series of traumatic experiences from my childhood.  And I broke down in the middle of a crowded auditorium.  I was totally raw with my emotions.  The floodgates opened, and I was completely overwhelmed.  The incredible ShoutOut! bloggers immediately surrounded me, holding my hands and comforting me as I relived my experience.  However, despite the outpouring warmth and support, in that moment all I felt was shame.

I, too, have heard that horrific “don’t tell anyone” sentiment—part plea, part threat.  And I didn’t, for far too long.  I still disclose my experiences discriminately, mostly because it’s easier for me to pretend it didn’t happen.  Plus, I despise putting that burden on anyone else.  So, when I had that horrific emotional connection, I couldn’t adequately respond with due appreciation for the support I was being given.  Instead, I just felt terrible for the “breakdown.”  All I could think was “I’m an editor for chrissake…what kind of leader am I, sobbing uncontrollably in front of the group?”  “I look psycho.”  “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” 

I realized in that instant that the shame I felt was placed on my shoulders by that despicable human being whose name I won’t bother typing.  I was bearing the burden of his shame—he had transferred it to me.  I still feel like it’s my fault in talking about it, in letting someone know what happened to me, because I was never supposed to tell. 

The second that thought crossed my mind, I knew what I needed to do.  I excused myself to wipe the snot off my face, and asked everyone to hang tight for a quick meeting outside the auditorium.  When I came back, I explained to them what happened to me.  And then, the unthinkable happened:  others in the group opened up.  What started as me feeling ashamed for speaking up turned into this incredible manifestation of the core of feminism:  “the personal is political.”  Women’s personal stories, their lived experiences, matter.  And getting together and talking about these experiences empowers us.  It liberates us.  It brings us closer together.

The point of this post isn’t just to talk about my story of abuse.  The point is that I learned on Monday that I’m not alone.  Yes, I have a story to tell, but now I feel like a can tell it while being surrounded by love, support, and compassion.  I’m not ashamed.  I’m also not a victim—I’m a survivor.  This story is important because as a lived experience, it contributes to the fabric of feminist discourse.  And maybe this message will inspire someone else to start talking.

Maya Angelou once said “I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.”  Don’t suffer in silence, and don’t feel ashamed.  Don’t let your self-worth be diminished because of what someone did to you.  Find someone and start talking.