a reason to not be silent

In support of survivors everywhere:

An Open Letter From Dylan Farrow

words

I wrote about it here.
I got a letter from each of them. Separately.

hers started out well enough. Apologies . . . with a "but" attached.
explanations. defense. blame?
I am hurt and angered . . . again.
I am tired. I am lost.
I did not expect to react so strongly. I got, in many ways, just what I predicted.
words . . . but where are the actions and emotions?

his was wonderfully written.
it's what he does.
even so, it felt more real. heartfelt?
there was a literature reference to be sure, but it applied.
he apologized.
no "buts".
no explanations, no defense, no blame.
I cried.
I want to believe.
words . . . but there have been words before.

I shared them with trusted friends, some who know them, some who don't.

several pointed out what I had initially missed. 
they skirt specificity.
they leave unanswered key questions I posed.

I am tired. 
the anger has drained away.
I question whether or not I want to continue this struggle.

when do I say enough?

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday

Collision

For years I lived in two worlds. In one world, I was myself, most of the time. I thought what I wanted to think. I did what I wanted to do. I breathed in the ease of being myself.

In my other world, I was my parents’ child. I said what they wanted to hear. I behaved how they wanted me to behave. I did what they said. I worried a lot.

The world where I breathed easily was mostly in my head. I thought all kinds of thoughts, but the other world bled over into it too often to ignore. I couldn’t get settled.

Over time it just became so difficult to live that interior life that I began to let it slip away. I was their child, his wife, their mother, the good Christian, the stay at home mom, the baker, the seamstress . . . and on and on.

I broke.

He asked me, “How did you used to feel?” And I answered, “Afraid.”

“Not all the time?”

“Yes. All the time.” But that wasn’t quite true. Sometimes, alone in my head, I wasn’t afraid.

I’ve spent nearly 12 years trying to learn to breathe in the ease of being myself all the time, not just in my head. It’s been a long road. Recently I passed a milestone of sorts.

I sent a letter to them. I told them the unvarnished truth of what they’d done and how badly it had hurt at the time, and how much it still hurts. I never dreamed I’d say those things to them. I was terrified the sun would fall from the sky. I’d stop existing. The world would cease to spin on its axis.

None of that happened. The world is still here. I am still breathing.

Nothing changed, except I wrote the truth. My two worlds collided and neither one ceased to exist.

They still live in their world, but I’m breathing easier in mine.

What happens when you brace for a collision and it’s almost imperceptible?

I’ve asked myself over and over for the past week, why did I wait so long?

The answer is actually quite simple – I had to get to the place where I wouldn’t be surprised by their non-reaction. I had to understand whatever I did was for myself, and I was worth facing the fear of collision.

linking up at Red Writing Hood

Stretch

I'm stretching in new and different ways this week.
Yesterday I sent a letter that's been a long time coming.
It's taken me nearly 12 years to realize I have the right to be treated with respect and dignity.
Now that I've done it -- stretched myself to the breaking point -- I feel lighter, more capable, clearer.
I'm wondering what other stretching I may need to do to allow me to live a free life -- free from worry and fear.
But for right now I'm enjoying the feeling of release this stretch is providing. Like the way I savor the sensations at the end of a good yoga class. Everything feels right and relaxed.
Stretch. It's good for you.

linking up with Lisa-Jo

Longhand

I have to write this letter. I feel as if I have tried to say these things over and over again, so what is the point in trying once more? I usually write on the computer, not trusting my hand to handle the stress of writing these kinds of words. But I’m sitting in the café and my computer is at home on my desk.

I pull out a spiral notebook and my new pen. Writing in longhand is so personal. It puts me in touch physically with the words in a way that the computer keyboard does not. My hand must form each letter, each word. I have to slow down my thoughts to so my hand can keep up. I am forced to think through each word in a more elemental way. This is good and bad.

I start out calmly enough. I am numbering my points as I try to explain (again) the rift and what the exact cause is. I am respectful and thoughtful as I write these words, trying to spare their feelings while still getting the point across. But as my hand moves along the page, it becomes harder and harder to keep the letters well-formed and evenly spaced.

I stop and breathe. I do not want the writing to look like the ravings of a lunatic, but I cannot hide the emotion. It comes pouring out through the tip of the pen.

I arrive at the fourth point, and I cannot control the pen well at all. The letters are jagged and jerky. I am neither weak nor fragile. I am strong. What you perceive as fragility is self-preservation, healing, and honoring myself and my needs. If only my handwriting showed how deeply I believe this.

The words become more and more definitive and deliberate. I will not be in a relationship with people who continue to hurt me whether intentionally or not. I am offended that you consider me so shallow and saddened that you view me in this way. I am appalled that you have treated my husband so thoughtlessly.

I can’t go on any longer. If I were typing this, I might go on and on for pages. But the decline of my handwriting forces me to see the depth of my pain and anger. I cannot continue. My whole body is enveloped in the emotion. The simple act of writing these words has opened a fissure in my calm veneer. I am in a public place and if I continue allowing my hand to express these feelings, I may not be able to keep up the calm visual persona I desire.

I cap the pen. I close the notebook. I breathe.

linking up at Write on Edge and imperfect prose

This Has to Stop

In 2009 I posted a letter I had written to an abuse victim who had taken her own life. I am haunted by this woman's death, because it was so unnecessary. She had the resources and from all appearances a supportive family. What she didn't have was people who genuinely believed her. 

This weekend I heard about another abuse victim who didn't make it. He was intelligent, talented, and by all accounts personable. He left a 4000 word suicide note posted on the Internet with a request that it be made available so that others would know what drove him to suicide.

When I hear and read these stories, I am reminded of my own struggles with depression and suicidal thoughts. I don't know what the ultimate difference is between those who die victims and those of us who stick around to be "survivors". What I do know is this -- it is my duty, responsibility and honor to uphold those who couldn't do it for themselves. 

Pray for the friends and family of Bill Zeller. Pray that they will find peace and comfort. Pray that they will be able to remember the good things about him and realize the tremendous pain he was in that led him to this place. Pray that those responsible will take responsibility for the actions that caused Bill's death. Pray all abuse victims and survivors. Pray that we as a people will do all in our power to find a way to stop the destruction caused by childhood sexual assault.

For my part, I will continue to speak my truth and the truth of all the others who survive and especially those who don't. It is my privilege.

(Here is the link to the suicide note in its entirety that was left by Bill Zeller. Please read it if you can so that you may be able to help another.)

Open letter to an abuse victim

Dear One,
I want you to know that I believe you. I believe you were abused by ****. I believe you were abused by ****. I believe that even though you tried as hard as you knew how, you couldn’t get the support you needed from the people you needed it from the most. I know your pain was unbearable and you believed you took the only route you could.
I am so very sorry that you reached that point. I wish I could have been a compassionate witness for you in life. But I could not because I didn’t know you or your situation. I can be a compassionate witness now and I will be. I will continue to believe myself and speak the truth. I will support other victims and help them on the road to becoming survivors. I will do all within my power to keep other women from reaching that crushing point that took you away from your life and your children. I will speak out against ALL abusers regardless of their standing in the community. I will not let your death be in vain.
I don’t know exactly what this will all lead to, look like, or mean, but I promise to not let you down as others did.
I will pray for your children and their safety. I pray that you have found peace in the loving arms of Jesus. I will pray for the abusers that they will confess their sins and take responsibility, but mostly I will hold your name up as a victim of abuse. Not a crazy person, but a hurt person.

Go in peace