April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. To honor those affected by sexual assault (i.e. everyone) our local SAS organization took the voices of survivors and others affected by the horrible act and put them into a play. Today volunteers will put on two performances. I attended the afternoon performance and a few hours from now more people will attend the evening performance. It was definitely a powerful project and I believe more communities should do the same thing. Earlier this year while they were putting the production together, my therapist asked me to share my story for the project. I could write, I could speak, I could let share my story, I could answer the questionnaire, I could share in whatever way I wanted. So, I did and I gave it to my therapist to give to the person in charge of the play and a few weeks later I was informed that they had selected to perform my piece the way I wanted it performed...hmmm...
Listening to my words come alive in front of me made my whole stomach turn to knots. Listening to words that live in me daily make their way out for the world to hear made me want to run and hide. These words, so personal, so incredibly my own were being shared for all the people there to hear. To make it worse, there was someone recording the performance and my words were being caught on tape forever. These were MY words. Why was someone else speaking them? sharing them? letting them out? My whole body was so tight and the pain coming from the inside was about to tear through my carefully masked face. These words were my constant, personal hell. These words were being taken from me...no, worse...I gave these words away.
I have shared my story many times. My words, my voice. I've shared facts. I can stand up and share the facts of my childhood: broken home, alcoholic/druggie father, depressed mother, angry/abusive brother, lots of bullies, sexually abusive stepfather, depression, self-harm, eating disorders, suicide...FACTS. Nothing can change these facts. I see them for what they are and I can share them with anyone who asks. I will answer any question and I will do it in a matter-of-fact way. I like to think of myself as an open book but I'm never the one to open it.
Today it was different. It was my story in a whole new way. The voice I lost all those years again was finding its way back to me. I listened to these women speak my thoughts, my questions, my wonderings, my feelings, my absolutely unguarded, atrociously disgusting, and all consuming words. The ones that tumble around in my head. The ones that come up from my gut and try to wiggle out but can never seem to make it to my lips. These are the words that were being spoken today. The ones I never share with anyone, not even my therapist of 7 years. It didn't last more then 5 minutes, if that, and yet it seemed like forever while I sat there hearing them speak my words.
The words being spoken today were about my response to the facts and the response of the ones I loved. Today a piece of my was given a voice that I haven't heard with my ears in over 15 years. My mind's ear is tormented daily with these words but they stay inside and never find a way out. They are MINE. If I shared them with someone, how would they respond? They couldn't handle the unbearableness of these words. Heck, they can barely handle the facts. I have no idea how to give my words a voice again. I do not know if I'll ever speak what haunts my days and nights. Because the facts are only part of story.
