I have long delayed writing this post, subconsciously, and most definitely consciously for many of the reasons that are so obvious right now with a quick glance at the news. I’m going to be honest with you, I have avoided social media the last few days and the few times I have logged on to check in with friends, I was triggered by a lot of what I saw. I knew myself well enough to know that it would bring up a lot of old stuff. I knew that my feed would be full of those supporting Ford for coming forward, but I also knew that I would run across at least one person who posted something to the effect of “it was a long time ago and if it really happened we would’ve heard about it before now”.

Enough delaying… it’s time I write this post… here we go. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. *holds my breath*

I grew up in one of those towns where everyone knows everyone. Kids roam around freely, with no parents in sight, much to the chagrin of local store employees. The coffee shop was filled with as many middle schoolers as college students or adults. The kind of small town where the words: ‘sexual abuse’ are mentioned- they immediately look to another city or to another country where kids are kidnapped by creepy men jumping out of bushes.

I was 11… I’ll let that sink in a minute….

I was 11 the first time I was sexually abused. It went on for a little more than 7 years. The person who chose to abuse me was a pillar of our small community- and someone who held great power and influence. He was a close friend to my parents and someone who frequented our home for parties and gatherings. I was 11 when I was first sexually abused; the last time, I was 19. My abuser was a family friend and for this post and in my blog- I will call them ‘Alex’.

The physical injuries that I experienced throughout the abuse were numerous: Alex broke my arm, broke my rib, cut my side with a knife, caused burns on my left arm (the boiling water that caused it was aimed at my face), and even brought friends to abuse me. The physical abuse was horrifying but it has not had anywhere close to the same impact that the emotional abuse had on me. The emotional abuse was intentional and manipulative. Alex threatened to kill my family if I told anyone what happened to me. Alex used to ask me where I was and if I didn’t respond, he’d threaten me or my family. He attended every high school event I went to, including my graduation, prom, senior day, and many football games. All of this was emotional manipulation: it was a physical manifestation of the simple line: “You are mine, and I can get to you whenever I want to”, and he did.

The remnants of the emotional abuse are what I work through every week in therapy. The physical scars have mostly healed and the strongest physical reminder of him I have [a scar on my left arm] I had a beautiful mandala tattooed near it, with the word ‘survivor’ written over it. I’m so happy I did that. I used to look down at the scar and think of Alex and all the things they did to me. Now I look at my arm and I am reminded of my own strength and courage. I can trust myself. I know what love really is. This voice is strong in me, now, and it speaks so much louder than Alex’s. In some ways: Alex tore my family apart. As I write this there is a small part of me that, if only for a second, thinks that it was not Alex, but me who tore apart my family. I think about my choice to disclose what was happening to me and sometimes I see that as the beginning of the disagreements in my family.

What Alex did, is not my responsibility. It feels good to write that- even though there are some days I believe this more than others.

For me: healing looks like breaking the silence. Healing looks like embracing my sexuality. Healing looks like surrounding myself with amazing people. Healing sometimes looks like yoga, journaling, or meditation. It also looks like Gloomhaven on Saturday mornings, with junk food, and bickering with my friends. It looks like me being proud of myself. It also looks like bad days, the days I sit and cry about the news and what Alex did- that is healing for me, in moderation. It’s allowing myself the space to feel what I need to feel and know that I will get through it with my own force of will and a lot of help from my family and friends. Healing is having people hear my story and believe what happened to me.

The news brings up a lot for many people, not just me, check in on your friends, especially those who you know have experienced abuse. They need you right now.

Take care of yourself- seriously, you deserve that.

All my love,

Taylor