Part One: #MeToo
I want to say something.
I want to say something out loud.
I want to scream it.
I want to open my mouth and let it all fall out.
And never stop speaking it.
But hey, I'm just a nice girl who doesn't make waves don't you know.
And let's not forget what you told me, what all the people that came before you have told me- "Maybe you shouldn't dwell on it. It's in the past, move on. Stop being a victim..."
Well hey there sexual abuse and rape culture- you're pretty clever because the quickest way to silence a woman is to shame her. And it sure does the trick nicely, wouldn't you agree?
So here we are...
#MeToo
I waited for awhile to publicly stand with a sisterhood of women that were brave enough to say it out loud. I thought that because I have generally been pretty open that maybe it was better to refrain for once. After all, I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings- and by and in large, I would and have protected other people's feelings before my own.
And yet the fact remained that I kept seeing the hashtags- the stories- the pain- the deep ache of wounds that have been stitched up only to be ripped wide open again, and again, and again- so many times that that you loose count. And I kept seeing the invitation- that if EVERY woman would post their #MeToo story than collectively our voices might be heard and the men in our lives would be able to see and understand the sheer magnitude of this issue.
I thought about what I would say if I said anything at all. I wrestled with it. I lost sleep. I didn't eat. I relived my own #MeToo montage and I could not find the pause button. The weight of it intertwined itself into the depression that I've been fighting against. And it was relentless. And I started to think about all of the people in my life who have called me brave and surely this was a moment that demanded I be brave and so I closed my eyes and took a breath and wrote some words down.
I read my own words and wept bitterly for that woman as if she were not me and I was not her. And when the weeping gave way to that old familiar dry and thirsty longing, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that I did not find any value in myself, that I was as used up as a rusted car in an abandoned boneyard. And it hurt. It still does. Beyond any words that I have in my lexicon. And it made me sick, and I fell to my knees on my bathroom floor and vomited out the poison of my truth. And when I was done, I stood up and washed my face and I owned those words and I told myself to be brave for that woman, the woman that I was robbed of.
And in the wake of my words came the apologies. The "I never knew that x, y, z, about you. And if I..."
If I. ... If I. ... If I. ... If I. ... If I. ...
Not I am or When I or For the....
Do you see where I'm going with this?
There was a sentiment of hesitation as if to say I do not think that I have done anything wrong but I feel bad about what you said because hey I didn't know-
It was a curious thing to ponder, that had they never known, would they have ever felt the need to even bother with their half-hearted, semi-apologies, I wonder?
The transference of guilt was inevitable. Victimology 101- when a woman has been a recipient of trauma, she will at some point succumb to 'it was all my fault'.
And the apologies marched into the tangled web of my daily psychological warfare and suddenly I was responding with vigor- no, I know you didn't mean to, you're not that bad, it's okay...etc.
And then came the bounce back, you know that sudden burst of anger, the one that you suffocate because it burns so deep in your bones that it scares the hell out of you because you just know that you are ANGRY. SO FUCKING ANGRY. But hey, you're still a nice girl, so here's some polite anger.
And so it was that I found myself writing out more words for public consumption. I didn't want another apology. I couldn't stand another "If I"- What I needed as a survivor of this wreckage was for one man to own his actions, even just one. Because quite frankly the parade of "If I's" was only furthering the damage.
The backlash came. Little boys pretending to be men threw rocks and called names and took their toys and went home.
And I collected myself and curled up in the pain of it all. And tried to cry out the guilt that wasn't mine to own, but mostly, it remained. And that worthlessness filled me up and sunk me like the Titanic.
Wednesday found me wide awake and having a 3am party with PTSD. And so I did the only thing that I know how to do when I need to let it out, I wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote until it flowed like a river, my broken heart.
And this was where I stood at 4am:
"Waiting"
Close your eyes
Take a breath
Tell me now how you’re sorry for
The words you said
Those things you did
The way you never saw me as anything more
Than
A good time
A little fun
No big deal
An easy one
And oh so convenient-
Now here we are
We’ve turned the page
And did the writing on the wall make you think of me
And did you try to justify your way around it
And tell me this,
Does it hurt you at all to think about it
Because here we are
I’ve never the turned the page
And it went round and round and round inside my head
How I was nothing more than a Barbie doll
That little boys could break or bend
But hey, it was just a good time
And wasn’t it fun
No big deal
Cleary a girl like me is just an easy one
And oh so convenient-
Because life taught me well to shut my mouth and play along
And I close my eyes
And take a breath
Because darling it hurts me to think about it
And once upon a time I dreamed of white dresses
But after all these years
And these hands
And these words
And these things that I don’t speak
Maybe now all I know is how to clean up messes
That were never of my own making
Now here we are
Looking at these pages
And I wonder if you had never read my confessions
If I were still just a girl that was in your once upon a time memories
Would you have still thought that maybe what you did wasn’t right-
And even still
The words are weak
Because if you, and if you, and if you, and if you, and if you-
And somehow it still falls back on me
And once upon a time, it was a long time ago
When I was just a little girl
There was a darkness whispered into me
And year after year, it would not give way to another ending
And so I am who I am
And I stand where I stand
And don’t you know, I’m still waiting for
A good man to be a good man
Because don’t you know
For me it’s not over
After all the apologies
Because I still let you make me guilty
Isn’t that funny, how it works
But darling, I don’t expect you to understand
Because hey, you didn’t know
And maybe even so, it doesn’t really matter what you know about me-
And darling, don’t you know it hurts to think about it
The truth between the lines
And close your eyes
And take a breath
It’s just the way the story goes
Now here we are
And I meant it when I said
What needs to be forgiven, I forgive
But tell me this,
And please look me in the eyes when you say it
So I can see your truth-
After all the writing on the wall
Does it hurt you at all to think about it
Because it hurts me to think about it
And we’ll turn the page
And you’ll walk away
But darling, please know for me
It still hurts to think about it
And if you are who you said you are
Who you want to be
Than please know
I’ll be here still waiting
For a good man
To be a good man
And I’ll keep writing on this wall
Until it crumbles and it falls
And maybe then we can all begin again
Because here we are
And maybe now, I think I’d like to begin again
And don’t you know, I'm still waiting for a good man
To be a good man.
Part Two: When Good Men Do Nothing
By Thursday, the emotional toll of the last few days fell down on me like bricks. And I was at the end of myself. Like the END. Like I tap out. Like I'm going to go close my eyes and not wake up. How's that for real talk?
When you live with the weight of the kind of trauma that I have walked through, there is not a day that passes where you are not having to deal with it on some level. What no one tells you about sexual abuse or rape is that it is a life sentence. PTSD will be your new bff- and you'll never be able to break up because whereas you want nothing more than to walk away from it all, it will never walk away from you. Some days will be easier than others. In my case, I medicated 30 plus years worth of trauma, after trauma, after trauma, after trauma- and I never faced it until last year. I have been a woman set on fire and it is still burning, that fire, with no end in sight. Because it will take time to settle. So much time. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.
But sometimes there is a weight that is so heavy, you want to call a cease fire. Because you cannot take one more day of this.
I didn't want to fight back against it anymore.
I sat in my room on the floor curled into myself. Nothing was safe. I was afraid of myself. I was afraid of that ringing in my head. I was afraid of the calmness. I was afraid that it didn't matter anymore. I was afraid that I didn't matter anymore. I was afraid to move. I was afraid to breathe. I held my phone in my hands. I didn't want to exist. I didn't want to...
But a wise friend once told me when you are ready for the jump, always take a pause.
And so I found myself reaching out to one of the only people that speaks truth to me in a way that I can hear it. And I drove down to Dana Point and met Rick, one of my former Solmar Recovery treatment counselors at Harbor House.
And we talked, and talked, and talked.
And he listened intently and intentionally.
And he spoke some truth into me. And he told me of former patients, their stories similar to mine and of their healing.
And he spoke words that I have heard several times before- Jillian, it was not your fault. It was not your fault. Jillian, you need to forgive yourself. Jillian, you will get to the other side.
And I heard it, those words. I heard it.
After our goodbyes, I drove to Dana Point Harbor and watched the ocean. And those words remained. And they seemed to echo in the crashing tides. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was NOT my fault. And I allowed myself to let those words be. I let them sit with me in that quiet space, on that solitary rock and that ocean filled with the voices of broken & brave women, myself included.
Friday found me sitting on the brown couch across from my therapist, Heather, and as we talked about the events of the week from the #MeToo post and subsequent fallout and my time with Rick and my ability to finally begin to hear the message of "It was not your fault," there were a few things that rose up...
As I have watched my social media accounts fill up and overflow with these #MeToo stories, I was waiting for something to happen, I was waiting for the good men in the room to stand up, to speak up.
And yet it has been a silent, barren landscape.
And that silence is loud.
And that silence is disturbing.
And that silence conveys a message.
And whether it is acknowledged or not, that silence is damning and damaging to each and every one of the women who have said #MeToo.
I spoke of this silence with Heather. I told her that for me, it was sad and painful that the men in my life, men that I know to be generally good guys have stayed silent. Because their silence has caused me to question if they are in fact good men? Because their own silence on this matter, says that it's no big deal, that it doesn't matter, that it's not valid, that it's not their problem.
As women we were asked to be brave and stand up and up and speak out against the violations that we have endured in our lives. And we did. And the echo rippled across the ethos, long and loud. And we waited for the echo to circle back.
I wonder how it is that a good man could read these confessions and not be bothered by them?
I wonder if they were even paying attention?
I wonder if they read these posts and told themselves, I'm a good guy, this doesn't apply to me.
I wonder...
Because the truth of the matter is that age old adage:
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
[-Edmund Burke]
For. Good. Men. To. Do. Nothing.
I wonder if the men in my life know how much I desperately need them to do SOMETHING.
Because I am waiting for them, for those good men to be good men.
You know, I spent some time thinking about this earlier and what I have been longing for in this whole #MeToo conversation is that men would engage in this- Because ultimately they are the ones that have the power to make or break this- And here's the thing, it doesn't even have to be an apology- sure maybe you haven't been one of those men- but you could be the man that stands up and says publically- "I have read your words. I am grieving for you. I am grieving with you. It was not your fault. I hear you. I am listening. I will strive to be a better man..."
It's a simple enough script. One that would take less than five minutes of your time. But one that would potentially leave an lasting impact on that one woman who needs to know that her story matters and that you are standing up for her.
While in session, my therapist Heather pointed out something significant to me- that during my conversation with Rick- he was sitting in the mess with me-
And doesn't that make all the difference- to be in it with someone. I think so.
The reality of this beautiful and messy #MeToo movement is that as with all hashtag movements, it will eventually fade away and be replaced with the next latest and greatest cause.
But for all of us, for all of the #MeToo's, it will not be over.
I want to say something.
I want to say it out loud.
I want to scream it.
I want to open my mouth and let it all fall out.
And never stop speaking it.
Because I need you to hear me.
I need to know that you are listening.
We are your mothers. We are your daughters. We are your sisters. We are your girlfriends. We are your wives. We are your colleagues. We are your friends.
Do you see us? Do you hear us? Do you believe that our stories matter?
Because we are waiting for you. And we need you. We need you to sit in this mess with us.
How much healing could begin if good men would but stand up and speak into this abyss of evil.
So here's my question, will the good men in the room please stand up?
Because we are waiting.
I am waiting...
-Jillian Nichole, waiting.
