[9/15/18]
Author's Note: I have written this blog. Erased it. Rewritten it again. Edited it down to politeness. Blew it up with TMI. Deleted words. Added words. Decided not to post it. And rewrote it once again... What I know as a multiple trauma survivor is that I, and only I, will ever live with the details of my trauma. But the mechanism of healing, the salve to the poison, is to speak. And this, this speaking, it comes with a price. And perhaps for this moment, I am to some small degree willing to pay the price... ***Fair warning LONG POST***
.....
[5/10/18]
It's ten minutes 'til four in the morning and I am stumbling through the dark reaching for the bathroom light. My heart is skipping beats, slamming tracks like a DJ at a rave. And I promptly throw up in the toilet. My hands are shaking, my whole body really. And I wash my face and brush my hair and grip the counter for fear of passing out. Inhale. Count to ten. Exhale. Count to ten. Those wide grey-blue eyes stare back at me filled with a fragile determination that whispers, "You can do this, you can do this."
You. Can. Do. This.
So what exactly am I doing at ten minutes 'til four in the morning when presumably the whole wide world is asleep and I ought to be as well?
I am re-framing the day. Or something like that...
A little while back as I was processing some rabbit holes that related to Arizona, I had this epiphany of sorts. There was a part of me that used to think that forgiving David was the hardest part. But truth be told, when I returned to Arizona in December of 2017, I made my peace with the man, not the acts necessarily, but the man, yes- I can't really explain that part but with David, I called a sort of truce. I think there is inevitably a little more ground work that I will need to do in order to feel a full level of forgiveness but the initial part, I think I'm already there.
That came as a surprise to me.
It made me uncomfortable. Because at the end of that rope, there was another loose end.
A big one. One that I had not counted on. One that rocked me. One that nearly undid me completely.
The big revelation to me was that forgiving David was always going to be the easy part. Forgiving what he did to me during those 13 hours was always going to be the simple task. Well, less complicated anyway...It was me that was going to be hard. Forgiving myself. Forgiving my silence. Forgiving my surrender to the acts that David committed against me. Forgiving the choices that I made both on that night and in the years that followed. Because the jury returned the verdict, and I was found guilty on all counts.
And I don't know if it is possible for me to forgive that woman. Or the woman that came back from Arizona. Or the woman that I am now. It's a loaded question, in a loaded gun, in the hands of a woman who at best on most days is a little unsteady...
"Hold, hold on to me because I'm a little unsteady..."
****
I want to invite you into a certain set of details about those 13 hours that I do not generally disclose. I fully expect and anticipate you to cast judgment as you may...because after all what kind of woman would... (And I am sure that after you read this you will fill in the blanks quite nicely...)
Arizona v. Jillian Nichole:
Case for the prosecution:
1. I did not scream. I was at various points during those 13 hours surrounded by people, and even at one point in arms length of 3 sheriffs deputies. But I never screamed. Not. One. Single. Time. I DID NOT SCREAM.
2. I did not fight back. Not when he did what he did, as many times as he did what he did to my body- I did not struggle. I did not try to run. I did not exhibit any sign of "normal" instinctual self-defense. I DID NOT FIGHT BACK. Not even a little bit.
3. There was an aspect to that 13 hours that is unsettling at best- it was the almost normal camaraderie of two people getting to know one and other. Because I'm good at that, at the talking, at listening, at connecting, I'm good at that. And on that night, It was my only form of defense. We talked for long stretches of dark, desert highway, surrounded by an eerie quiet of a bus full of people, peacefully asleep, oblivious to the girl at the front of the bus who was desperately trying to save her life. We talked. What I know now is that even that was a game. And in those words that volleyed between us, in the seemingly innocent answers that I offered him, in my feeble attempts to merely buy myself some more time, all the while I was handing David the deadliest weapon of all, my family. I told him about my family. I told him about the people that I love the most on this earth. And with each word, I forged his greatest weapon against me. The safety of my family. Because I told him- I. Told. Him.
4. And maybe the most damning of all, the one detail that eats at my sanity, the one detail that will always render me guilty when all else can be explained, discussed, rationalized and accepted- the one detail that I could not bare to own- that even now causes my body to shake, bile to rise, and shame to burn, this little detail that exactly 6 people know- but that I retracted over the years- this detail will always render me guilty. In the final moments of those 13 hours. David, took my identification and wrote down my address from my driver's license and even my social security number. And in return on a sheet paper, he wrote down a note for me, it was his address or the address to his daughter's house, or an address that never even existed- I don't actually know. He tucked that paper into my hand. And when he looked me in the eyes, I stared into the depths of hell as he whispered, "I own you now," and I merely nodded my head in some silent, binding agreement as I made a deal with the devil. Because if that was a test, I vowed that I would pass it. I would pass it to protect my family. I would pass it even if it meant my silence would condemn other women. I would pass it until my dying day.
****
So there you have it, the case for the prosecution. I would levy a defense but really would you want to hear it? No one is interested in the why's of that night. Because I have sat in trauma groups and I have observed the red furry of women that fought for their lives- in a way that on that night I could not. I have been decaying wallpaper in their midst, only ever causing them to notice me when I have asked the same question over and over and over again to different women, in different groups, in different places- and all of their answers have been the same.
My question is simple enough, "What if you didn't fight back?" It has been phrased and rephrased in accordance to context- the hypothetical devil's advocate, what if- because what if you didn't fight back?
WHAT IF.
The furry is singularly impressive. How dare you even suggest it, this blasphemy.
Because the concrete truth is that you fight back. You fight back. It is primal instinct. Of course you fight back, there is no what if Jillian, you fight back.
And after I have put my heresy on display, I let them throw their stones and I suffocate under the weight of their judgement until my voice ceases to echo.
....
All these years. All these years of silence. All these years of waiting.
Trauma survivors will almost all universally acknowledge that weird shit happens leading up to our respective trauma anniversaries. There is this unspoken understanding that for us, there is a specific date and/or dates within the calendar year where our lives will be upended in this shit because someone, or something, or the combination thereof happened to us at some point in the course our ordinary "normal" lives; And in return this thing/ or those things- whatever it was/ they were, it changed us. Irrevocably. And in the aftermath of it all, whatever the picture was, however it was framed- all of that is gone. Broken. Left in scattered pieces of the wreckage that we come to know intimately in the identities' that we take on after the fact, in the moving forward. And each survivor is a different brand of survival, there is no one size fits all.
For me in the wake of Arizona, what I could not initially see but what it so very clear to me now is that in my own trauma survivor narrative, my PTSD brain somehow decided that every May 10th, I was mandated to open the prison cell of those 13 hours and willingly cross over the threshold and slam the door shut, remanding myself to solitary confinement, doing my time so to speak. And truth be told over the years, it hasn't been all that hard you know because by this part in the calendar year, my PTSD will have been stacking up the accusations. And as I sit barricaded inside myself, in the details of that night, every slight nuance, every tick, every tale, every what if will be one more jury vote of guilty. Because I deserve this, this hell. That has been my stance for the last seven years. Because how dare I get to live my life free of those 13 hours. How dare I have the audacity to feel anything but the sting of guilt and shame and regret when my silence held in the balance some other woman's fate- I did that to her- my silence did that. And I cannot be awarded the freedom of a pardon- the only just sentence for my crimes on that night is clear- life without the possibility of parole.
Can you feel it, the weight of that? Seven years, this weight pressing down onto my small, fractured, frame- I knew walking into this year that I had to make an appeal- I had to reconvene the jury and assess the facts and render myself a new verdict. I had to. Because the weight of it was killing me- and so I began to look at the case. I flipped it over and over and over again in my head. I looked at the angles. I reviewed the evidence. I read between the lines. I separated out the black and white and I dove into the grey abyss.
There is nothing more terrifying than the grey. The grey is where the mercy is, where the grace is, where the forgiveness is, where the peace is, where healing is, where the work is- where the heart is- and there is nothing quite as terrifying as looking into the mirror and seeing the fear starring back at you- echoing every possible condemnation and yet- even still, looking past it all and allowing yourself to be re-framed. Because the grey is where we are allowed to re-frame. It is pliable, this grey, and perhaps that is why it is so very terrifying because it is vulnerable. And we are not creatures who take our comforts in vulnerable- no, we are creatures who prefer our punishments. Indeed, the grey is a terrifying journey.
Well if we're going on a journey, we're going to need some music. And coffee, dear god, so much coffee....
[5/10/2018- 4:55a]
I'm walking out the door into the still dark morning and I resolutely throw my suitcase in the truck, turn the engine and press the pedal down and we have lift-off, the journey begins...
I chose to re-frame my trauma anniversary by taking a road trip to Seattle. It is the one day on the calendar year where I do not travel. Especially by myself. Especially in anything that can recreate in my head the motion of being trapped in a moving vehicle on long stretches of road- that kind of physical sense-memory is lethal to my PTSD. But I knew that this was the only way I could take this journey of re-framing- so when one of my favorite pod shows, my beloved Terrible Thanks For Asking, announced a live show in Seattle, I knew that was going to be my journey- the timing was perfect.
I discussed it in posts on our TTFA Facebook group and I got the most amazing support- and my TTFA friends even helped me create a playlist- I knew that they would be there in the background cheering me on- letting me check in and that I would even get to meet up with a few of them prior to the live show- this was a huge part of my courage- it was leaning into their courage. And I knew that being able to take part of this journey alone was essential but so too was it essential to have someone with me because weird shit, you know, that complicated shit that circles the drain of your trauma anniversary- it was sort of a preemptive safety measure to have a travel mate and so I roped in my "little sister" Jessie.
There are things that I will carry with me from this trip that years from now I will still know as the core memories:
I will remember watching the sun come up over the Grapevine, listening to Tom Petty's 'Wildflower's." singing softly with an aching heart, "You belong among the wildflowers...you belong somewhere you feel free." Because damn it all after seven years, my god, I want to be free, I want it to be affirmed in my bones that truly after all this time, maybe just maybe, it would be okay to belong somewhere where I feel free...
I will remember sitting locked in my car at the rest stop in Fort Tejon- I will never forget the violence with which my body shook- I will remember that I cried so hard it induced a panic attack which triggered an asthma attack and that once I was calm enough to breathe I made a decision and I even shouted it out loud, "Not today Satan, not today because I put on make-up for this shit." And then I laughed because I have a bent sense of humor and there was a spark in that moment- a push back inside of me- I will remember feeling that faint prickle of yielding my own brave.
I will remember the long stretch of desolate highway nearing Sacramento when Nichole Nordeman's 'Sound of Surviving' came on and I played it over and over again and over again, singing it out in heavy, broken sobs, "This is the sound of surviving, this is my farewell to fear, this is my whole heart deciding, I'm still here. I'm still here." I'M. STILL. HERE. I'm still here.
I will remember pulling up to Jessie's house in Chico and collapsing into myself- so utterly exhausted by anxiety that I could barely stand up, how my body did not stop shaking for nearly hour after I turned the keys over to Jessie.
I will remember the beautiful, abundant laughter as Jessie and I took a nonsensical detour through Weed, CA- because it was road trip gold, that time we discovered weed. I will remember the way that the weight of the morning fell off of me in waves- and for the first time in a long time, how I felt more hope than fear on this May the 10th.
I will remember the dead weight of my body hitting the hotel bed in the Travelodge in Roseberg, Oregon- and falling asleep silently crying because I was alive- it beat through my veins like a drum circle chant, "I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still here."
I will remember the sunrise on May 11th- and how I sat quietly in my bed drinking in the newness of this day- and the newness of this memory.
I will remember the stops along the way- rivers and roads and coffee shops, thank you Dutch Bros, and music, thank you TTFA fam, and how at times there seemed to be moments where it was all so overwhelming but in a good way.
I will remember Seattle and meeting up with my beautiful group of TTFA friends. I will remember walking around Pike Place Public Market, hearing snippets of their stories. Living in those moments- really living- and feeling so held up by their courage and their warmth and their own moments of vulnerability.
And perhaps most poignantly, I will remember my sweet TTFA Canadian soul sister- who faced her own journey that day as she drove into Seattle from Vancouver. I will remember her sending me a picture of her socks- Rosie the Riveter, championess of strong women everywhere.
I will remember sitting in that little pub near the Neptune Theater, waiting for our meet and greet with Hans and Nora from the TTFA pod- how all of us TTFA fam were just doing life together in that moment. And then that moment when my Canadian soul sister asked me if she could give me one of her socks- I know it must seem silly to some of you reading this but I took my sock and put it on and it hit me in this exchange, a funny kind of 'aha God moment,' inspired ala Harry Potter-***Everyone of my HP fans should know where I'm going with this***
With tears in my eyes and laughter bubbling up from my mouth, I excitedly proclaimed, "Dobby is a free elf!" And then I had to promptly explain myself- Canadian soul sister and I embraced and laughed and cried and we took a photo to capture this monumental moment of Dobby is a free elf- we're free- we're free- free at last, free at last.
I will remember all of this and more-
And so too will I also remember the drive back- and Medford- On our return trip, Jessie and I stopped in Medford, Oregon for the night and all day there was a growing, gnawing anxiety in my body centered around the eight hour solo trip home that I would have once I dropped Jessie back in Chico, this building inferno of panic. I fell into a fitful sleep and the inferno erupted- it woke me from a dead sleep, the scream ripped from my mouth as I flung my flailing limbs up into the air- it was to date one of the most horrific dissociative nightmares that I have ever experienced in the last seven years. I could not find the line between what was imagined and what was real- and most of the nearly 2 hours that it took Jessie to calm me down remains a blur- with the exception of the pulsing terror that I felt and the memory of that unhinged woman rocking herself back and forth on that hotel bed, with a wild, broken chant falling from her lips, "I'm in Medford, I'm in Medford, I'm in Medford, I'm in Medford, I'm in Medford..."
****
[9/15/18]
Life has been a hurricane since that trip- PTSD/ Depression and walking through really severe chronic illness. And so it has been hard for me to really process that journey of re-framing. I remember initially trying to write about the trip but in all honesty what I so desperately wanted to resemble an Intsagram worthy, hard fought polished victory was drenched in failure every time I thought about that night in Medford and the subsequent drive home from there because my god that was brutal-
I wanted a clean victory. But that wasn't what I got. I got the grey. And these days, I'm learning to be okay with that. Maybe in this story there is no clean cut line between heroes and villains- I made choices on that night that perhaps you would not have made, choices that perhaps you would fault me for. You know it's a lot like watching a horror film where the stereotypical blonde runs up the stairs when she should be running out the front door- and we're all yelling at the television from the safety of our own couches- because don't you know if that were me, I would- but what if, what if she knows something that we, the audience don't, what if?
Every choice that I made during those 13 hours was that which would keep me alive, I know that know. We all think that we know, that we know, that we know what we would do if it were us. And most women will firmly, with vigor and conviction in their voices affirm that "If it were me, I would fight back." I hope that if you are reading this and that is you, that you never have to test the resolve of that statement. Because knowing changes everything. Because on that night, when that moment came for me- what I thought I would do to survive and what I actually had to do to survive were worlds apart- because I fought back by not fighting. I will tell you that at every point in that 13 hours, I was in direct contact with a deadly weapon that were it used on me- I would have been dead before the cavalry could arrive to save the day- I can tell you that after 13 hours of this cat and mouse game- I believed to the core of my soul that my silence was yet another choice to stay alive- and not just to save my own life but the lives of my family. I believed that with my whole heart.
One of the concrete truths in a trauma narrative is that you cannot go back. I cannot go back. There is no undoing of those 13 hours. There is no undoing of the choices that I made on that night or on all the nights that followed up to this point. And while I can't go back, maybe what I know now is that I can go forward. In small steps and with each year that passes from this point on, I can wake up every 10th of May and get out bed and wash my face and put on my clothes and straighten my spine and take a deep breath and I can step into the grey. Because that is the re-framing, the willingness to say that I don't know who I am after this but I am willing to find out. I am willing to dive into the grey. And keep diving, deeper, and deeper still.
"This is the sound of surviving. This is my farewell to fear. This is my whole heart deciding that I'm still here... I'm still here and I'm not done fighting. I'm still here...This is the sound of surviving." -Nichole Nordeman
And 1,193 miles- four months and five days later, I think that I am on my way...
Jillian Nichole, free elf, embracing the grey. Surviving.
