The #MeToo movement and Times Up movement have brought to light (FINALLY) what women, and men, have been battling for years. Sexual Harassment, Sexual Consent, Violation, etc etc and fucking etc. It's something long overdue to be addressed and tackled and it's now finding it's feet and hopefully starting to make a difference.
I have been rolling around in my head for a few months now, how I want to share my stories. I have so many. But I just can't write them like I would normally tell a story. I usually write with an air of humor and I'm brutally honest and raw. I know this is what so many of you appreciate about my writing/blogging (thank you for that). But I can't bring myself to do that this time. But what I can do, is share it this way. I hope to maybe write about this again, more close to how I usually write and share some more, but for now, here is what I'm able to do.
I've battled issues with self esteem my entire life. Never being the typical "pretty". Never being "popular". An ugly duckling of sorts meandering through life confused and sad and invisible until I was teased and bullied. I fell into a certain crowd. I could escape the reality that life was. But with this came violence. But that was ok. I let it. I was getting attention. Boys were noticing me. They told me I was pretty. They touched me and made me blush. But it was scary. I was used like a doll. They would touch me in front of others and I would softly say "Please no". They would whisper in my ear that they knew I liked it and I just didn't want to admit it. There was so many of them. Surrounded by a sea of testosterone amplified by drugs. I kept saying no. I started to cry. They seemed to like that more. I was so embarrassed. I just wanted to hide. This went on and on. This happened more than once. One time it was just me and another. He got so violent and angry when I cried. When the 1st hit came it sent me off my feet. Such a weird hot pain in my face. Something crashed and shattered over my head, glass spilling into my hair. I tried to crawl out the door but then I was in the air my face hitting something causing the coppery taste of blood fill my mouth. But then he was hugging me and apologizing. Stroking my hair saying he was sorry. It would never happen again.
It didn't.
That was the last time.
I was lucky. I got out of it. Since then I haven't looked back.
My cries for help were ignored. Other things were blamed. I was left to deal with those few years on my own. I vowed never to fall victim again. Never to show that vulnerability again. Never to be so damn stupid again. Anger filled me for years. I realized things like this were no big deal. I was a woman. I had no voice. When I tried no one listened.
Here I am today. So very different than those years ago. But many other incidences of harassment have followed me. The small taste above was the worst, but I still have a hard time feeling like I'm heard. I'm trying. I'm trying to wrap my head around this entire movement and approach it well. To be helpful. Supportive. To listen to others. To be there for women who may need help finding their voice.
I'm not sure what I will accomplish with this blog, other than I am joining the movement with so many others and sharing one of my stories. We're not alone.
I will tell you this though - I am fucking done.
1 comment:
Jami, thank you for sharing your story. It helps so many people to know they're not alone, and also helps your own healing process. I love how you told your story but did not blame yourself. A lack of self-esteem was your experience, but not the cause of abuse. It's powerful that you explained this so clearly and perfectly, as it can have a ripple effect on others -- so often victims and survivors of abuse blame themselves, so it's incredibly valuable for people who are in the stage of blaming themselves to hear stories like yours. Your self-awareness and strength is inspiring and will inspire many others when you continue to share your story. Thank you for being so vulnerable, and showing by example that strength and courage are awakened in the process of being vulnerable.
Post a Comment