...I believe as each woman tells her story for the first time, she breaks the silence, and by doing so breaks her isolation, begins to melt her shame and guilt, making her experience real, lifting her pain.

--Eve Ensler, for NPR's This I Believe

Sometimes you owe the universe a debt of gratitude.

One of the most painful symptoms of the disease that is sexual assault is the silence. At first, the silence is imposed on you from the outside. Most immediately, your assaulter pretends not to hear your cries for help, or in many cases, creates a situation where cries for help are not even possible, or are stifled. You're told, whether actually or symbolically, "Shut up and take it."

After the fact, things are often not much better, and in some ways, even worse. Perhaps you can not expect that someone who is so fucked up and evil that he or she would think it was okay to rape someone would ever be human enough to pay attention to your basic humanity crying out in pain. But after, you assume that others--NORMAL people--will heed that cry. Often, however, that's not the case. Rape and incest makes people uncomfortable. It rocks the societal boat, upsets the balance of things people would prefer remain steady. Hearing and believing the victim means the hearers have to DO something. Ignoring and silencing the victim means they get to keep living as they're used to, with no discomfort for them. The victim's discomfort becomes irrelevant; an unfortunate but necessary side effect to maintaining the social compact.

So more often than not after a rape or assault, the others around you tell or show you in a variety of ways that they'd also prefer you shut up and take it. They make it known they don't want to hear about it. They ask you questions that show you they don't want to believe you. Even if sympathetic, they rarely offer to help or provide support. You get the message, "You're on your own with this."

So you shut the fuck up. And you take it. And you build a wall around yourself, so you can be on your own with it--because that's what they've told you to do and because this is the only way you know how to survive without experiencing more hurt. You stop trying to get other people to hear you or help you, and you start imposing your own silence on yourself.

When I was a teenager, I once had a waking nightmare. I woke up screaming, thinking an animal was biting my arm and wouldn't let go. Terrified, I kept screaming and trying to pull it off. And the more I pulled on the animal, the more it clamped down tighter on my arm. I finally ran across the room, still screaming and struggling with the animal, and switched on the light. When I looked down to see this animal that had attached itself to me, what I saw instead was my own right hand clasped tightly around my left forearm.

That's what the silence of carrying a sexual assault around with you is like. It becomes a sort of living nightmare for the person experiencing it. Part of you is still screaming for help, but there's a hand over your mouth, smothering you. And the scariest part is that it's your own hand.

This silent scream-suppression can go on for years. Decades. It did with me.

The only way to break free of this nightmare, to turn on the light and see and name what is REALLY there, is to get your voice back. But even when you finally are brave enough to realize this is the only way out, it's still incredibly hard to do. After everyone around you has convinced you your only safety and support will come from keeping quiet about it, saying anything about it out loud is so scary that it almost seems better to keep living in that nightmare world than risk more rejection.

And this is why I feel entirely lucky to have started writing this blog, and through it, to have met Hiromi.

When I first started this blog, I still felt pretty alone with my story, and my survival. I was learning to talk about it, but I didn't have any people beside my therapist who I felt I could talk about it with in great detail--mostly because I was afraid of their reactions. But, through my blog, I met two people who I began to get to know and eventually began talking about it with. One of them was Hiromi.

I am having difficulty writing this entry, because words really can't describe what a gift it is at a time like that--or any time really--to run into someone who is is fun and funny and smart and talented and SO fucking cool that talking to her makes you think life might not suck so much after all. And not only that, but someone who "gets" you in a way in which you don't have to explain things you generally need to explain to other people. And who can listen to you without judging you, and can respond in ways that take your own thoughts to higher and more evolved levels. And not only THAT, but someone who seems to genuinely enjoy your company as much as you enjoy theirs. And not only THAT, but someone who gets what it is to be a survivor, and how hard it is to come to terms with that, and how hard it is to validate your experience to yourself and others--and who helps, through her own compassion and undesrtanding--to allow you to gain that validation.

How amazing is it to run into someone like that? People who embody all of those qualities are few and far between.

Hiromi is all that , and more. Talking to her has, among many other positive things, helped me to slowly but surely peel back finger after finger that was covering my mouth until I felt I might actually be okay if I spoke up.

She's helped me be less afraid. And only another sexual assault survivor can really understand the full impact of what that sentence means.

And she's helped me to laugh on some really, really hard days. And everyone can understand the full value of that.

Today I want to tell her that I'm grateful every day that I know her, and that the world is a better place because she exists. And I want to thank her for being her amazingly wonderful self.

So hey, Hiromi:

Girl, you are the shrimp and spicy mayo to my inari. You're the guacamole to my cheddar cheese omelette. Yeah, people might look at both of us together and think we're weird, but they're the ones missing out on something totally delicious.

And here's a present for you, which I hope will be the first thing you listen to when you wake up in the morning. Play it real, real, REAL loud. I propose we learn to sing and feel by heart over the coming year, so that when I finally get the chance to meet you, we can dance and sing our asses off to it together.

Or hell, maybe by then, we'll be so over-brave, we'll be able to stand in front of a crowd of strangers and sing it out loud in front of them--literally AND figuratively.

Sometimes you can beat the odds with a careful choice of where to fight. Where to fight counts for a lot...
But there's nothing like having your friends show up with lotsa guns.

--Sin City

I probably wouldn't have ever heard the above quote without Karl Elvis MacRae being around. I also probably wouldn't have felt its sentiment much this year without him being around.

Today is Karl Elvis's birthday. I feel this post should serve as some kind of gift to him, but it's really such an inadequate idea, because there really aren't words that can match the gift of friendship given freely to you.

This has not been the easiest year for me. It's been one where I fought really long and hard to overcome some really formidable foes. There were days when I felt I was at my ebb, so tired I thought I'd fall and just give up. And then suddenly there Karl would be, charging into battle, weapons flying, holding the Orcs at bay for me so I could gain a modicum more of strength to rise and fight again. He does this with such ease--a well-timed kind word, an open ear, an offered shoulder, a quick fix on a blog--that to him it probably seems like nothing he does is worth much gratitude. But he'd be wrong, and I know first-hand that all those who know him would agree with me. His humor, insight, integrity, loyalty, and his constant lustiness (in every sense of the word) are inspirational. I know they've certainly kept me going during some really hard times--and some good times, too.

But I don't want to just focus on what he's done for others. I want to express that, even if he never helped me or anyone else, even if he never hosted my blog, I'd still think he was the shit. It's not his strength or his many abilities that make him valuable. It's just his undeniably badass self. He's simply a fuckin' delight to know. If humans were candy--and aren't they?--then Karl would be an Atomic Fireball, all spicy and sweet and hard. It hurts, but it's so nice, you just can't stop eating it. And hell, at least it's never boring.

He's so bad he's good. So wrong he's right. He's the kind of man girl bands were invented to sing songs about. Sho' 'nuff.

And, to bastardize one of the great truisms I learned as a child, "It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Karl Elvis is both." I can't say this one better or with more impact than E. B. White, so I won't.

So on this the day of his birth, I want to first say thanks, Karl, for being such a great guy and a good friend.

And second, I want to wish you, Karl Elvis MacRae--the biggest and baddest of all host daddies on the planet--a very, very happy birthday. May you live, love, write, and screw long and well, for many, many more years to come.

And anyone reading this, go on over to Karl's place and make him smile today. Pepper his paprikash with birthday well wishes. And tell him I sent you.

My friend Artful Dodger is going dark.

I'm often wont to say to myself that this blogging world and the connections made on it can't really count as "real"--that they can't substitute for flesh-and-blood communication and friendships.

And yet.

I've never met Art in person. I don't even know his real name, or where he lives. I've never heard his speaking voice. But in the year and a half that I've known him, he has had a very special place in my life, and eventually my heart. The incredible, smart, kind, caring, funny, brave person that he is has had such a significant impact on me--far more than a great number of "real life" friends have had during this time. And probably more than even he knows, because these kinds of intangible things are impossible to transmit in words. But I've tried to share a little of it with him. And just knowing he was around and I could read him every day was always a comfort to me, no matter what was going on.

His leaving and how sad I feel about it certainly doesn't feel like an "imitation" of real life. It feels like real life, and real loss.

I will miss him very much. And those of you who never got the chance to read him will be missing out. But he's moving on to better things and for that I am very glad.

So before he does his walk into his new sunrise with his lady, I wanted to give him two presents. Since words can really not suffice, these are my best attempt at telling him how I feel as he goes.

Art:

Thank you. You were the one who whispered in my ear.

And all peaceful and happy sailing, wherever you may go, for as long as you keep going.

Love and farewell.

When I was younger
I lived in fear
That incarceration of some kind is near
I checked my head in tact with rules
I nearly became
A goddamn fool
But I heard voices--not in the head
Out in the air
They called ahead
Through ripped out speakers
Through thick and thin
They found a shelter
Under my skin

I was an...interesting...child. I initially wanted to say "unusual," but I'm not sure if what I'm about to say is unusual or not. Certainly I've never heard anyone talk about it except for, say, religious mystics and occasionally someone like Eugene Hütz up above in those lyrics there. It is possible, though, if these people have mentioned it, that this is a common experience but no one talks about it. Or it may be in fact somewhat unusual. Regardless, let me get there already.

I've told many of what used to be my secrets in this blog, but this is one I have rarely confided to another person, and of the very few I've mentioned it to, I don't think I've ever mentioned the full breadth of it. I used to keep it to myself for fear it would be misunderstood or ridiculed or attempted to be over analyzed and explained away with logic or psychology, but now, today, I find I just don't care.

So. When I was younger, I was an interesting child. Just walking around in the world--and especially when I was on my own--I could hear and converse with things things most people don't think talk. Trees, for instance. Or the ocean. Or voices of people who weren't there. And I could have entire conversations with these things, if I was in the mood and if conditions were right.

I'm not talking here about schizophrenia. These things didn't tell me what to do or try to control my psyche. They weren't scary, angry, or destructive. And they didn't in any way take over my personality. Just the opposite--they were quite separate from me; they had nothing to do with me, and yet, I was aware in some way they were also a part of me, in that I was a conduit for them. I knew only I could hear them, and I knew others couldn't. Like Hütz says, not voices in my head, but out in the air. I heard them "in my head" the same way you would hear voices "in your head" if I were standing next to you and speaking and you heard the sound of my voice in your head. I processed them like speech, so they were in my head, but they weren't OF me, exactly--though, I guess I understood that without me they wouldn't be heard, sort of like that tree falling in the forest Zen koan. And I guess, thinking about it more, I also understood on some natural level, just by the fact of the way these voices transmitted, that everything IS "of" everything else--so in this way, of course, these voices were me and "of" me, at the same time they were also not. This probably sounds confusing, but that's the best I can do to explain it.

They also weren't voices like normal voices, exactly; particularly not the nature-based ones. Trees and water don't speak with human voices. Which makes perfect sense if you think about it. (And by the way, I don't necessarily think this is a "special skill,"--I maintain anyone can hear and speak with these things, if they want to; and if they listen carefully enough. The only perhaps special part of my story is that I happened to be able to connect to it without trying much. Which I'd described more accurately as "lucky" than "special.")

The more "human"-like voices--the ones I can best describe as seeming like invisible individuals (although that's not entirely accurate--I didn't and don't think they were human) were always to me the voices of friendly companions. They just showed up sometimes; for instance, to keep me company when I was walking home from school, or when I was thinking through a particularly knotty problem, or when they wanted to point out and share something particularly cool that was worth absorbing that I might not have focused on on my own. But sometimes they just showed up for the hell of it, just to say hi and just hang out and joke around and chat and...be cheerful and encouraging, I guess.

And that's what they were at almost all points, whether the human voices, or the nature voices; they were calm, open, supportive, inclusive, familiar. Most spoke to me like they'd known me a long time already; sometimes the human-like voices in particular took on tones that felt as if they considered themselves like affectionate aunts, or friends, or even occasionally a former lover from another life (by that I don't mean sexual, just casually affectionate in the special somewhat-romantic-tinged way an old-lover-turned-friend tends to be). Actually, I suppose some of the nature voices weren't always quite as casual. Trees, for instance, tended to be somewhat formal initially, in a "pleased to make your acquaintance, small thing from another species" kind of way, but even they still had that sense of familiarity and connectedness--as if they recognized the ability to exchange and it was no real surprise to them. In any case, they were all positive and I was glad to communicate with them.

It didn't happen all the time, every minute, by the way. It's not like every time I walked by a tree I could hear it talking or that all of nature or invisible voices were randomly screaming out at me at all times. Not at all. But if I took the time to slow down and WANT to talk to it, or to just to listen or happen to be quieter, I could. And when it did happen, it was a very quiet, calm experience, like passing a neighbor or friend on the street. An exchange was had and recognized and then we both moved on to do whatever it was we were there to do in life.

As a little kid, this was quite natural to me and I never thought anything about it. I never mentioned it to anyone else, but I don't think this was because I thought I had to keep it secret; it just seemed beside the point, and not important to bring up. As I got older, though, I began to realize other people thought that kind of stuff was weird. Talking or showing respect to trees like they were neighbors (or even, in the case of forests, like they were inhabitants of their own special "kingdom" that I just got the privilege to visit)? Uh, no, other kids didn't do that. And as I got older and the voices moved from just natural-based things to more...what...spiritual?...I don't like that word, but whatever the human voices were...I realized this was something that--though again it felt fine and natural to me--other people were not going to get, and might be alarmed by. So I did become conscious that it was better not to mention it to others. But given I'd never felt any need to share these experiences with other people--it had never occurred to me before I realized other people didn't hear this stuff to care if they could, or to try to bring someone else into these conversations---I decided to be, as before, just happy to experience them whenever I did and then just move on with my life as normal the way I would if I met any old person or friend on the street.

So I went along just quietly enjoying the company of this special gift I had. And I did think of it as that sometimes, a gift--particularly when it came to the nature-based stuff, which I could tell most people didn't easily experience. But then, as I closed in on my teenange years, I started to get concerned. At that time, I tended to have one particular voice companion more often than the others, and I was used to him, and I somehow decided that having these conversations, or this connection to other worlds or whatever it was, was going to be problematic for me as I grew into an adult. I also remember worrying for some reason that it would be hard to have boyfriends as long as this one particular "companion" was hanging around. I don't even know why--there was no connection to real life dating or romance in the conversations. But I suppose I was concerned the affection I felt in that "relationship," which was sort of a Buddhist-type divine, universal, limitless love sort of thing, wouldn't ever allow real-life love to measure up. And so I reasoned that if I wanted to have real, human love in the corporeal world, I needed all of this go. Let go of both the feeling of "other worldly" beings following me, offering me love and support, and of the natural world talking to me, connecting with me. I felt I needed it all gone to become the kind of "normal" that was necessary to succeed in the somewhat dry, rules-bound adult world I was destined to have to live in. That world didn't have time or patience for adults who had "fairy-tale" conversations with rocks and streams.

How many darkest moments and traps
Still lay ahead of us
How many final frontiers
We gonna mount
And maybe no victory laps

So, I had one last conversation. And I told my current most frequent "companion" voice that I needed him to go. That I needed it all to go, that I needed to just be a normal girl now, like everyone else. And he was very compassionate about it, if a little sad, and then...he left. Poof, just like that. It all left. And though I felt the absence from time to time--it was WEIRD to look at the world and not hear it talking back--I convinced myself it was the best thing and I moved forward into teen and adult life like a normal girl. Because--from limited view of adulthood garnered in the suburbs--well, voices, they weren't part of the rules of growing up. Adults didn't talk to the ocean. And they definitely didn't hear disembodied voices (if they didn't want to end up in the nuthouse).

I guess I don't want to judge the choice I made back then. I don't want to say it wasn't all for the best. Because at the time, it was what I needed; so it's what was meant to be. But I do think in making that choice/request, I chose to cut off something that was a vital piece of who I was. And with it, other vital connections to myself and the world around me might have gotten lost for a good long time.

At some point in my late thirties, I thought better of my choice to tell it all to go away. And I tried to bring it all back and found I couldn't. I'd look at a tree and feel...nothing. Almost less than nothing. I felt blocked. And it felt like I'd blown it; like I'd had one special chance and I'd thrown it away. I'd been given a gift and I chose to return it, and now it wasn't up for offer anymore. But there was nothing to be done about it, so I became resigned to the fact it was gone.

But if you stepped on path of sacred art
and stuck it out through thick and thin
God knows you become one
With undestructable

Around that time is when the beginnings of a pretty deep depressive period began to set in (seemingly unrelated to me at that time). It started small, grew slowly and steadily bigger and lasted and worsened for many years, until I could no longer bear it and sought out help. And this resulted in my finally realizing that for these and many more years the self I thought defined who I was wasn't a self at all, but an amalgam of the selves I thought other people thought a self should be for a girl like me.

And it's been a slow journey towards first realizing that, and now it feels like a slow journey towards deconstructing the false selves and finding out the true core that's been buried underneath. But I think the voices may be part of what's underneath.

I say this because I stayed home from work today. And after an inexplicable episode of joyful laughter that took over me this morning from the moment I looked in the mirror and said good morning to myself, I went and took a walk along the river in the sunlight of almost-spring. And I turned off my iPod and just listened. And the trees and water started talking to me. For the first time in such a long time.

And I think...no, I feel...this is a very good sign.

And so no longer live I in fear
Them are too greedy to pay my asylum bills
This is my life
And freedom's my profession
This is my mission throughout all flight duration
There is a core
And it's hardcore
All is hardcore when made with love
The love is voice of savage soul
This savage love is
Undestructable