So many of us have our stories. I have my stories. When my no was somehow manipulated into a yes. Or when my immature, confused, underage yes was taken advantage of. I have two little girls, and I am damned if I am going to let the same things happen to them. I will do everything in my power to stop that from happening.
Although we are considered survivors of sexual assault; I don’t like labelling myself as a survivor because that seems to be too dramatic for me. Because I wasn’t on the precipice of death than I can’t consider myself to be a survivor of sexual assault. In my mind, intentionally, or maybe it’s unintentionally I downgrade my experiences. I make them less than what they are to be ok. But I shouldn’t. And neither should anyone else.
I want to say it’s our own choice when and how and if we ever share our stories...and it would be fantastic to think that we have that power of choice. Ironically because during those moments many of us have experienced, we didn’t have that same power of choice. But it goes beyond that. There’s all those emotions and muscle memory that haunt us, that make us feel small and unworthy and to blame. All of that shame and fear and anger that takes control just when we feel like maybe there’s a chance to release it, to be freed from it.