"You don't LOOK sick."

Since September 28 - October 4 is Invisible Illness Awareness Week, I felt it would be an appropriate time to share my own story.

About three years ago, I began having digestive problems. I would be very hungry, but when I started to eat, I immediately felt full. My stomach hurt most of the time. I had heartburn after almost every meal. Numerous doctor visits left me with nothing but frustration. I kept being told I was "fine", but the way I felt told me otherwise. I sought out a gastroenterologist. I was given ultrasounds, MRIs, and upper endoscopies, but all of the results came back "fine". My gastroenterologist told me I had acid reflux and prescribed me with an antacid. When I asked my gastroenterologist about why I was experiencing other symptoms that are not caused by acid reflux, he said to me, "Oh, that's just your anxiety." Mind you, the only reason he knew I had anxiety is because I had mentioned it on my patient form. I wonder what he would have blamed the symptoms on if I had not told him I had anxiety.

I felt crazy. I knew something was wrong with me, but well respected doctors kept telling me I was "fine". I took the prescribed antacid for almost a year––all the while, not having heartburn, but still having virtually all of my other symptoms. I eventually had to quit taking it, because my insurance stopped covering it and I could no longer afford it. Just a few months later, the symptoms began to get bad again. I figured there was no point in going to a doctor because they would just dismiss me, so I just dealt with it. I would numb out the pain with various substances, but I knew something was still wrong with me.

After I graduated from college in May of this year, I moved to Colorado. Just days after moving, the same old symptoms started kicking in, hard. I got to the point where in the middle of every single meal, I would start having severe stomach pain, feel really full, get clammy and lightheaded, and run to the bathroom to throw up. I knew this was not "fine". I talked to my boss about what was going on and she suggested I go see a local naturopathic doctor. I was skeptical but, at the same time, I figured I had nothing left to lose. Going to that doctor was the best decision I could have made. She was attentive, compassionate, and very well educated. She listened to me as though she actually gave a shit about what I was going through. After speaking with her for an hour about my symptoms and struggles, and running several tests, she diagnosed me with Gastroparesis.

The word "Gastroparesis" means "paralyzed stomach", and that is exactly what it is. Part of my stomach is paralyzed, which makes it very difficult for my body to digest food. The food I eat just sits there for hours, or even days, which causes a lot of pain, nausea, and lethargy. Very little is known about this illness because very little research has been done on it. Gastroparesis is often claimed to be "rare", but it actually affects 1 in 25 Americans. 80% of those with Gastroparesis are young women. The causes of Gastroparesis vary, but most of the time, the cause is unknown.

I almost started crying right there in her office. It felt so good to just know that I actually had something––that I wasn't crazy. The best thing about my naturopathic doctor was that she gave me options. She did not just prescribe me a pill and send me on my way. She suggested a diet plan for my illness. She explained to me several different natural remedies for managing the symptoms. I decided to give the bitters and digestive enzymes a try. After a couple of weeks, I really started to see a difference. My stomach was only hurting a few times out of the week, instead of every day. I could eat without feeling full. And, most importantly to me, I was not throwing up.

I am very grateful for my doctor in Colorado, because I would likely still be debilitated if I had not met her. Nonetheless, Gastroparesis is an incurable illness. It is something I have to deal with every day of my life. I try to keep a smile on, as much as I can, because I think it helps me not focus on the pain. But sometimes, the pain is too much. It may not visible to the outside world, but it is there. All it takes is eating something that my stomach decides does not sit well, and I am doubled over in the fetal position on the floor, crying. Since my body cannot digest food properly, I lack many of the nutrients I need, so I have to take a boatload of vitamins. That still does not solve everything though, and I am gradually losing weight because of it.

It is difficult to look in the mirror and wonder if my face looks even thinner. It is difficult to ignore how loose my clothes feel. It is difficult to have to cancel plans with people because I do not have the energy to get out of bed. It is difficult trying to decide if I should tell the person I am hanging out with that I am in pain, or if I will just annoy them with my complaining. It is difficult to have to constantly rely on my girlfriend to help me because I am in too much pain to do it myself. Don't get me wrong, I am getting much better at learning how to cope, but this illness does not go away. It is always there. It plays a part in every decision I make. I think about it every hour of every day. Most days aren't too bad. But then, every once in a while, it is almost crippling.

That is why I want to share Invisible Illness Awareness Week with you. If you do know someone with a chronic illness, try to remember that they are doing the best they can. It means the world to have people in my life who are patient with my struggles. Be that person to someone. And remember, you may have no idea of the kind of pain someone is going through. Try to be kind.

Check out G-PACT and consider donating to research and development for this chronic illness.

Also, check out Suffering the Silence, an online community for patients, friends, and family to share and witness the true living experience of chronic disease. On Instagram @sufferingthesilence .

An LGBTQIA+ Woman's Responses to the Conservative Christian Marriage Equality Panic

As you already know, unless you have been under a rock for the past several days, the SCOTUS ruled same-sex marriage legal in all of the United States. Unsurprisingly, this has caused quite a stir among the Conservative Christian community. I have seen a few posts showcasing some of the Conservative Christian responses to the SCOTUS ruling. So, without further ado, here are an LGBTQIA+ woman's responses to the Conservative Christian marriage equality panic.

1. Your freedom of religion is not "under attack."
No one is forcing pastors to hire LGBTQIA+ people, no one is forcing pastors to officiate same-sex weddings, and no one is forcing Christians to attend same-sex weddings. Your right to believe what you believe has not been taken away. You can continue to believe whatever it is you believe. If you don't think that same-sex couples should marry, fine and dandy. But that doesn't mean you can keep it from becoming law, which leads me to the next point.

2. The United States is not a Theocracy.
This country is not a church. This country is not a bible camp. This country is a country. Believe it or not, the "Founding Fathers" of this country did not set out here to establish a "Christian nation." Quite the contrary, in fact. The United States of America was founded on the principles of reason, not faith. This country was founded out of a strong desire for freedom, which, like it or not, actually means freedom for everyone, not just you. Not everyone is a Christian. That is kind of the whole point of religious freedom protections in the First Amendment, which states that establishment of a national religion is forbidden. By demanding that the U.S. follow the "laws of God," you are, in fact, violating the First Amendment and infringing upon other non-Christian Americans' rights.

3. There is no such thing as "traditional marriage."
Since the institution of marriage has been around far longer than Christianity, I feel the first and most obvious point to note here is that marriage does not belong to Christianity. What's more, when we take a look at history, it is quite clear that marriage did not begin as a a voluntary act of devotion and love between one man and one woman. To focus for a moment on the religious text that "traditional marriage" proponents so often use to defend their position, it is important to note that even the bible itself does not clearly establish one true definition of marriage. The bible gives several varying definitions of marriage, including polygamy, union of a rapist and his victim, as well as giving the husband the go ahead to have his wife stoned if she cannot prove her virginity. Not to mention, the most common biblical "family unit" is a polygamous one. So, to try to use the bible to give us one clear definition of marriage is, quite frankly, pointless.

Marriage has been around for so long that to try and pinpoint the specific time and place that it began would be impossible. However, it is safe to say that for a long time, marriage was about property, ownership, and practicality. It was an arranged, legally binding contract in which the participants had little say. It was not until recent years that marriage became focused more on love than on legal contracts and practicality. However, even today, the concept of marriage for love is vastly different within various cultures. Furthermore, there are still many cultures whose understandings of marriage means something other than one man and one woman (polygamy, polyandry, etc.).

No matter the specifics, it is certain that marriage always has been, and always will be, an evolving entity. This step to bring LGBTQIA+ relationships into the fold is just one more step in that evolution. I can assure you, it will not dismantle all of modern society. (I can also assure you that the probability of same-sex marriage opening the doors for marriages of beastiality and pedophilia is slim to none. There's a big piece missing there, called consent.)

4. God is not going to "send judgment" upon the United States because of this ruling.
This concept that God will send judgment upon a nation because of its wickedness (plucked straight from the tales of the Old Testament and packaged nicely with a big, flashy, fear-mongering bow), only works if you actually apply it to all of reality. In case you had forgotten, the United States is not the only place that exists. According to the typical Christian belief, God created the entire world, and therefore, I am assuming, God would judge the entire world––not just the U.S.
Since Germany was not consumed by a lake of fire after the Holocaust, and all of the U.S. was not wiped out after the abhorrent disgrace that was slavery, I think it's safe to say that the U.S. is not going to be swallowed up into a black hole of despair because I can now marry my girlfriend in any one of the 50 states.

5. If you continue to shut people out, your churches will die.
For most people, rejection hurts. When one is turned away for something that is a very part of their nature, that hurt is increased tenfold. Now, most pastors and church members I have talked with have said, "We do not turn anyone away from our church! Our doors are always open to gay people." Let me let you all in on a little secret. Just because you do not physically turn LGBTQIA+ people away from your churches, does not mean you aren't turning them away. Let me tell you from personal experience, being told that you "love me" but then immediately following with aggressive "suggestions" on how I can "ward off my sexual immorality," does not make me want to walk anywhere near your church doors. I do not want to be told about what needs to be done to "fix" me. There is nothing wrong with who I am. There is, however, something profoundly wrong with a place of "community" that only accepts people upon the premise that they will be "fixed" one day. How about showing a little bit of love, like Jesus did, and just accept people as they are?

A poem

Just a little something I made from blackout poetry in the newspaper.

I drew something to go along with it (at the bottom of the page).

____________________________________________________________________

Yes, I lied

My long distance winter dream–

it was wrong

Began to see

I was on

the edge

Feels like coming full circle now

Do not give up

I care – really, I do

My biggest challenge

Reminding you my conflict

is within

I think the spirit

can be repaired

I am not better – 

but you are best

You are strong

When it comes to moving our mountains

I first must change,

I know

But telling our story to filmmakers,

that's what we will do

Ignite – energy – life

Sweetheart, my angel

I can't believe how much

I love you

Effortlessly–

always

Just two little words

The words always stick a little in my throat.

"I'm gay."

Do I hesitate because I am ashamed?

Hell no. I am magnificent. I love every single little piece of my puzzle. 

No, the reason I hesitate - aside from the fact that I feel a little uncomfortable because there is no real label that feels right when I try to apply it - is because there is always that question in the back of my mind: How will this person react?

Will there be a long, uncomfortable silence?

Will they start telling me about their third cousin, twice removed, who they all thought might have been "that way"?

Will someone tell me how they could never possibly be attracted to someone of the same sex?

Will someone tell me how this or that religious text says I am a violation of nature?

Will a woman say, "We can still be friends...as long as you don't try to get in my pants!"

Will a man say, "Sweet! Can I watch?" Or even worse, will he say, "Oh, you just haven't had the right man yet. I can be the one to change that."

How can two little words generate such a loaded response from nearly everyone who hears them?

You would think that who I am attracted to, who I have sex with, and who I love would be no one else's business. In fact, you would think it would be of little importance whatsoever in the grand scheme of things. 

After all, in what world would I be denied entry to a restaurant or a store because I happen to like women?

In what world would it be okay to ask me if I was molested as a child, because that would "explain things"?

In what world would it be okay to ask if you can watch me and my girlfriend be intimate because you've "never seen anything like that before"?

In what world would it be acceptable to subject a child to harmful "corrective practices" because he liked other little boys instead of girls?

In what world would people be able to legally decide whether or not I get to marry to the woman I love?

In what world would a man be murdered because he was attracted to other men?

In what world would I be considered less than human because I am in love with another woman?

Oh, yeah, that's right...this world. This world, where who turns me on is more important than who I am. This world, where we care more about what is going on inside someone's bedroom than what is going on inside oh, I don't know, our nation's government, for example. That's the world we're living in, just in case you hadn't realized. 

To Put God in a Box

I was sixteen years old. Sitting in my car, scanning the yard to make sure no one else was around, I turned up the volume and sang along to these words:

You are my desire

No one else will do

'Cause no one else can take your place

To feel the warmth of your embrace

The words belonged to a then-popular contemporary Christian band, no doubt referencing what they deemed as the comfort found in God's presence. However, I wasn't taking part in an act of Christian worship. I was apprehensively singing the words while thinking of her...my first real "girl crush" (think dramatic, unrequited high school love). My heart was pounding. I desperately kept pushing out the word that threatened to invade my consciousness: blasphemy. Not only was I thinking about the words of a Christian song in reference to something other than God, but to a forbidden, homosexual lover at that. I distinctly remember saying to myself, "You're going to go to hell, Danielle."

Flash forward five years. My mom, my sisters, my girlfriend, and I were at a mega Christian conference, geared specifically towards teenagers. It was time for the first speaker of the conference and the topic he was bringing was a doozy: "Being Truly Committed to God in a World that Has Fallen Under the Rule of Satan." As the speaker began, the lights dimmed and the air in the auditorium gradually got cooler. I halfway expected thunder sound effects to start playing in the background. As I rolled my eyes and tried to stifle a groan, I peered down the aisle at my youngest sister, who was twelve years old at the time. Her eyes were wide, her lips tight, her brow furrowed––I could tell that the speaker already had her full attention. This, of course, worried me but I decided to see how things played out. About two-thirds of the way through the "sermon"––as I was starting to taste blood from biting my tongue so hard––the speaker caught my attention. He practically shouted, "You kids these days are so caught up in your own interests that you have neglected God." Then, the low blow. "All you girls care more about One Direction than you do about God!" My heart sank. I looked to my sister, a hardcore "Directioner." Her face immediately went pale and her lower lip began to tremble. I had a "déja vu" moment, seeing in her eyes the same fear I had felt in my car five years earlier: blasphemy. A few uncalled for, melodramatic accusations later, the speaker wrapped it up with the classic "altar call," beckoning all the teens who needed to "make God number one" to close their eyes and pray the "sinner's prayer."

God, I am a sinner.
I know I deserve punishment but Jesus died
on the cross to save me from that.
Now I ask Jesus Christ to become my personal
savior and lord of my life. Amen.

I listened to hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of teenagers recite that prayer. I glanced over at my sister and saw her repeating the words with tears streaming down her cheeks. My face flushed and my jaw tightened. After the prayer was over, the speaker prompted everyone who had prayed that prayer to come to the back and speak with a counselor. My sister, bless her heart, who was crying so hard she had the snuffles, began walking that way. Naturally, I followed. I stayed with her and let her talk with me. As I held her in my arms, she cried to me, saying, "I'm sorry I love One Direction so much. I don't want to go to hell." The genuine remorse and borderline terror in her trembling voice was positively heartbreaking. How dare someone make my twelve-year-old sister feel contemptible and terrified because of her simple fondness for a boy band? To make matters worse, a couple of counselors essentially kidnapped her from me, forbidding me to come with them because they needed to "be alone with her" to get her "real story."

I was absolutely livid. As I stood there, fuming, my girlfriend rubbing my back in an attempt to calm me down, I watched the dialogue taking place between the counselors and my sister. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I watched her expression morph from afraid, to confused, to defeated. After they finished talking, she walked over to me, her shoulders slumped.

"What is it?" I asked.
"I have to get baptized," she mumbled.
"Do you want to get baptized?"
"Not really," she admitted bashfully. "But I guess I have to."

I spent the next two hours trying to repair the damage that had been done to my sister's understanding of the Divine, assuring her that she was not a horrible person because she liked One Direction, and that there was absolutely no reason why she should get baptized unless she genuinely wanted to.

Recently, I have read a couple of pieces that served to partially inspire my thoughts on this subject. One was, "A Baptist Meets the Buddha, Part One," by my friend, the Reverend Dr. Marc Boswell. The other was "After God's Birth, Play," by my friend and former professor, Dr. Hollis Phelps.

In Boswell's piece, he discusses the perpetual internal tug-of-war he has faced since young adulthood between his Free Will Baptist background and his proclivity towards the teachings and practices of Buddhism. Boswell reflects on the feelings of shame and anxiety that he experienced when he first discovered his appreciation for the Buddhist tradition, as well as the ways in which he has come to reconcile that tension, now finding "spiritual sustenance provided by these Buddhist traditions."

In Phelps' piece, a commentary on LeRon Shults' Theology After the Birth of God, he considers, among other things, what it looks like to explore religion and theology creatively, suggesting that we should "play with religious and theological concepts the way that a child plays with a disused object, without regard to where it came from and for what it was/is originally for."

I can deeply relate to both Boswell's and Phelps' sentiments. I have often found far greater solace in the Buddhist tradition than I ever found in Christianity (at least, that is, the brand of Christianity to which I was exposed). I was long afraid to embrace that solace for fear of retribution from the unmerciful and exacting God to whom I had been taught to fully submit. What's more, I believe that very fear stemmed from the skepticism with which Christianity had taught me to regard my creative exploration of the Divine. Why do so many religious traditions do this? Why is striking fear into our children through guilt and threats of damnation our method for teaching them about the Divine? Why have so many of us been taught that when it comes to dealing with the subject of the Divine, we should mistrust our imaginations and immense capacity for creativity? In teaching this, we rob our children (and ourselves!) of the full richness and beauty that spiritual creativity has to offer. Imagination is, I think, the very essence of theological and spiritual thought.

A guy in my neighborhood has a bumper sticker on his car that says, "God is too big to be confined to one religion." I agree, but I think it must be taken even one step further: God is too vast, too enigmatic, too complex, to be perceived in an unimaginative way. To put the Divine in a box, to over-define it, to reduce it to one solitary, fixed perception, is to do ourselves, the Divine, and all of Creation a grave injustice.

It is my sincere hope that our society will strive to break down the abundance of barriers that imprison the imaginative nature of the Divine. In doing so, we can move towards a spirituality that expands our minds, fosters a sense of community and a respect for diversity, and galvanizes us to be revolutionary pioneers of love and justice.

Same old shit, just a different day.

"I don't know how to ask it, but..."

This can't be happening.

"So, are you...?"

I thought I was going to be able to avoid this for forever.

"Are you really...gay?"

She spits the word out like it was a bad taste in her mouth. My heart is in my throat. I just nod. Her face goes pale.

"It's not really true, is it, Danielle?"

I nod.

"Is it because of your relationship with your daddy? Did he do something bad to you when you were little? Is that why you're like this?"

Her voice is muffled. It's hard to make out the words. Somehow, I open my mouth. It sounds like someone else's voice when the words come out.

"No. I have always felt like this. And I love her. I love her so much."

Her face twists in confusion and disgust.

"I mean, I'm sure you care about her, but I don't think you're in love with her. Two women just can't be in love."

I go on and on but, of course, the words are falling on deaf ears.

"I just know in my heart that this is wrong. And I know you know it deep down too."

______________________________________

You would think as time goes on, this kind of thing would eventually get easier. But I guess it's never going to be easy to hear someone you love tell you that an innate part of your being is repulsive. Unfortunately, it doesn't surprise me anymore. I have just begun to accept it as the norm.

But it shouldn't have to be that way. My girlfriend and I shouldn't have to cling to each other and cry ourselves to sleep on a regular basis because we constantly feel outcasted by the people who are supposed to love us the most. The crazy part is, we are some of the luckier ones. I have a Mama who loves us and supports us. Some people don't even have that. My heart breaks for the people who are sitting home alone (or even worse, out on the street somewhere) crying, wishing their family loved them unconditionally.

This bullshit is NOT okay. And I hope, and I pray, that maybe one day it will be a thing of the past.

You know what, though? A year ago, that conversation with my grandmother would have devastated me. Now, it just motivates me all the more to succeed. I am strong. I am competent. I am worthy. The fire within me cannot be stomped out.

Let go.

“A man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” -Andre Gide

Isn't it funny how much easier something is said than done? Change is easy - sometimes even fun - to talk about. Most anyone is willing to sit around and talk about all the grand changes they would make in their lives...but when faced with the decision of whether or not to actually make those changes, that enthusiasm often quickly disappears.

I'll be the first one to admit...as much of a free spirit as I am, I am (not so) secretly terrified of change. I am a lover of my comforts and the thought of getting cast out of my comfort zone is enough to send me into sheer panic. My human instincts tell me that the safest thing to do is stay put (don't move...don't breathe!) rather than risk losing my security.

Sure, staying where you are comfortable has its perks. It is nice and warm and cozy, and your life is nice and comfy and average. But at what cost? If staying where you are means you will be sacrificing who you must become, is the security really worth it?

I am asking myself these questions as much as I am asking you, dear reader. Oh, how I wish I had an easy answer for you...and for myself. But this is life we are talking about and there are no easy answers. 

What I can tell you is this: Fear of the unknown is the worst reason to resist change. There are sometimes some very good reasons to be hesitant to change. But if you know deep down that it is time for a change, and you are holding back due to a fear of the unknown...let go, my friend.

Let go. Allow yourself to plummet freely into the mysterious abyss of change. You will be afraid - maybe even terrified - and that is okay. What is not okay is to get twenty years down the road, look back, and realize you have spent your whole life settling.

You deserve better than that. 

I am not sad.

Tick...tick...tick...tick...

The second hand hammers away, echoing throughout the otherwise silent room. You glance at the clock. 4:41AM. Another sleepless night. You long for the first traces of sunlight to trickle in through the curtains. You have already counted the ceiling tiles twice. What to do?

You flop over onto your right side. Then onto your stomach. Then onto your left side. Then onto your back, once again. You smack your fist against the pillow a few times. Pull the covers up over your ears. Pointless.

Thump...thump...thump...thump...

Your heart pounds violently against your chest, competing with the second hand on the clock for your ears' attention. 

From somewhere deep inside your mind, thoughts begin to surface.

"Think of all the mistakes you have made."
"You are worthless."
"You are always going to feel this way."
"What is the point of living?"

They are only thoughts, but it seems as though they are screams trapped inside your skull. 

You attempt to take a deep breath but your chest only tightens, sending a sharp pain down your torso. You glance at the clock again. 4:47AM.

And so, the night drags on.

This is a just a glimpse into the reality of depression. But God forbid I bring up that word.

"What? Depressed? Oh, no, honey, you're just sad. Everyone gets sad now and then!"

I am not sad.

Sad is when you think your favorite TV show is going to come on at 9:00 but it comes on at 8:00 and you miss it. Sad is when you drop your ice cream cone on the sidewalk. Sad is when you don't get a chance to go out this weekend because you are loaded down with house chores that need to be done.

I am not sad.

I am clinically depressed. Depression is an illness. Just as I am assuming you would not say these things to a person with cancer, or heart disease, or multiple sclerosis, do not tell me to "get over it." Do not tell me to "just cheer up." And do not tell me that "it's mind over matter." When you have been utterly crippled by despair to the point of not being able to take a full breath, of not being able to move a single muscle, of feeling everything and nothing at the same time, then come back and talk to me about "mind over matter." When you have felt yourself sink into a pitch black abyss of anguish, seemingly without escape, then I dare you to come back and tell me to "get over it."

Am I sounding a little harsh? Good. Maybe it will help get the point across.

I

am

not

sad.

Me Too

[TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with content relating to sexual assault and violence that may be triggering to survivors.]

[Disclaimer: Be forewarned. This post is candid and will reveal very personal information. Proceed with care.]

Thursday, September 11, 2014. The date is burned into my brain. What started out as a fun night turned into the most confusing and disturbing experience of my life. I was at a coworker's house. My girlfriend was out of town. I was lonely and depressed, and I just wanted to relax and forget about my problems for a little while.

I downed a beer. I was feeling pretty good. My coworker insisted I have another drink. I declined several times but he persisted, so I agreed to have just one more. He told me he would get the drink for me. He insisted that he pour it in a glass for me because I was "a real lady" and shouldn't have to drink from a can. Bristling slightly at the "lady" expression, I assured him I didn't give a rat's ass about drinking from a can. However, he went to his kitchen and, in a minute or two, came back with a glass filled to the brim with fizzy beer. My brain hitched for a split second. I wondered why the beer was fizzing so much when he was professionally trained to pour drinks in such a way to prevent that very thing. I wondered why he had insisted he bring me a beer in a glass instead of the can. I decided I was probably just being paranoid and shrugged it off. A few sips later, everything got blurry. Everyone's voices sounded like they were in a tunnel. The light in the room seemed to dim. "Why do I feel like this?" I thought to myself. I was a very seasoned drinker at the time, and it took me quite a few drinks to get drunk. I had only had one shitty weak beer and a sip of a second one. It didn't make any sense.

After things got blurry, I think several more drinks got pushed into my hand, although I can't remember for sure. Suddenly, everyone was leaving all at once and it was just me and him there. I did not know how many drinks I'd had at that point, but I knew for sure there was no way I could drive home. I had never before felt as incapacitated as I did that night. It felt different, too. I didn't feel drunk. I felt completely helpless. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. He offered his bedroom to me, saying he would sleep on the couch. He lifted my basically limp body and carried me upstairs. Before I realized what was going on, my clothes had been torn off and thrown to the floor. I wanted to scream, but the lump in my throat was absolutely paralyzing. My memory of the rest of the night is mainly a blur, interspersed with vivid moments of horror––moments I do not feel comfortable recounting.

The next morning, I woke up next to him. There I was, a twenty-two-year-old woman, wounded and ashamed. There he was, a forty-something-year-old man, sleeping peacefully, as if what had happened the night before was completely normal. My muscles ached and my head pounded. I looked down at my bare body and instantly noticed the bruises on my arms and thighs. I thought for a second that I should probably cry, but I was completely numb. I stumbled out of the bed, crept downstairs, and drove home.

He texted me over and over that next day. Apparently, he thought I had been "into it." He wanted to "hang out" again. Before I knew it, I had agreed to go over to his house. For the people who have heard my story already, that is the part they have always interrogated me about. "Why did you go back?" "What is wrong with you?" "What were you thinking?" And, honestly, I don't know. I was in a daze I could not shake. Those next couple of days, the things I did and said were completely out of character for me, and made absolutely no sense. Although I was aware of what was happening, it felt as if someone else was controlling my mind and my body. I had no idea what was going on. Part of me was scared. Part of me was positive that my relationship with my girlfriend was already over––why would she ever want to be with me again? And because of that, I felt dead inside. I felt like a disgusting, worthless piece of garbage. But there was one thing I was certain I was still good for: sex. When I think back on it now, I feel that going back was fueled perhaps by some subconscious motivation for me to regain some sense of control over my own sexuality again. So, as disgusting as it made me feel afterwards, I went back again. On that second drive back from his house, I had never felt more worthless in my life.

I tried to convince myself I had, in fact, "wanted it" at the time. After all, why wouldn't I have run away? Why would I have gone back? But as time went on, I knew I had never "wanted it". I didn't love him. I didn't care for him. I didn't even think he was attractive. There have been plenty of times throughout the course of my life that I really wanted to get physical, with both men and women, but this was not one of them. This wasn't an example of "regret sex" as so many people have made sure to suggest to me. I did not decide to have sex with someone and end up later wishing I hadn't. That night, I was physically incapable of consenting and, therefore, it was rape. 

I ended up quitting my job. How could I possibly ever work next to him again? I regretted having to do that, though. I loved that job. I wished I had reported him, but I didn't. It took me months to realize that what had happened was actually rape, and that a date rape drug was most likely involved. At that point, it seemed too late to report it and, besides, after so many people I thought were in my corner made sure to tell me that they thought I was lying, I thought, "How would a judge ever believe me?"

I sometimes replay the parts of the night that I can remember, thinking of all the things I "should have" done. I wish I could have screamed. I wish I could have punched him. I wish I could have run away. I wish I could have had enough mental clarity to stumble outside and sleep in my car. Anything but what happened. I can still hear his raspy voice. I can still smell the scent of stale cigarettes on his breath. I can still see his smug face. And I still feel the shame because, somehow, somewhere deep down, it still feels like it was my fault. Why did I go over there in the first place? Why did I drink? Why did I let him pour that beer? Why didn't I say something when I was scared? And why on earth did I go back? These are questions that others have asked me, and questions that sometimes still plague my mind. But I try my best to resist the urge to blame myself. I know in my heart that he drugged my drink that night. I know in my heart that I was physically incapable of saying "no" or fighting back. I know in my heart that I was raped.

I once wished he could experience the fear I felt that night. I once wished he could experience the shame I felt walking into that women’s clinic and having to be tested for STI’s. I once wished he could experience the dread I felt waiting for the results of that pregnancy test. But those feelings have gone now. I don't even care what happens to him anymore. I have learned to be at peace with my feelings towards him, because all those feelings do is hold me down.

As much as it still hurts, and as vulnerable as it makes me feel, my story still begs to be told. Knowing that there may be even the tiniest chance that this post will provide comfort to someone else who has suffered something similar fills me with a great peace that I am doing the right thing.

Part of what made things so bad about telling my story is that, at first, thanks to rape culture, I didn't realize I'd been raped. I tried to shrug it off as a mistake on my part, as something I did wrong, which meant that, when I realized what had actually happened, the people I had already talked to didn't believe me. And I get that. But, to those of you reading this who may have never experienced sexual assault, please, hear me when I say: If someone tells you they have been raped, just BELIEVE THEM. This is not an easy thing to share. If someone trusts you enough to open up about this to you, please, don't call them a liar.

And if there is another victim out there who is reading this post, I want you to know, this is for you. Even if you are the only one who knows what happened, your experience is real. Your confusion is real. Your pain is real. And your strength is real. You are beautiful. You are magnificent. You are precious. And you are not alone.

Stuck

In a few short months, I will be graduating.

As that day creeps closer, I hear the same question over and over again:

"What's next?"

I know "hate" is a strong word but I really HATE that question.

How can I boldly proclaim "what's next," when I don't even know what's going on right now?

I don't have my own living space. I'm not even renting. My girlfriend and I bounce back and forth between my mother's house and my father's house.

I am unemployed and have no prospective jobs on the horizon.

My bank account balance currently sits at $17.67 (which is actually way more than usual) but once I go pick up my anxiety medication from the pharmacy this afternoon it will be more like $5.00. 

Mama helps me the best she can (because she is amazing) but on a public school teacher's salary, her money can only go so far, especially since it isn't just me she's helping. It's me, plus my two younger sisters, plus my girlfriend whose parents care more about their goddamn "principles" than their own daughter. Ah, but I digress...

I had been working on a certain graduate school application, but something was holding me back from completing it, and now I know what it was. Deep down in my soul, I know "what I want to be when I grow up." It isn't a pastor, or a professor, or even a forensic anthropologist. It is not something I have to become. It is who I have always been.

I am a writer.

I have been afraid to embrace that truth but there is no denying it anymore. My soul yearns for it. It is the very blood that flows through my veins.

Sadly, it isn't enough to sit around in my (father's) house and write all day. In this fucked up world we live in, we have to earn a little thing called money in order to do a little thing called survive. How do people do it? How do they continue, day in and day out, at a job they hate (or even worse, a job they've just settled for)? Kudos to those people. They have some serious perseverance. I just can't do that. I can't spend every day of my life doing something I hate. I can't even spend it doing something that's just "okay." For me, life is pointless if it is not spent doing what I love, and what I truly love is writing.

And that terrifies me.

Writing itself doesn't scare me. (It thrills me.) It is the idea of having to turn my writing into an item to be consumed...that is what scares me. I don't know how to "make a living" by writing. I just know how to write. So, here I sit, staring at this computer screen...no less perturbed than when I began typing...and I still don't have an answer for "what's next." I'm just here. Stuck.

Until next time,

D

What do you believe?

"Well, what do you believe?"

A thick silence followed. As her eyes began to bulge from her skull and she stared at me intensely, I could tell how important my answer apparently was to her. Still, I had to chuckle internally because it was truly bizarre to realize how different my answer was now than it would have been a year and a half ago. The question jarred me. In actuality the lady was only inquiring about my "religious beliefs." But although I replied with a simple, "I'm not sure," it really got me thinking.

What do I believe?

The answer to that question is rather blurry now, to be honest. There are a few things I am pretty sure of...

I believe you should be as kind to others as you can possibly manage. When you notice something lovely about someone, point it out to them. When you miss someone, call or visit them. When you are thinking about how someone is doing, ask them (and really listen to their answer). When you want to tell someone how you feel, write a letter. Reach out.

But also take care of yourself. If you are going to constantly wear yourself down to the bone, you might as well go ahead and dig your grave now. Pay attention to what you crave. Don't lose yourself completely in your involvements with others. Remember that your needs matter too.

When it comes to our purpose, I believe that the reason we have life is to enjoy it. That's it. Soak up every experience that you feel compelled to partake in. Everything you do doesn't always have to have a "point" or some grand objective. Sometimes it is perfectly okay to do something just for the hell of it. (Just try extra hard not to harm the helpless [children, animals, Earth] in the process.)

And for the love of trees, when something beautiful is happening, I believe you should stop analyzing it and trying to document every moment of it for future reference. Instead, just feel it. Be present.

There really isn't much else I know.

I do not believe we will ever reach a point when we can say, "I have arrived! I am who I am, and I know what I know." We are always in a state of "becoming"––becoming who we are, that is. So, I'm sure my answer to that lady's question will evolve over time.

This strange existence is a journey of some sort. However, I believe that it is not the journey's destination you should focus on. Stop racking your brains over "where you are going to end up." The fact that you are able to go anywhere is the real gift. Do not allow anyone to steer your sails for you. It is your journey, and you should be in charge of the direction and of all of the little divergences from the path along the way.

"Not all those who wander are lost," so, wander on my fellow nomads.

I'll see you around.

Until next time,

D