Finding My Voice

When I was 23 years 17 days old, before the late hours of the night, I was a virgin. When I was 23 years 17 days old, at an hour I cannot know, I was dateraped and the biggest piece of my heart, at the time, was taken from me. When I look back, I sometimes associate this with the first trauma I had with men in my life, but I know in my heart that that isn’t true. I know that my story started much, much before this horrific November 12th night. When I look back on my childhood, I don’t view it as traumatic, though I know that trauma happened. I didn’t truly face it until I was old enough to understand, but the images played in my mind. When I was 4 years old I was molested, time and time again, by our neighbor, a late twenties or early thirties man, who was sick in his head. We didn’t know. I didn’t know. It was “our little secret,” he would tell me, as he would take my little delicate hand and lead me down the hallway, closing the bathroom door behind us, beginning to take off his clothes, instructing me to do the same. I thought it was a game. I wasn’t old enough to understand the concept of “good touch” and “bad touch” and I thought we were simply playing a game. 

When I was 23 years old, I knew the difference. I knew what good touch was, and I knew what bad touch was. When I was 23 years old, I wasn’t able to stand up for myself, or stand at all. I was all but defenseless, and yet again was put through a situation that would shape me for the future--a situation that I would have to learn how to become better from, to grow from. 

I don’t associate my life with trauma. I don’t look at my past and think “oh, poor, sweet girl, you’ve been through so much.” I see my mom, in her ninety-six pound frame, coming home from the grocery store to my brothers and I and shouting, “Who wants to have a shaving cream fight at the park?” We would run down to the park in whatever clothes we had on, and the war would ensue. Whoever ended up the most white would win. We would all come home completely covered, head-to-toe, and my dad would come home and be furious with the mess we made getting ourselves clean. My family dynamic was dysfunctional, but filled with love, filled with laughter and filled with faith. 

My mom taught me to cast all my cares unto God, and to always know that He is taking care of me, that He is holding my heart, and that He is the writer of my fate, should I choose to allow Him to take the lead. My mom may have lost sight of this, though I would never know it, when I finally told my closest-in-age brother about the secret I had with our grown neighbor. He gripped my wrist and yanked me down the hallway, saying, “I’m not letting you go until you tell mom. I will tell her if you don’t.” He knew the difference between good touch and bad touch, and he was livid. I told my mom, and I don’t remember her reaction. I’m sure she cried later. I’m sure she went through a period of blaming herself for trusting him enough to allow my brother to mow his lawn and for me to sit there and watch him do it. She didn’t show me that reaction. I’m sure her heart was angry with God for a moment, but I don’t remember her faith ever wavering. What I remember is that I wasn’t allowed to go outside when his black car was in the driveway. I wasn’t allowed to play basketball if he was home, or be outdoors. I would peek my eyes out through my blinds and I would check to see if his car was there, waiting to be able to go play. I remember sitting at the police station and the cold feeling of a metal chair under my legs. I let my legs swing back and forth beneath me while the officer used toy dolls to ask me questions, “did he do this?” “did he do that?” I responded simply, “yes,” “no,” “I’m not sure,” all while looking at the ground and letting my feet swing in and out of that chair. What I remember most of all was the day that I snuck out when I saw him outside. I didn’t understand the extent of what he did, but I knew that the police were here often and that he was made to move. I also knew that I couldn’t let someone disappear without knowing that they were forgiven. I ran outside when I saw him, and he waved to me. I walked over to him, wearing my light-up sneakers, and I told him “I forgive you.” He looked down at me, with his blue eyes and blond hair, and he thanked me. He hugged me, and he thanked me. This moment haunts me now, knowing I was in the arms of my predator, but I will never regret forgiving him. I will never regret granting forgiveness to a sinner, when I, too, am constantly being forgiven. 

Life carried on. Soccer was everything I ever wanted to play or do, and I often got ready for practice hours before I had to go, cleats and shinguards on, kicking the ball around the house or in the yard. On games days I would have my uniform on at 8 in the morning, even if my game didn’t start until 2:30 in the afternoon. I dreamed about playing, and I loved the feeling of the grass under my feet, and the rush of adrenaline I would feel when I broke away with the ball and sprinted towards the net, hearing the swish of the ball sliding against it as the cheers began. My nickname quickly became “diehard,” because I would get injured, tear a tendon, dislocate and relocate my shoulder, and keep playing. I never quit. This would be a theme in my life. 

When I was 23 years and 17 days old, I wasn’t able to fight how I wanted to. I tried, I remember telling him to stop many times, but the weight of his body against mine was crushing me, and I was too dizzy to move or stand. I didn’t invite him into the room. I barely got there myself. I walked away from him because he was bothering me, after having made me a couple of drinks. I told him I was going to sleep, and I had to hold on to anything I could find just to get to an open door. I remember shutting the door. I don’t remember laying down. I don’t remember him coming into the room, or the door opening and closing again. I remember his weight. I remember crying. I remember him telling me to relax and my telling him repeatedly that he needed to stop. I remember pain, and I remember giving up, for probably the first time in my life, truly accepting defeat and giving up. 

The next morning I told myself I chose it, even though I knew I hadn’t. I didn’t want to face reality. Still intensely dizzy from whatever was placed in my drink, I went running. Running had always been my escape from reality, and I had to drown out the noise of my own brain. I had to run. I got a couple horrible feeling miles and vomited all over the side of the road. Just as my vomit would be washed down the drain, I washed the events of that night deep within myself, not telling anyone for over a year. 

My mom raised us all to turn to God in hard times. She taught us that it was important, more than most other things in life, to have a constant line of communication with God, and to pray unceasingly. I didn’t know how to pray after this had happened. I didn’t know how to talk to people. I moved out on Thanksgiving day, and into a friends house in another town. My family was hurt, but they didn’t know that I, truly, was the one hurting. I couldn’t be in my hometown anymore. I couldn’t run the risk of seeing him, or of seeing his friend I had been dating that cheating on me that very same night. He was supposed to be at that house with me. I wasn’t supposed to be there alone. The universe had other plans. So I ran away for a while. I worked, I went to school and I focused my attention on running. 10-13 mile tuesday’s became a thing for my roommate and I. I ran until the pain stopped, I ran until my mind stopped. I ran until running became my way of praying and finding peace with God again. 

When I was 12 years old, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I started writing poetry and short stories and I decided that one day I was going to write a story and get it published. I began working on pieces and never finishing them, afraid to let the world see the creative side of my writing, the fun side, the fantasy side. What I didn’t realize was that God was allowing my life to become a story. God doesn’t make bad things happen, but He does allow good things to come from those experiences, if we allow Him to guide us. Writing became my first outlet, before distance running. The first long novel-type story I ever wrote began while I was running. I pulled my phone out, the only music playing was a piano player, and I started running and typing away with my thumbs on my phone. Writing, I thought, would be my future. I didn’t know the events that would transpire that would lead me to this point, but I know that God has a purpose, and a plan, and that I have a story to tell. When I was 4 years old something terrible happened, but when I was 23 years and 17 days old, my whole world changed and it would set off 8 years of a series of decisions and events that would alter the course of my life, leave me scared, vulnerable and broken, give me the most amazing miracle baby I could have ever asked for, and finally give me my voice, my story, my writing.