Speak the Truth

This is part of my story. It is not all of my story.

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and before you start reading, I want to give you a brief content warning for sexual assault, domestic violence, emotional abuse and victim shaming. While I do not go into too much detail, I want you to be aware of that on the front end so you can take care of yourself and, if needed, skip reading this piece.

And please know: whoever you are, wherever you’re coming from, and whatever your story is, you are not alone.

I have included some resources at the end of this post and you can always message me: hellarader@substack.com

To all the women I know—especially those who are much much younger than me—I am inspired by your voices and awed by your strength. Thank you for giving me the courage to speak the truth. And thank you to the men in my life for being safe, loving and kind.

There is truth that I have spent most of my life trying to deny by hiding behind the wall of not talking, a wall that I inherited from my parents, who were not only survivors of trauma but also of war.

Behind that wall I could hide in plain view and find ways to deflect which really meant that I was more concerned about what someone else thought about me than I was about what was happening to and in my body.

So, when I talked about my relationship with my dad, if anyone pointed out that we had an emotional intimacy that you would not expect between a father and daughter, I clarified that he never touched me “like that,” even if sometimes he said things to me that were…well…inappropriate.

When I talked about my mom's prolonged silent treatment when I was a little kid, if anyone suggested that was a form of emotional abuse, I explained that she was just demanding. But of course, she was. She wanted to make sure I had it better in life than she did growing up.

When I thought about my older brothers, about how they either abandoned me or called me stupid and ugly, I chalked it up to the usual stuff that happens when you are not only the baby of the family but also a girl with two much older brothers.

And never mind those pictures I found, the ones where I am four years old, sitting naked, in a chair, in the front entry of my childhood home; the ones my mom hung her head at when I showed them to her after I found them, surely there is a good enough explanation those, even if in them, I look terrified and like I am trying to make my small frame even smaller.

And when my friends expressed concern about the way my husband gaslit me, yelled at me and cheated on me in front of them, I assured them that he was just “misunderstood” and then distanced myself from those friends. That's why they had no idea that, behind closed doors, I gave it as good as I got, which meant I had bruises that I then covered up. Or, that because he threatened the people I love, I not only stopped pushing back, but eventually, I stopped talking at all.

And I only ever alluded to what happened the summer I turned fourteen. I wanted to forget the night my older brother's friend, a 22-year-old guy I considered to be part of the family, groped me and then stuck his tongue down my throat just outside of my childhood home.

Or the night a girl who lived up the street in my neighborhood, stuck her hand down my pants and then up my shirt when I was over at her house for a sleepover party. I definitely did not want to admit that she had molested me.

I also did not think to mention the intimate partners who forced themselves on me, because, I mean, doesn't even count as a violation if you're in a relationship?

And I did not bother to bring up all the men who harassed me over the years—like the bosses who commented on my breasts, and the professors who asked me out on a date. I mean, isn't that just what comes along with being a woman?

But really, I hid all of that because I did not want to be known as a survivor. I did not want that to be my identity, something that would define me above anything else about me.

Because if I was a survivor, then that meant I lost, and they won. I was weak and they were strong. I was a pitiful victim without agency, and they were winners with all the power. And that was not something I could allow to be true.

Besides…

I know abuse survivors.

I know rape survivors.

I know assault survivors.

I know their stories.

That's why I marched for them at Take Back the Night rallies, listened to them as a suicide hotline volunteer, advocated for them and defended their access to health care, and why, as a card-carrying member of the National Organization for Women, I routinely handed out condoms to promote safe and consensual sex.

But because what happened to me was not “that bad,” I did not believe that I deserved that kind of care—not even from myself.

And even if I wanted to say something, whom would I tell? Who would even understand if I tried? Not only did I put myself in harm's way, but I also did not run at the first sign of trouble. I stayed when the red flags were not only blazing but literally choking my neck.

Plus, if I told anyone, I would subject myself to the inevitable victim shaming. Best case, they would say I was being “dramatic.” More likely they would say something like, “I mean, she was being antagonistic. Clearly, she was begging to be smacked down.” Or “Sure, maybe he crossed the line when he grabbed her and kissed her, but it's not like he raped her.” Or worst of all “Come on, that all happened such a long time ago. What's the point in bringing it all up now and ruining someone else's reputation?”

Just thinking about all that made me so angry, I put on an armor of defiance, dug in and told myself that I could care less what anyone said about me. Because, chances are, whatever they had to say about me, I had already said or much worse about myself. Yeah, I had more than enough shame to cover it.

But even if that was true, even if my shame was epically huge, that kind of defiance was just a cover up. It was a show of false strength that always gave way to self-doubt.

What if I was an unreliable narrator and none of that happened the way I think it did, or when? Maybe I was older? Maybe I was younger?

Then I got busy making myself wrong.

Maybe when I ran into my brother’s friend and said nothing when he grabbed me, I was signaling, “Hey, come and get it. Just take it.” And maybe that girl up the street did not molest me. Maybe I’m just afraid to admit I'm a lesbian. After all, that’s what my husband always said if it came up. Or maybe I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. Maybe I read too many pop psychology books. Or worse, maybe I was looking for problems where they did not exist.

And then I took it a step further.

Maybe I was just making excuses for my bad behavior and looking for someone else to blame for my own faults and shortcomings. “Oh, poor me. People abused me. It's not my fault I'm so fucked up.”

After all, my path has been paved with gold, access and privilege. I have no right to complain. It's my fault I am a confirmed epic failure. I need to toughen up, get over myself and shut up. I’m not a survivor. I am a loser who got what was coming to her.

For all those reasons and more, I never wanted to call myself an abuse survivor. Not when I was a teenager, not as a young adult, and not even as a forty-something year old woman at the height of the #MeToo movement.

Then in 2020, just as the COVID pandemic started, my marriage ended. Suddenly alone at forty-six years old, I had a choice to make: risk stepping out into the light and live as my perfectly imperfect self or stay in the dark and cower behind a wall that I had built just to survive.

And because menopause was burning away the last of my defenses, I decided to tell Barbara, a woman I had known for almost twenty years and who I considered to be my spiritual mom, all of it.

When I did, I finally admitted the full truth, not only to somebody else, but also to the God of my understanding, which really meant I admitted the truth to myself.

Not long after that, I started to write. And write. And write. every day I wrote something until eventually I could write the stories, I swore I would never tell. And once I did that, I kept writing until I wrote myself into myself.

But even after all that, I still did not want to call myself an abuse survivor.

Then in 2023, one month after I turned 50, I was at a party to celebrate my older brother's birthday when yet another “friend of the family,” a guy who is happily married and has four adult children, a guy who told me I was as hot now as the last time he saw me when I was twelve or thirteen years old and he was at least twenty-one, crossed the line and kissed me even after I had repeatedly said NO.

When he did, I froze and said nothing.

In my mind, I had brought this on myself. I wore a flashy dress, straightened my hair and even put on makeup and lipstick. I had twirled myself around the dance floor, engaged in witty banter with multiple people, including this guy, and I had laughed a lot. And when he made the first untoward comment, I did not get up and walk away.

I froze because I was afraid, and said nothing, because underneath, some part of me had been a little bit flattered by his attention. And that's what I wanted to keep secret. I did not want to admit to myself or to anyone else, that even as a fifty-year-old woman, even after every word I had written, and even after all my talk about living free, I was still just a fawning, frozen little girl who let someone else's desire be bigger than my own hard-earned self-esteem and self-worth.

After all, I know better, which means I should do better. No, I should be better.

But I travel all over the world—by myself. I routinely go dancing—by myself. And I often go out to dinner—by myself. To date, the only men this has happened to me with are men I already know; men who are like family; men who are supposed to be safe. That means, even back when I was a kid, I was right. The world out there is safer than the world right here. And one more time, I thought, if I did not say any of that out loud, I could make it all go away and deny that it happened at all—even if it never, ever, not even once, worked out that way.

So, the next morning, I decided to do something different. I called Barbara and told her everything, including the parts I felt did not reflect very well on me. And when she told me that it was not my fault, that I am lovable and acceptable just as I am, and that I do not need to hide myself away to stay safe, I chose to believe her and used that as the fuel to begin to dig in and heal, really heal, all those wounds that sit deep down within me.

Because assault, harassment and abuse—mental, physical, and emotional—comes in many different forms. Each one leaves deep wounds that cannot be seen with the naked eye. That’s why, even now, some part of me wants to freeze when someone raises their voice or duck for cover when someone comes up on me too fast; fight when someone dismisses me or fawn when someone ignores me with stonewalling silence. Those old wounds are not fully healed, and, in some ways, they might never be.

But today, after almost two years of hard work, many more calls to Barbara, many more pages of writing, and many, many sessions with a somatic therapist, I can hold my head up and say:

I am an abuse survivor.

I am also that woman who flirted, who got in someone's face, and who did not get up, walk away or scream.

But whether I wear a cute outfit, style, my hair, put on makeup or not, whether I say yes to dinner or say no to an advance, and whether I say nothing at first because I am holding my breath or raise my voice in frustration just to be heard, the other person's rights end where my body begins. That means the minute I do not give my consent, what they do next is on them, not on me. They are accountable for their part, just as I am responsible for mine.

And for me, taking responsibility for my thoughts and actions includes adding my voice to the mix. Because each time we share who we are, each time we risk taking up space, each time we allow ourselves to be messy in front of somebody else, not only can we feel a little more whole within ourselves, but we can also help that one person not feel so alone in the world.

And together, we can write new stories, stories of hope and healing, forgiveness and redemption, and, most importantly, stories of joy and pleasure.

Resources:

The National Domestic Violence Hotline, Thehotline.org, 800-799-SAFE

Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network, Rainn.org, 800-656-HOPE

Or reach out to me at: hellarader@substack.com

some of these scribbles are from early 2024. they are in one of the notebooks I keep on my bedside table. they are part of the process of me getting to where I am today.