When people come together to do things, amazing stuff can result

This will seem like an odd thing to post-- I certainly didn't expect this video to have any connection to PTSD and hope and support-- but I found it surprisingly touching. About halfway through the video, maybe a little later, he talks about projects he's started on the internet to foster communication and connection between people. He then mentions some personal requests he's had from people to write songs addressing fear, or addressing sadness and anxiety. I won't spoil the surprise-- I'll just say that he does it in a pretty touching, amazing way. I felt really good at the end of this video.

Song: "Nightminds" -- Missy Higgins

A touching song about supporting someone through dark times.



Just lay it all down
Put your face into my neck and let it fall out
I know, I know, I know
I knew before you got home
This world you're in now
It doesn't have to be alone
I'll get there somehow, 'cause
I know, I know, I know
When even springtime feels cold

But I will learn to breathe this ugliness you see
So we can both be there
And we can both share the dark
And in our honesty, together we will rise
Out of our nightminds, and into the light
At the end of the fight
...
And in our honesty, together we will rise
Out of our nightminds
And into the light at the end of the fight 

Book: The Name of the Wind

The Name of the Wind is a fantastic fantasy (hur hur, pun intended) novel by Patrick Rothfuss. It is the first of a trilogy, and I am *so* excited for the second book, whenever it manages to make its way out. Rothfuss has such a way with words, and manages to evoke the most powerful, wonderful descriptions of everything from music to PTSD.

I just wanted to type up a section that I found particularly profound:

Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain. Classic thinking teaches us of the four doors of the mind, which everyone moves through according to their need.

First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door.

Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying "time heals all wounds" is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door.

Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.

Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.

In the interest of not spoiling this book for anyone who is interested in reading it in its fabulous entirety (you should!), I'm going to quote more of the book, but heavily ellipsed.

[After a trauma occured] I wandered deep into the forest and slept. My body demanded it, and my mind used the first door to dull the pain. The wound was covered until the proper time for healing could come. In self-defense, a good portion of my mind simply stopped working--went to sleep, if you will.

While my mind slept, many of the painful parts of the previous day were ushered through the second door. Not completely. I did not forget what had happened, but the memory was dulled, as if seen through thick gauze. If I wanted to, I could have brought to memory [details about the trauma]. But I did not want to remember. I pushed those thoughts away and let them gather dust in a seldom-used corner of my mind.

I dreamed, not of [bad things associated with the trauma], but of gentler things. And slowly the wound began to grow numb....

But enough of quotes-- I'm afraid of giving too much away of a story that should not be spoiled. But so much of this story spoke out to me, with the portrayal of numbness, the repulsion that happens when one tries--whether consciously or subconsciously--to remember things that are not ready to be thought about, triggers, and the general mental and physical changes that occur after one survives a trauma.

It's a beautiful book, and definitely worth reading. It's not entirely trauma-centric, but the portrayal of PTSD is one of the better ones I have encountered in fiction.

Inspiration and Empowerment in the Movies!

40 Inspirational Speeches in Two Minutes

It's exactly what the title says-- safe-for-work, non-triggering, empowering, and just plain awesome. I give total props to the creator for including Newsies, my 8th/9th grade obsession. <3

This feels like a fantastic way to start my homework for the night!

The embedded video doesn't quite fit in the space allotted by my blog design, so here's a direct link to the clip on YouTube if you want to see the whole screen, including the little part missing from the right side of the clip.

Song: "Remember The Tinman" -- Tracy Chapman

A little bittersweet, touching, ultimately empowering? Not triggering.




There are locks on the doors
And chains stretched across all the entries to the inside
There's a gate and a fence
And bars to protect from only God knows what lurks outside
Who stole your heart left you with a space
That no one and nothing can fill
Who stole your heart 
Who took it away
Knowing that without it you can't live
Who took away the part so essential to the whole
Left you a hollow body
Skin and bone
What robber what thief who stole your heart and the key
Who stole your heart
The smile from your face
The innocence 
The light from your eyes
...
But still all sentiment is gone
But still you have no trust in no one
If you can tear down the walls
Throw your armor away remove all roadblocks barricades
If you can forget there are bandits and dragons to slay
And don't forget that you defend an empty space
And remember the tinman
Found he had what he thought he lacked
Remember the tinman
Go find your heart and take it back
Who stole your heart
Maybe no one can say
One day you will find it I pray

Song: "Stronger" -- Sugababes

Empowering song about strength and moving on; not triggering.




Sometimes I feel so down and out
Like emotion that's been captured in a maze
I had my ups and downs
Trials and tribulations,
I overcome it day by day,
Feeling good and almost powerful
A new me, that's what I'm looking for...

Movies that could trigger

I'm excited-- I have a goal. It's a goal I think I can easily reach, too. But before I announce my much-emphasized goal (did I mention that I have a goal?), I'm going to take a short detour.

This summer, I watched a fantastic movie called Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others). Very intense, with a tight plot and good acting. However, halfway through the movie, I started to panic, and then I went numb. It was the implied rape scene in the car and the following shower scene that triggered me. The shower scene, where she is huddled in the bath tub under scalding water and shivering, hit too close to home. The feeling of shock and disbelief, the feeling that you'll never be clean again-- the actress did such an amazing job of capturing that that I flashed back to my own feelings and memories.

It took me about an hour to unclench my fists and uncurl from my tense, hunched over position. I remember being so frustrated that I couldn't watch the movie without my own experiences tainting it.

And so here is a post about movies that have triggered me:

• Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others): 

See above.

• Borat:

Kind of self-explanatory? I couldn't watch more than half an hour of it. I went from staring at the screen in shock to feeling horribly dissociated to staring blankly into space and thinking about what had happened to me and how it wasn't funny. Terrible experience. As much as people seem to love this movie, I won't be attempting to watch it again.

• Serenity:

That's the kicker. Yeah, I know, right? Let me preface this by emphasizing how much I love Firefly. I absolutely adore Firefly. But I got triggered during Serenity, and I went numb and had to stop watching it. I was *so* frustrated.


And now, my goal: to watch Serenity. I'm going to rewatch the Firefly episodes when I have the time, and then I'm damn well going to watch Serenity. Because I can, and because I want to. Because I think I am strong enough to, now. And because I think River Tam is the shit. :-D

My Story

I wrote this piece for myself two and a half weeks ago, when I began to free-write about the incident for the first time. After reading Nic's story (posted here), it reminded me so much of one particular aspect of my own story that I wanted to share my own writing as well.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent. I've added a star after each reference to a person to denote this.

Untitled

I think about the skirt. I liked it. It was plaid and school-girly and short and pleated and had three large buttons on the front. I wore it over jeans and I liked it. I never got it back.

I think about the aftermath. I talked to M*. I went to my room and changed my clothes and crawled into bed. I emailed T*. I didn't cry. I might have slept. I think I did. But I didn't cry.

I think about when I told A*. She said she knew. She said she could see when she tried to hug me and I jumped back and I couldn't be touched and she said that M* was angry and she could see and she could see when I saw him and I ran away and I hid and I cried and I was frozen and terrified. Later than night, when I told her, I finally cried.

Then I told people. More people. People here, people at Tau. K* cried, for me, for her, for all of us who hurt. I loved her. A* held me. B* hurt me. W* lost my trust forever. He told him. He confessed. W* lied. I can't forgive him. But somehow I understand.

B* hurt me. I am angry. It shouldn't matter and I shouldn't care because who is he to decide, who is he to say, why do I listen to him anyway, I don't, but still, he spoke and it hurt me and his words are still with me and I hate him and I have nothing more to say.

Everyone else, they blend together. Kind words, good words, at first, then fading, fading, nothing more, nothing more, oh wait, something happened? I guess I'm sorry. I don't know. Someone held my hand, someone hugged me, they listened, they tried. I don't know. I don't remember. But I know that later, when I needed them, they weren't there.

They were gone when I needed them, when the words I said came back to haunt me, when I curled on the bathroom floor and rocked and cried and couldn't say anything more than “I didn't want it, I didn't want it.” Where were they when I heard voices and saw scenes and couldn't watch things without seeing and feeling and it was there and it was all there in my head and I couldn't make it stop. It played again and again over and over in my head like a movie, a reel that never ends. They weren't there. When I reached out, they were gone.

I hear their voices. Hollow.

No meaning, no feeling, no promises that were kept.

Bodies in the Chapter Room, convening.

But empty,

nothing real, nothing done, no one cared.

I think about how he tried to put his hands on me afterward. When I was curled up in a ball on the tavern bench and I couldn't be small enough and I was against a wall and I tried but I wasn't disappearing or comprehending just shaking and trying and not knowing what now, what next. My thoughts were about getting away, out that door, up and away, far far away. I was sane, and calm, and I convinced him to leave. I said what he wanted me to say. Then finally, I was free, and out the door like a bird, climbing up the bright wooden stairs, up, up, found the door I was looking for, lights still on, knocked, “come in.”

“That might even be called rape,” M* says, at the end, an afterthought.

I am in my room. I don't remember much. I changed my clothes and crawled into bed. I emailed T* about lunch. I stared at the computer, I stared at the ceiling, I think I slept. It might even be rape. I think it is, but I am afraid to think. What if it isn't. What if. What if.

The next day, morning dawns, I go to lunch but I am afraid. But still, nothing has set in. The day is still bright. Maybe too bright. The movie, M* talks about a movie during lunch, and I hear him but not really. E*'s car, house sitting, that's where A* is. And there's T*, he's there, and he cares. What now, what do I do, who do I tell, where do I go.

I am reliving it now. I feel it in my body. I can't stop thinking about it. I see fragments of images, and jabs of feeling, and pain that I can almost feel and remember but is too far away. Everything is far away, but I feel it. I remember his face, but not in detail, in hazy images and clouds and fog and through layers of thick waxed paper. My heart is pounding and I am still. I sit on my bed and try to feel safe.

I think about it when I am brushing my teeth. It hits me one day that I will never have my skirt back. Those buttons, the plaid. I can't think about the event, but I think about the skirt.

And I am angry at the aftermath. It is what makes me scream and cry in the middle of the night. No more thoughts or dreams about the rape. It is about afterwards. About being told I am wrong, about being told to keep quiet, about being told to shut up and die. It's all there, in my head, and I can never forgive them, not really. Never really. It'll always be there.

I think about that bench. It's there. I see it. It's okay. I don't run when I see it, or freeze when I'm in the tavern. It's there, sitting, standing, a relic of what happened, unchanging, uncaring, like this House. It's what this House is to me.

And now, now I am done. White walls are in front of me, and I stare, and I am empty. I have written what I can write. There is more, there, swirling, uncurling, but it is for another time. At peace now. Frozen, immobile, but safe, and at peace. I am done.

September 17, 2009

Survivor Story: "Drugged" -- Nic

I would like to share a poem with you that was written by another brave survivor. One thing many survivors will say is that even though everyone's story is different, we all have the ability to empathize, to reach back into our own memories and feelings. Even if what happened to me wasn't quite like that, I can really easily imagine how it would feel, because I know how something exactly like that felt.

“Drugged”

by Nic

I remember what I wore.
I still have the denim jacket.
I didn’t want the med examiner to put it with the rape kit and the rest of my clothes as evidence.
It’s designer.
I remember he was a friend of a friend.
A friend of a friend I once trusted.
I remember eating pizza at Mellow Mushroom.
I remember talking about friends we both knew from back home.
I remember enjoying myself.
*****
I remember getting in the bar underage because he worked there.
I remember sitting at a table against a dark wall.
I remember feeling “cool.”
I remember him ordering drinks.  Not from a waitress but at the bar himself.
I remember waiting for the drinks.
I remember how many I drank.
I remember talking about my boyfriend (now my husband) and how they would get along well.
I remember saying, “I have to pee.”
I remember going to the bathroom, flushing, washing my hands, and then walking out of the restroom.
My legs went numb.
*****
I remember telling him, “I can’t feel my legs.”
I remember he said he would take me home.
I remember him lifting my arm over his shoulder to help me to his car.
I remember him opening the car door for me.
I remember getting in the car.
I remember buckling my seat belt.
That’s where I stop remembering… I think…
What’s in my mind after clicking the seat belt could be true or false… reality or imagination.
*****
I don’t know.  I will never know.  Truly.  I cannot turn back the clock.
I remember wanting to turn back the clock.
*****
I remember saying “no.”
I think I remember saying “no” as he pinned my wrists and spread my legs.
It was a whisper.
My voice was hoarse.
I remember pain… physical and emotional.
But did I say, “no”?
*****
I remember waking up in his bed.  He was on the floor.  Naked.
I remember seeing the condom wrapper on the alarm clock.
I remember what time it was.
I remember searching his apartment for a bathroom and being violently ill.
I remember finding articles of my clothing scattered.
I remember not knowing where I was.
I remember getting dressed while he was still sleeping.
*****
I remember seeing that he had gone through my purse because my wallet was out, opened, invaded.
*****
Nothing had been stolen.
Everything had been stolen.
*****
I remember him waking up as I zipped my jeans.
I remember him asking why I was crying.
I remember him driving me to my dorm.
I remember the silence.
Deafening.
*****
I remember him putting his hand on my knee when I opened the car door to get out.
I remember wanting to vomit on his hand.
I remember him asking me if I wanted to go to church with him tomorrow.
I remember wanting to vomit on his hand.
I remember thinking “what the fuck?!”
I remember him asking me if I was ok.
I remember saying, “I don’t think so.”
I remember wanting to vomit on his hand that was on my knee.
*****
I remember showering in scalding water.
I remember burning my skin.
I remember using an entire bar of soap until it disintegrated.
I remember using a new, fresh towel when I got out of the shower.
I remember vomiting more and more and more…
Til there was nothing left inside of me.
*****
But it was all already gone.
Nothing was left.
*****
I remember driving myself to the ER.
I remember telling the triage nurse, “I think I was raped.”
I remember her glaring at me and asking, “you think?”
I remember having vials of blood drawn.
I remember the med examiner looking for evidence from my body.
Hairs, finger prints, scratches, skin under my finger nails.
They took what was left of me.
*****
I remember she was frustrated with me because I had already showered and peed.
“Very little evidence here,” she said while I laid with my legs spread open.
I remember being alone.
Entirely alone.
*****
I remember the exam, the doctor, the cop who sat in the corner.
The rape kit.
I remember the doctor saying, “the abundance of tearing of the tissue is sign of trauma to the area.”
I remember thinking “what the fuck does that mean?”
I remember crying while some stranger combed my pubic hair… for his strays.
I remember pictures were taken of bruises on my inner thighs, my breasts, my arms.
I remember a bruise under my right arm pit from him carrying me over his shoulder.
A bruise on my collar bone.
I remember someone saying, “it’ll be he said/she said…”
*****
I remember asking someone to call my mom.
I remember they left her a voicemail.
Who leaves a fucking voicemail?
I remember leaving the ER and going back to my dorm.
I had to be given clothes to wear home.
They were tossed in the garbage that same day.
I remember hating those clothes.
*****
I remember curling up in a ball on my twin-sized bed and bear-hugging myself until it hurt.
I remember wanting it to hurt.
I remember emailing my boyfriend (now husband) to “CALL ME.”
*****
I remember my dad having to get off a plane he had just boarded after receiving a phone call from my mom, saying what had happened to me.
I remember not speaking for an entire 24 hour period, once my parents arrived.
I remember sitting with my knees curled up to my chest for those 24 hours in the hotel room I stayed in with my parents.
I remember my mom on the phone with my brother.
I remember hearing him ask, “how is she?” and mom answering, “she’s quiet, very quiet.”
*****
I remember being questioned incessantly by the police…
I remember the district attorney was female.
I remember being grateful for that.
*****
But I didn’t know.  I didn’t know everything they wanted me to know, to answer.
I remember the police finding the drug in his apartment.
I remember being told by the police officer “he and his roommate are in the next room,” as I gave my written statement… signed my written statement.
I remember wondering if his roommate was there that night.
Involved…
*****
I remember not remembering.


From http://violenceunsilenced.com/nic/

Song: "I Didn't Know My Own Strength" -- Whitney Houston

Powerful, uplifting song.





I didn’t know my own strength
And I crashed down, and I tumbled
But I did not crumble
I got through all the pain
I didn’t know my own strength
Survived my darkest hour
My faith kept me alive
I picked myself back up
Hold my head up high
I was not built to break
I didn’t know my own strength

Found hope in my heart,
I found the light to life
My way out the dark
Found all that I need
Here inside of me
I thought I’d never find my way
I thought I’d never lift that weight
I thought I would break


In the last two years, there were so many times when I was ready to give up. But I didn't, and here I am. I didn't know my own strength either. Whitney, I couldn't have put it better.

Why "Defying Gravity"?

So a friend of mine asked me today why I named my blog Defying Gravity. I would like to share a piece of music that I've found to be incredibly empowering and profound. I listened to it all the time during the last year and a half of my life, both when I needed some somber thinking-music and when I needed an encouraging boost. To me, it represents a dark part of my life, but one I survived and surpassed, with dignity and with pride.

The song is called "Defying Gravity," sung by Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth in the musical Wicked. I was first introduced to it in middle school, by my dear friend Mogwit, and I loved it. It stuck and stayed with me through my awkward blooming in high school, through my sophomore year depression and destructive relationship, through my senior year when a traumatic event the first weekend of the term changed everything. I spent my senior spring, when I should have been finishing my undergraduate career and preparing to graduate, in a haze of confusion, anxiety, depression, and pain. I honestly don't remember much from those three months. I remember a few specific events, like going to speak with the campus health offices, the emergency room, safety & security, the dean's office, and the police. I remember living nocturnally because I couldn't sleep at night. I remember playing spider solitaire in my room to pass the time. And I remember this song.

It means so much to me. I associate it with some of the darkest moments of my life. As difficult as it was at times, I resolved to keep going, and finally I emerged to a higher place, where I could be safe, strong, and confident.





Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes, and leap!

It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
And you can't pull me down! 

I'm through accepting limits,
'Cuz someone says they're so!
Some things I cannot change,
but 'till I try, I'll never know! 


To all those in my life who have hurt me--

You can't pull me down.

Book: "Aftermath: Violence and the Remaking of a Self" -- Susan Brison

Susan Brison, a professor of philosophy at Dartmouth College, weaves an intellectually stimulating but honest and unpretentious narrative about sudden violence and trauma. Brutally attacked, raped, and left for dead while taking a walk in the French countryside, Brison speaks from the mind and heart about the pain of picking up the pieces of one's life.

I found her observations about the reactions of her friends, family, and community to be particularly poignant. She examines the oft-heard encouragement to forget and move on, and how isolating that can be for survivors of sexual violence. She also addresses issues such as deterioration of memory and concentration, change of personality, and distorted views of time and place.

This was the first memoir by a survivor that I read. While it can be a bit dense and academic sometimes, it is overall a very touching and worthwhile read from a clear and expressive author.

Book: "Story of a Girl" -- Sara Zarr

This story provides an honest, compelling look at coercion and pressure in teenage relationships. I found it triggering but also validating because of particular events in my own past.

The protagonist, 13-year-old Deanna, is caught in a confusing whirlwind of hormones, attraction, and pressure and ends up having sex with 17-year-old Tommy, whom she's not even sure she actually likes. Her family is awkward, struggling, and fractured, and her peers in school have branded her a "slut." Here is a frank examination of stigma and society's double standards with regards to sexual exploration. Deanna's story is an emotionally wrenching portrayal of how one mistake can leave a huge impact on a teenager's identity and sense of self-worth.

Beautifully-written realistic fiction. Delves more into coercion and social pressure than clear sexual assault.

Book: "Safe" -- Susan Shaw

I read this book about a year ago. It still remains in my mind today as one of the most realistic portrayals of rape-induced PTSD that I have found in fictional literature. I will never forget the shock of reading the scene where Tracy (the protagonist) first experiences sudden dissociation and a cold flash; I could not contain the rush of relief and validation that I was not alone. Some of the other symptoms that are very well-described are her social anxiety, increased isolation, and distrust of those she knew before her trauma.

Fantastic book, but very triggering.

Belated Introduction to My Media Posts

The other day, I came across this post in one of the blogs I follow. It is a request for songs, movies, YouTube clips, etc. that relate to sexual assault or sexual harassment. I read all the comments and contributed my own.

I'd like to start my own version here: if you can think of songs, movies, YouTube clips, books, articles, etc. that relate to rape/sexual assault, please post them here. I will then make separate posts tagged "emotional media" with an embedded version of the material if possible/applicable and any thoughts I have on it. This is a collection for myself, survivors, secondary survivors, and anyone else who can empathize or wants to try.

Song: "Concrete Angel" -- Martina McBride

This is a powerful, emotionally wrenching song about child abuse.



My heart breaks when I think of young children in these kinds of situations.

Song: "Gratitude" -- Ani DiFranco

Continuing to reflect on this February's Speak Out:

The event opened with an a cappella rendition of Ani DiFranco's song "Gratitude." It was beautiful, haunting, and powerful. I remembered it the other day and listened to it on repeat.