Vignette #2

This is my second post about my sexual assault by a doctor.  The posts do not necessarily go in chronological order, but it’s helpful if you first read my post on healing and then Vignette #1.  

The hard part about being a new patient at a chronic illness clinic is that many treatments are not well known. There is a steep learning curve to understand the treatment themselves and how they are meant to help you.

There’s also a lot of lifestyle changes involved as well. So I was changing my diet, I was making sure my deodorant, shampoo and other personal care items didn’t have any gluten or chemicals.

I made the drive up to the suburbs for an amino acid injection every 3 weeks, even though I couldn’t tell what difference it was making. I was just told it would take time and that this was stopping my autoimmune attack on my body. I had to believe them. I didn’t know where else to go for help. I mean this doctor had finally diagnosed me after 11 years of health struggles. What else was I supposed to do except “trust the process?”

You the reader can see where the vulnerability sets in. Here I am, a patient just diagnosed with Hashimoto’s. My health was so bad I had to quit my job. I was sleeping 2-3 hours per night. I felt like a shell of my former self. I was gaining weight, my hair was falling out, and my skin felt scaly. I was desperate. I would do anything to get better. I wanted my life back.

What a perfect place to work if you wanted to abuse patients?

They are chronically ill. Conventional medicine has failed them. Many times these patients have searched for years for a doctor who understood what was going on. They are dependent on your expertise.

These patients often come into the clinic very fatigued and with a low sense of self, a natural outflow of being sick for years. They are vulnerable and must trust the doctor for their wellbeing.

Culturally, doctors are held in high esteem and hold tremendous amounts of power. They are virtually unquestioned.

The head doctor of the clinic believes you are one of the best physical therapists in the state.

Your referrals are all “in house” and you have the backing of the medical board and the head doctor.

And when you work, you get to close the door.

Vignette #1

This is the first of several posts describing the events surrounding my sexual assault by a female doctor. I feel at this time writing serves as my outlet to utilize my voice, not for the sake of pity, but because living as a survivor who has been institutionally silenced becomes suffocating.

There are many ways I have healed in these past two years.  If you want a glimpse into this, read my previous post here.  

I feel privileged that you would read this.  May you be able to hold all the love and evil in the universe together, without forcing yourself to make sense of it, and then let it go.  If my post stirs something up for you personally, I hope that you are able to feel what you need to feel, sitting with these emotions, yet with extreme compassion and love towards yourself.  I stand in solidarity with you.

I remember walking out of the room, down the hallway, and to the check-out lady to pay for my appointment. I was in a daze and just wanted to get out of the office.

As I walked down the hall I distinctly remember thinking 3 things:

  • “This is not the first time she’s done that before.”
  • “Was I supposed to know that was going to happen before I walked in there today?”
  • “Why do I have to pay for this appointment?”

I paid anyway, and I got in my car and sat for 2 minutes, catching my breath. I still needed to walk into the pharmacy attached to the doctor’s office to pick up my supplements. But it was hard to make myself go in. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t want to walk into that building ever again.

I drove home in a daze, but stopping at Aldi to get groceries first. Before I got out of the car, I slammed my fists onto the steering wheel three times and just burst into tears.

Somehow I went about my day. I talked to my counselor on the phone, and I couldn’t really get the words out. I was still trying to figure out what had happened to me.

I stopped eating and I wasn’t sleeping. I called a few trusted friends and told them what happened.

I told the wife of the family I was living with at the time, in case I seemed more withdrawn, sad, or overwhelmed.

Per my counselor’s suggestion, the next morning I drafted a letter to my clinic; the head doctor and the human resources personnel. It is understated to say that it’s difficult to draft an objective letter when your brain still feels hijacked, yet you know that your potential in being believed is all wrapped up in this letter.

As I wrote the letter the questions that plagued me, and I imagine so many other women across the country, were:

“Why try so hard, when the likelihood of being believed is so slim anyway?”

“Doesn’t the medical establishment just protect their own?”

A Tribute to Female Healers

The topic of these next few posts is going to be my sexual assault at the hands of a female doctor. And yet first, I’m going to give you a glimpse of my healing. This post is a tribute to those in my life who act as female healers.

You see, when I was assaulted by a woman, it took some time to be able to go back into a healing environment and feel safe. And statistically, there are more women in healing professions. So I had some choices to make: Do I just select male doctors and counselors? Male yoga instructors and massage therapists and acupuncturists?

No doubt-some of these key people on my health care team are male. Yet, many are female.

I needed women healers to heal in certain ways emotionally and spiritually.

I needed nurturing touch by a professional that wasn’t sexual in nature.

I needed to be able to trust my voice and my body again.

I needed to be given choices and not feel weak or broken for saying “No.”

Yet it comes one step at a time. First during last Christmas break, I started going to yoga.

I found myself apprehensive with certain poses or in classes where there were not many people there. I had flashbacks for about the first month. I tensed up when an instructor would come and adjust my posture. You see, the woman who assaulted me had me do yoga in her office with classical music playing. The memory was just too vivid for awhile.

But I kept going back because I felt good. My mind was clearer and I was happier. I knew that I was healing in subtle ways one class at a time. I learned to be more grounded, to be present in the moment, and over time the memories of my assault faded. Not because I don’t remember the event, but because I can distinguish between the present and the past in real time.   Now I’ve been going to yoga for 7 months and don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

Going to yoga helped me feel grounded enough that I could seek out a female therapist. I had read the book The Body Keeps the Score and it suggests yoga and EMDR for healing of trauma, particularly related to PTSD. I had a few sessions with her where we started EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) , before she called me telling me that she had to stop seeing me because she was going to take a leave of absence for health reasons. Yet in the first session, I knew that I could trust her. I could make eye contact and I knew that she believed me. I could speak honestly about how this was a big step for me to trust a different kind of female doctor. She agreed with me.

Once I had a little more time because I was not going to therapy every week or two, I decided to place my resources into seeing an acupuncturist and a massage therapist. I go to a pay-what-you-can acupuncture clinic in downtown Indy and the acupuncturist and I clicked immediately. We had a quick conversation about the health history form I filled out, and that I was receiving acupuncture for severe menstrual pain. She relayed that acupuncture is very effective for relieving menstrual pain, and that was the very reason she got interested in acupuncture in the first place. She always asked about what pain I experienced and gave me a few choices about where the needle should go based on how tender a particular area of the body was for me.

What she didn’t know was that I told the doctor who diagnosed me with Hashimoto’s about my menstrual pain at my first follow up appointment. He referred me to the physical therapist in his building who eventually assaulted me. With all the symptoms I have and I track regularly, menstrual pain could easily be edited out of my story. For awhile, in the early stages of acknowledging and feeling my own pain, I blamed myself for even relaying that symptom to my doctor in the first place. I told myself that if I hadn’t told him, I never would have been referred to the physical therapist. Yet as I healed and could acknowledge that it wasn’t my fault—I made the next hard step to be honest and not edit menstrual pain out of my story. In acknowledging each small piece of pain and fatigue, I let myself live with the intense longing for healing—that all in my body would be well.

Lastly, I had read research and heard testimonials about how empowering it is for a survivor to receive massage and feel “in your body” again. I was almost certain I wanted a male massage therapist. However, as I talked to one on the phone, I did not feel comfortable choosing him. Then I realized that what was more important to me than gender was that the therapist was trauma-informed. As I talked and emailed with several people, I finally found 1 woman who was a good fit. Before the massage, we sat down and talked. She asked about my goals for massage, that I had the right to stop at anytime or tell her to apply a different level of pressure. During my second visit, I was glad that she knew the affect of food sensitivity reactions on the body. I could tell that yoga and practicing centering prayer have helped me to stay present in my body—and those have helped regular massage be beneficial to me.

I’ve come a long way in 2 years, but it’s been a hard journey in many ways. There are many more to thank here than I can list. Thank you to all my friends who have listened, who have believed me. Being believed and feeling believed is one of the best gifts, although it’s subtle and isn’t given much attention. Thanks to those who track my symptoms with me, who read books and articles to understand even more. Thanks to those who have helped me move so that my living environment was more conducive to my healing. You are part of a much bigger story than loading things into a truck. Thanks to those who have made meals, talked on the phone, who read my blog.

Wisdom teachers say that gratitude is what overflows when you’ve gone deep and continue to deal with the ego, so that your true self can come forth. Thanks to all those who all those who cheer me on as I dig deeper, as I seek healing and transformation. And thanks to those who dig deep in your own life and because of this our paths have crossed.

Reserving and Expanding

It’s a season of reserving: my energy, my resources, my health.  My own body thinks it feels counter-intuitive to rest more in the summer.  People are swimming, going to sporting events and concerts. The sun is out and typically people feel more free.

Again, I’m learning to sink my patterns to my own body, rather than mainstream culture.  And I’m wondering about new ways that I might be able to be more active in the winter, when others decide to stay inside.

One of the early lessons to learn in chronic illness is to reserve your energy, to use it on the things or people most important to you before you run out of energy for the day.  It’s a hard reality to keep coming back to-especially in my 20’s.

But after years of learning to reserve my energy-it’s all bottled up.  And yes, I have given to others in these past several years, and yet there’s more.  There’s more I want to say, do, experience.  I feel that my youth does not match the severity of my illness.

And that lends itself to these awkward growing pains.   The tension of letting myself dream and asking myself questions like, “What do you want?” and also being willing to let go. And let go again. And let go again. And still having the courage to wake up in the morning wanting to have fun, not just manage an illness.

Yet, it’s also a season of expanding. Of a new job. Soon to be a new home. Of investing time in new friendships. Learning more about mold toxicity and what I need to be aware of. Letting others help me.  Empowering others so that they can begin to understand what I’m going through.

What I continue to be amazed about, even in these days of fatigue and nausea from detox reactions is that my body tells me all I need to know.  Of course I need help from doctors and friends-but my body tells me all I need to know.

The key is to listen–and have the courage to listen to those quiet whispers day after day after day. Your body tells you that you’re reaching your limit or that it’s time to take a risk.  It tells you if you need to reserve or expand.

The truth is: My body doesn’t lie. And on the hard days of chronic illness it would feel better to be ignorant of this fact.  But the more I learn to lean into the tension, I more I learn to appreciate all my body has to say.

Those years of severe inflammation was the communication of an autoimmune disorder.  My body was trying to alert me to the fact that my body was beginning to attack itself. My brain fog alerts me of chemicals and mold. My fatigue was a result of severely depleted thyroid and adrenal glands.  All this was hard information to swallow-yet my body doesn’t lie.

Yet, so much gratitude exists in a clear mind, a strong body, sleeping eight hours per night and waking up rested.  My body is communicating, “You are on your way toward health. Be thankful for each moment. Pay attention. Beautiful things are happening right now.”

———————————————————————————————–

In order to listen we must be still.  In order to be still, we must accept ourselves.  As we accept ourselves, we have the capacity to build this self-awareness.  And out of this self-awareness and love comes compassion.

Be compassionate towards your body-in all it’s resilience and limitation. As we accept all that our body has to say, we will be able to listen to others.  We will be able to accept them as they are- in all their resilience and limitation.

We will learn to reserve and expand together, honoring each others needs and celebrating the milestones.  This kind of relating is hard work and yet I think it’s possible.

But first we must be still.  We cannot relate authentically if we do not first do the hard work of listening to and accepting ourselves. I’m learning to do this better and better every day.  Some days get pretty ugly, yet the outcome is worth it.

Health Update-Summer 2017

I just saw the doctor last week for my 6 month check-up and here are the take-aways for those of you who are following my story:

  • I have been exposed to toxic mold and water damaged buildings and this mold toxicity is derailing my healing right now. Because of this, my body is having a difficult time detoxifying.
  • Indiana’s humid summers are pretty difficult for me.  There also are a lot of older, damp buildings that I’m just having to leave.  In order for me to heal, the first step is limiting my exposure to buildings with mold or poor indoor air quality.  This is the reason for me leaving my job at Fortune Academy and for another move coming up this fall.
  • The yeast overgrowth I still am dealing with is connected with my mold toxicity.  I’m being put on another anti-fungal to try and get rid of my candida a little faster.
  • A lot of my healing right now is focused on environmental factors such as indoor air quality and allowing my body to detoxify by being in safer environments.  For the next several months, I’m going to be experimenting with air filters and infrared saunas.

Thanks to many of you who know how hard I must fight for my health, who know that this journey is anything but linear!

What can become overwhelming on certain days is all the change that must happen for my health.  This too poses great opportunities, and yet the number of job changes and moves has been tiring.  I will be starting my own tutoring business and moving this fall in order to give myself access to better environments, all for the sake of my health.

As I am learning and internalize that I’m living with both a chronic illness and environmental illness-it takes a great deal of money to start making these lifestyle changes.  So I also may be looking into replacing furniture, my mattress and comforter, sheets, blankets, and pillows.  As I get closer to moving, I may be asking for help in replacing some of these items.

Again, I’m very thankful to those of you who are tracking my story with me, who desire my well-being and flourishing.

The Summer of Damp Buildings

I go into a damp building, and then I leave three minutes later. My head already clogged, my emotions dampened, even though the exposure was slight. As I walk back to the car, I have a decision to make—do I let go or do I cling to the emotion of disappointment?

Learning about the complexities of my illness is an every day endeavor. Nothing gives the invitation of self-awareness quite like chronic illness does. My emotions laid raw, because my life is indeed changing. I so want to hold onto this activist life of my past, but I can’t go into many of the building where the poor or the marginalized inhabit. Many churches, schools, and non-profits are housed in buildings that are often older and ones that I unfortunately cannot tolerate. What do I do?

I’m thankful to say that I’ve found the contemplative path. One that brings me back to this every day decision of letting ego—of seeing my ego for what it is, and letting it go. I’m both needed and not needed, and that is freeing.

My decisions are often simpler now. I’m friends with people who see my gifts and accept my limitations, ones who stick with me when a new symptom appears and I don’t know what to do. I’m friends with people who don’t lather on sunscreen around me, and who will meet in a building that’s suitable for me. I’m friends with people I practice yoga with, because we all are growing in self-awareness together—trying to bring a little more light to this world by going inward.

I eat simply. I rest often. I read poetry and I teach kids who live with a lifelong limitation too, in the form of dyslexia. Mostly I interact with people one-on-one. I read the latest research on Hashimoto’s to take care of myself as best as I can, and try to include others in this process.

The sentence that has seemed to find me these past few weeks is,

“Your greatest work of activism will be in relentlessly caring for yourself.”

I must let go of how I view my external world and how I hoped it would change when I healed enough to venture out of my home. But this vision is coming crashing down. I don’t truly decide if I can hang out in a group, what events I can attend, where an event is held, if I will need to leave once I show up.

My body tells me, and I listen. I take a deep breath and learn to let go.

I’m learning to develop a healing vision that my act of letting go isn’t just about me and my healing. It somehow touches the world. I will never know how me leaving a building before an event even begins to protect my body blesses the world. But that’s not the point.

It has taken years for me to experience that letting go doesn’t have to mean loneliness and isolation. For solitude is not separation. My solitude that I cultivate as I let go invites me to experience Oneness. I don’t have to be physically present at an event to experience connection. The Divine can be found as I let go—as I don’t resist the depths I was made to enter.

And yet, there are many times I resist letting go, and I sense separation. I have created an illusion that I’m on the outside. Sure, that’s how it feels. No doubt about it.

But the more I practice yoga, meditation, and centering prayer, the more I see that letting go in real life becomes a bit easier. I practice daily letting go on my yoga mat and in centering prayer—but the results come in my active life.

My own life that quickly shows me my judgment, anger, and resentment. But there always exists an invitation to perceive differently. That I’m always connected to love. That there are bounds of creativity within me, even when brain fog makes it hard to believe that there is a creative bone in my body.

I will enter plenty of damp buildings in my life. And I will leave, hopefully knowing that I’m not truly alone. Maybe even daring to believe that I can even give love from my absence as well as my presence.

Choosing Small Wins

I’ve started this practice this summer to write down 10 small wins from the previous day when I wake up in the morning.

An author who writes about healing Hashimoto’s encourages this practice in his book.  I’ve found this habit to be met with much resistance, simply because it’s hard.

Summer is the hardest season on my body and mind–so many days I wake up with big losses on my mind, rather than small wins.

However, on the days, I practice this, I do notice a shift in my perception.  Sometimes doing this exercise brings tears to my eyes, which is probably why I try to avoid it.  Sometimes I write phrases like, “I got out of bed today” or “I didn’t get tired driving to work” or “I listened to my body and cancelled hanging out with a friend.”

Sometimes the exercise feels too painful and I skip it altogether.  You see, it’s hard to admit, but sometimes gratefulness brings up this ache that I am indeed sick, and although I can heal, chronic illness is something I manage every day. When I write things like, “I didn’t have a reaction when I stepped into an old building today” I know that my healing is far off-far off from what I want it to be.

The liberating piece, though, is that I claim reality for what it is.  In doing so, I open the door to be compassionate to myself, and in writing my truth, I can be compassionate to others.

The more I am in touch with my body in my illness and in touch with contemplative practice, I live into the obvious-that I am dying.  In Western culture, this seems morbid, something we don’t talk about and avoid.  And yet, I feel this strongly living with Hashimoto’s.  This spring I realized that I desperately needed a spiritual practice that could affirm suffering and also help me detach myself from it, so that my suffering could be the very place where transformation occurs.  Enter centering prayer.

So my mornings look like writing down things I’m grateful for, recording 10 small wins, and sitting for 20 minutes in silence, practicing the art of letting go.  This practice is shaping me.  Although it’s human and messy and ungraceful, it’s a rhythm I’m trying to cultivate.  I’m engaging in the practice and art of learning how to die before I can die.  For in dying to myself, I will learn how to truly live. I will see myself for who I truly am, see the Divine for who he/she truly is. I will see people as human with similar needs, wants and desires as mine, longing for connection and intimacy.

Last week a small win included quitting my job at Fortune Academy, a job I really did like.  A place I hoped that I could step back into the classroom. But I needed to let it go, along with the dreams and hopes I attached on to working there.

The thing about letting go is that is always leads somewhere else–it doesn’t lead to nowhere.

So I’m practicing small wins, sitting in silence, going to yoga, finishing well with my tutoring students this summer, and letting go of dreams, big and small. I am more than my pressing thoughts, emotions, jobs, failures, victories, and the extent of my healing.

I am connected to this expansive, good, and abundant universe and to people who just want to see me thrive. Seeing small wins and learning to let go are daily invitations to a larger and more vibrant perception of myself and the world.  I want to live there.

Eavesdropping

Last week, I was eavesdropping on a conversation in a public library while I was waiting for my tutoring student.

I knew quickly that the woman answering the questions lived with a chronic illness.  She was describing in vague tones, how her poor health was affecting her entire life.  She spoke of the struggle to still see what she had, not only what she had lost.  She still had her husband and her part-time job.

The conversation shifted slightly when the older woman asked how she experienced God right now.

Her response was simple, but telling.

“I want to know that He’s looking out for me.” 

There was a raw honesty in her pain and desperation.  For this is what we all want.  This is what we all forget.

Is he really a friend?  Does he care? Will he show me that there really is light in this world, not just darkness?

The woman  in chronic pain held back tears as she said, “it’s so hard to find daily support right now.”

 

 

As I listened, I got teary-eyed.  I’ve had that exact conversation so many times.  And yet this time being an observer, I experienced such appreciation and love towards both women.

The gift the woman with chronic illness gave was honesty and desperation.  The gift the older woman gave was a calm, empathetic presence and knack for listening and asking timely questions.  She gave the space for silent hope to be born. She is hopeful for the younger woman who can’t be hopeful for herself right now.

What I experienced in that ordinary moment of waiting was Christ on earth. Nothing less.

Two women both giving and receiving.  Both women willing to sit in sadness, to accept reality. Yet in their talking, hope, this invisible force was growing.  This space the women created was beautiful.  A space that Christ can be seen for who He actually is. One woman at the end of herself, another willing to affirm silently to herself that this is really where life begins.

I was assured as these women left, that this space they created together, was actually the incubator for joy. Not culturally-defined joy with bubbly, extroverted personalities, and an overabundance of laughter (although none of these attributes are wrong!) But a deep-seated joy, that can only begin as one lets go.  As chronic illness tends to strip away the people and work and facades we cling to, there is always the opportunity to begin again. To let go, to accept, and to begin again.

I am thankful for this moment of eavesdropping.  To see how close the Divine was to these women, even though I’m certain that he felt so far away.  I can only hope that some people experienced the closeness of God, as they witnessed me over the years angry and crying in many coffee shops across the city.

–For all those who have listened to me in my hopelessness, who hoped for themselves and for me.

The Beginning of Summer

Friends, I wanted to thank you for the many gracious responses from my last post.  This last month has been a healing one, full of big and small steps.  It’s been a time of winding down work and enjoying a week off at the end of May.  It’s been a time of full days, and then other days without any plans.  It included lots of reading, yoga and walks outside.  Time perusing book stores, making yummy desserts and eating great food!  A day trip to Columbus to celebrate a friend’s wedding and Bloomington to watch the Indiana State Track Meet.  It’s been a month of hard conversations-but important ones.  A time to talk to health professionals and fill in some gaps in my treatment.  It’s been a month of seeing small outward glimpses of my own inner work.   Of hearing my voice more clearly, seeing greater assertiveness rather than hesitation.

One of the hardest pieces of living in the aftermath of sexual assault is the shame that turned into feeling alone.  Like I was lacking some core piece of belonging.  Intellectually I knew the statistics-I knew that I wasn’t alone in my experience. And I also knew that there are a lot of supportive people around me.  And yet my body was telling a different story.

Here is a piece by John O’Donohue that is a beautiful blessing, which speaks mostly to belonging to yourself, which of course then extends to belonging to others.

For Belonging

 

May you listen to your longing to be free.

May the frames of your belonging be generous enough for your dreams.

May you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering in your heart.

May you find a harmony between your soul and your life.

May the sanctuary of your soul never become haunted.

May you know the eternal longing that lives at the heart of time.

May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within.

May you never place walls between the light and yourself.

May you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world to gather you, mind you, and embrace you in belonging.

Breaking the Silence

 

I wondered about the day I would write this. Or if I ever would. Neither option is better or worse, but instead it’s about listening to the tones of one’s own healing story, and lean deeply into one’s intuition.

And my intuition is telling me to speak.

I was sexually assaulted by a female physical therapist two years ago today under the guise of medical treatment. I had just been diagnosed with Hashimoto’s 3 months before, and the doctor who diagnosed me referred me to this woman who worked in his building.

Last fall, I started following the Larry Nassar case and the US Gymnastics cover up of the rampant sexual assault in this sport. I felt several emotions: both a sense of validation and sadness. What happened to me has happened to hundreds, if not thousands of girls or young women. I am not alone, and yet part of healing is delving deep into the systemic injustice of assault and the silence that is interwoven into the story.

Sexual assault is bad enough. And then to worsen the injury, I, along with many women who have already testified in the Nassar case, have sought out the help of authorities, only to be silenced or shamed or told that “this is a reputable medical procedure.”

I won’t ever forget the day I got a letter in the mail from the female lawyer in Indianapolis, that I reported my assault to. A simple template letter just stating that she would not take my case. What happened to me apparently was not assault, but a documented medical procedure.

A response like that really messed with my head. Intuitively I knew this wasn’t true, yet I still was left to feel stupid. I was left to feel like I didn’t know the difference between medical procedure and assault. That somehow I was supposed to come to a place of acceptance that vaginal penetration without gloves or lubricant was supposed to heal my severe menstrual pain, what I was being treated for. The medical and legal system had let me down.

That acceptance never came. And since I’ve spent considerable time healing the past two years, I’m in a place where I can speak. This Nassar case feels personal for several reasons other than the fact that I find myself within the stories these brave, strong women are telling. I grew up 90 minutes from MSU, and personally knew several female athletes who attended Michigan State and had injuries sometime during college. I seriously hope none of them saw Nassar. I also currently live in Indianapolis, headquarters of U.S. Gymnastics, now the hub of an enormous cover-up.   U.S. Gymnastics stayed silent for way too long, and spoke too late.

I’ve spent many months thinking “What would be helpful about me speaking up?”

First, the answer must be that it’s healing for me and I must be strong enough to enter into the hard conversations that come afterwards. Because I know that many people will not get it or know what to say. Some may treat me differently afterwards or avoid me because my speaking out made them uncomfortable. Many don’t understand why a survivor of sexual assault needs to speak out for his/her own healing. But ultimately I am not speaking to the ignorant or the uncomfortable. I’m speaking to the people who know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’m speaking to say, “I felt alone too, but now I don’t. And I don’t want you to feel alone either. The silence has harmed us both long enough.”

I’ve also learned that in taking the risk of telling a few people privately, the response has been loving and kind.

For those who are reading this, and want to be compassionate through words, but feel fearful about saying the wrong thing, here are a few pointers of what to say and what to avoid, at least in addressing me at this time. Every survivor may have their own different set of preferences.

-Please don’t ask questions. I’ve given all the information I want to give in this post.

-Please do not spiritualize assault. It is wrong. Period. Mentioning God’s redemption adds insult to injury.

-Please do not speak if you are shocked or overwhelmed. Projecting your own charged feelings about assault onto a survivor is very harmful.

-Please do not offer up a general, “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” I know that this statement is said with the best motives. However usually, someone who hears about an assault wants to feel useful, in order to remove the uncomfortability that naturally surfaces. I am not asking anyone to do anything in particular, just be a person who can receive my story as truth.

-Please do not make referrals. I have a strong support system. I am in therapy and yoga. I am making healthy choices for myself.

-Please be yourself in your response, giving dignity and not pity.

-Please, if you see me in person, feel free to say, “I read your post, and ….” I will feel honored, not embarrassed.

-Please, even though this list is long, do not be overly worried about saying the “wrong” thing. Maybe consider, “if I was in Alyssa’s place, what would be the most loving thing I could hear?” Please, speak love.