Stephanie Says.. Take a walk inside my head

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month

If you are like me, the word “assault” brings to mind images of fists striking flesh or men spitting out teeth while flying over barstools.

In this case, however, “assault” is so much more than beatings and broken bones. ANY kind of abuse (the ones I know of are physical, emotional/mental, spiritual/religious, sexual, and those that somehow involve an imbalance of power in a school or workplace situation) can leave scars that cut much more deeply than kicks and punches ever could.

Abuse can result in the loss of a person’s identity, the loss of a person’s dreams, the loss of a person’s power, the loss of a person’s very self. The journey back to “me” is sometimes never completed.

I don’t know for sure WHY abuse happens. I have heard some of the theories. They sound much like the stated reasons of why addiction begins: job frustration, feelings of loneliness and isolation, the yearning for love (however twisted that love turns out to be), the attempt to regain some kind of individual power (hurting people hurt people and bullied people bully). As they say on many of the procedurals watched by my husband and myself “(Abuse) isn’t about (sex-violence-dogma-belief-bruises-broken bones-or even obedience, really). It’s about power.”

And assault is often about taking power BACK.

Here’s the thing–Abuse can take many forms. It can happen to ANYONE. It’s not just little old ladies, drunk college girls and venerable children who are targeted. Bodybuilders, business people, brides to be are as well. Strong people. Successful people. Pregnant people. Police people. High school cheerleaders. Math teachers. Mothers and fathers. Husbands and wives. Gay people. Purple haired people. People in miniskirts. People in sweatshirts and jeans. Anyone. Anywhere. Anytime.

And it doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you had to drink, how you wear your hair, who you were or were not talking to, if you were sitting two feet away or across the room. It doesn’t matter if you were walking home in the dark or jogging at noon in full sunlight. No one….NO ONE has a right to force, trick, coerce, bully, manipulate, gameplay, push, shove, guilt, emote, attack or any other verb into being hurt, scarred, abused, neglected, molested, raped, drugged, lied to, or any other action that takes away any ANY piece of your dignity, humanity, belief, sanity, love, relationship, reputation, character, identity or any other thing that makes you…you.

It doesn’t matter what you ate, drank, wore (I was in a pair of jeans and a white sweatshirt with cartoon penguins on it), said, did, danced, sang, signed or typed. Someone else’s imagined idea or interpretation is NOT YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. Someone else’s driving need for control is NOT YOUR FAULT. It’s not on you. It really really isn’t.

Abuse victims are often called “survivors”. They are. They am. They can be. It’s so much more, however, than simple survival. The aftermath is a journey, a rocky road, a wave that comes ebbing and flowing in the middle of the night. It’s words that were said and relationships that were severed and strength discovered in places you didn’t even know existed.

It is…it can also be…bravery.
Speaking up-sharing stories are SO important.

I have, for example, recently been shocked by the words and attitudes of the very friends and relatives that people my everyday life. Words and attitudes that I had no idea they harbored.

Do you have any idea how dehumanizing that can be? How that can strip one of whatever self esteem they have somehow managed to reconstruct? How shattering that can be to a fragile, cobbled together psyche that isn’t yet very strong in the first place?

This is why it’s so important to speak out.
Tell your story.
Tell your story even if you are not a “perfect victim”.
Tell your story even if you were wearing a fringed skirt with thigh high boots.
Tell your story even if you were in a dark apartment with a bottle of wine.
Tell your story even if you were in a jogging bra and tights.
Tell your story if you are young.
Tell your story if you are old.
Blonde. Brunette. Freckled. Scarred. Deaf. Blind. Wheelchair bound. Angry. Resigned. Fearful. Determined.
Boss. Coworker. Girlfriend. Wife. Husband. Fiance.

Tell your story even if there are no visible scars.

It’s not “nothing”. It happened. And it shouldn’t be forgotten.
It’s important. It makes a difference.
It can help someone else know.

That they are not alone.

*****************************************

Violence and crude language are not ALWAYS present in abuse situations.
Abusers can be honey tongued smooth talkers too.

Unlike Disney and their sanitization of what were originally some very dark tales (Cinderella’s stepsisters cutting away their body parts, anyone?), stories of abuse NEED to be heard as they are. Censorship of the details takes away the validity of the experience and can hurt the hurting all over again.

Abusers can be sweet and loving and generous and kind. BUT they can ALSO be angry. VERY angry. They can, as I have recently read, convinced the abused that their reactions…their NORMAL, UNDERSTANDABLE reactions…are actually worse than the abuse itself.

Remember,
Abuse is not about violence. It’s not even about dogma, creed, faith, sex or love.
It’s about power.
It’s about control.
It’s about scrambling memories.
And leaving the abused disoriented…and confused.
It’s about taking something away and leaving empty the one that they have just used.

It’s mind bending
And soul crusing
and offensive.
It’s not something polite society admits to doing.

It’s not something I usually post on my wall.

But.

Words?

They repair.
They restore.
They give BACK the power
And help fill what was lost.

They help the survivors look at their monsters square in the face and address them for who they are.
They WERE spoken.
They WERE said.
They ARE real.

They DID happen.

We DO believe.

And that’s why I’m showing this.
That’s why there is no censorship.
That’s why
Offensive as they are

I’m leaving them in.

That’s why I and those around me
are bringing these dark, hidden places
out
here
now

Into the light.

Something happened
Something bad happened
Something bad happened and now you are not sure what to do
You don’t know how to explain your thoughts
You don’t know what to say
You aren’t sure what to do It’s okay
It’s okay not to know what to say
It’s okay to not know what to do
It is okay to feel what you feel
IT IS OKAY TO FEEL WHAT YOU FEEL

Do you feel like talking and talking (and talking)?
That is okay

Do you feel like crying?
That is okay

Do you feel like dancing to very loud music?
That is okay

Do you want to shut yourself off from the world?
That is okay

Do you feel like laughing at strange times?
That is okay

Writing in a journal is okay.

Drawing or painting angry pictures is okay.

Taking long showers is okay.

It is okay to go for long walks.

It is okay to talk to yourself.

IT IS OKAY TO FEEL WHAT YOU FEEL.

It is also okay to ask for help.

Not everyone will understand
Some people may shake their heads.
Some people may turn away
Some people may make jokes (that you don’t think are funny).
Not everyone will understand.
BUT You are NOT ALONE.

Reach out.

Share.

Tell your story.

There ARE people who will listen.

You are beautiful

You are powerful

You are not alone.

Someone will listen.

There is hope out there.
There is help out there.

It is not magic
It will take time

But there IS healing

There IS hope

It IS okay to feel what you fee
l IT IS OKAY TO BE WHO YOU ARE

What you went through does not have to change you

You are NOT stupid

You are NOT ugly

You are NOT crazy It

IS okay to be who you are

Reach out

There IS hope

There IS help

You don’t have to be alone

I would like to take a moment to talk about someone who impacted my life in ways she could not have foreseen. Charlotte Digges Moon was, among other things, a very interesting woman. She was called to be a missionary in China during a time when 1) Unmarried women were often actively discouraged, if not downright forbidden from serving as missionaries and 2) China was a land that very much distrusted people from any kind of “Westernized” society, often calling them “white devils”. “Miss Lottie” however, was persistent. She baked cookies which eventually drew the curious local children to her house long enough for her to tell them of Jesus and His love for them. These children told their parents, who, while not collectively becoming believers, listened to and began to get to know Lottie well enough that she became a respected figure in local society. And Lottie, in turn, felt burdened for her beloved adopted country. Letter after letter arrived to various Women’s Missionary Societies and assorted church leaders pleading, begging for prayer, for help, for money, for personnel, for support. She was a tiny woman (some say that she was not even five feet tall) but she had a mighty call and a mighty heart. Lottie Moon was eventually -well I don’t want to say “forced to leave China”- but she WAS put on a ship bound for the United States by concerned Missionary colleagues She died on this ship on Christmas Eve 1912, having starved herself to death. There was a shortage of food in the parts of China in which she ministered and “Miss Lottie” refused to eat while her friends went hungry. She so loved the people that the Lord had called her to that with famine all around her and decreased financial support and salary cuts happening in Mission Headquarters, Lottie sacrificed her food, her money, her health, all that she had to share with and love on those around her. As a result, she never made it back to the United States alive.

Lottie impacts me in two ways.
Firstly, she is an example of service and TRUE love and sacrifice. I love many people and things but I do not know that I would be willing to give up my family, my country, my health and even my life for them, even if the Lord should ask me to. I am not the most cheerfully obedient person. She also wrote letter after letter asking for prayer, money and support only to be overlooked, ignored or outright discouraged by the very people whom she represented. I do not know if I could be that strong in the face of such rejection…especially rejection from fellow Christians.

Secondly, I am not a consistently strong person. Lottie lived for years in China with little to no response. She was isolated by her language, her faith, her nationality, her gender and yet she continued serving in the ways that she felt her Lord was asking her to. I often say I love Jesus but I have to admit to letting fear, solitude and loneliness outweigh my acts of sacrifice and service.

Also, The Southern Baptists, the Denomination to which my family and I belong, long ago took Lottie’s strong suggestion that the holiday season be a time of extra giving in order to support those who witness and minister around the world to heart. The Lottie Moon Christmas Offering is one in which churches all across North America collect funds to be used by workers in various countries for supplies, medicines, educational materials and many many other tools which are used to spread the Gospel (the message of Jesus and His love). I have been personally touched by such generosity as my parents, brother and I lived for a time as missionaries in South America and the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering funds were used to pay the living expenses not only for ourselves, but for our friends, our fellow workers. This money did, does and will continue to do so for hundreds of families in hundreds of countries around the globe.

These and many other reasons are why Lottie is so special to me. She was stubborn and independent and (by some accounts) a bit of a prickly person, so we may not have gotten along very well had we ever met, but her example of love, of dedication, of lifelong conviction is one that will forever serve as an example of someone whom I wish….I strive to be more like.

Charlotte Digges Moon
Missionary
Letter Writer
Servant
1840-1912

I was challenged to (without thinking too much about it) share the titles of ten books that have impacted or stayed with me in some way. Now, I rarely re visit books, so some of these have been read only once, and I’m sure I’m going to leave some out, but here we go…

I’m supposed to challenge other people to share theirs, but I’m sure all the readers I know have already been tagged, so just…reply if you want.

1. Just in Case You Ever Wonder
2. Redeeming Love
3. Little Women
4. Year of Wonders
5. Cheaper By the Dozen
6. Downtown
7. To Say Nothing of the Dog
8. Here Come the Brides
9. The Harry Potter Series-yes, I’m counting it as one
10. He Still Moves Stones

True confession: Yes, I can be a hypocrite. I’ve clapped at things I didn’t really think were good. I’ve smiled at people who bug the fire out of me. I’ve said “I love you” when I was feeling anything but loving (or lovable). The older, I get, however, the more interested I am at trying to find, be and project my authentic self. I’m not quite “What you see is what you get”, but I’m working on it. If I’m happy, I’m generally singing, bouncing and dancing. If I’m excited, I clap my hands and jump up and down. If I’m hurt, I cry. And if I’m breaking down, well, you might not know the reasons, but you generally can tell that it is happening. I want to be as open as I can with everyone I can. I do, and have, lied, but that’s not who I want to be. I want to be…trusted. I want you to know…me. My husband, however, while never being less than whom he actually is, feels differently. He values friendships but doesn’t express a need to fold the entire world into some kind of embrace. You have to work with him, to put in time to get to know the man. So, when I asked him if he wanted to contribute a column to my blog, I guess I should not have been surprised when he declined. He has not, he declared to me, anything to say. He just isn’t interested in expressing an opinion on any of my topics. I do, however, have blanket permission to say anything I want ABOUT him. I’ll try not to reveal any secrets, and sometimes I wish he would take an opportunity to speak for himself, but, for now at least, he’s letting me speak for him. If only I could think of anything to say.

Who cries at the Dixie Stampede? -I- cry at the Dixie Stampede. When they began talking about the literacy program going on here in the Pigeon Forge area and how Dolly and others strive to give each child sixty books by their fifth birthday (one a month from the time that they are born until the time that they turn five), I started tearing up. Ya’ll, I cannot TELL you what books have meant to me. I wasn’t an easy child. I didn’t express myself well and often found myself uninterested in whatever the kids around me were pursuing (balls…ugh!). I wasn’t friendless or anything, but I was a kid who NEEDED my books. I have grown some, but I have grown into a person who STILL needs her books. Linus. Security Blanket. Books and I have THAT kind of relationship. My brother, however, was NOT that kind of kid. He was a soccer ball chasing boy from the word go. He did not, in fact, like to read or even see the purpose behind it, though he DID like to look at the pictures. Homework was NOT his thing. He would rather be out running after some kind of ball or jamming with his band. Until -Indian In the Cupboard-. Something about that story transformed my brother from a kid who HAD to read a book into a kid who WANTED to read a book. He wasn’t fully hooked. He was, and remains, an outdoor kind of kid. But for that moment, he got it.
I can’t imagine a world in which kids don’t have a chance to “get it” for themselves. I just can’t.
I can’t remember beginning school. I can’t remember learning to string letters together in order to form words. I can’t remember sounding out my first story. But I can remember being caught. I can remember falling in love. Over and over again.
That is what I imagine Dolly wants for these children…the opportunity to fall in love, not with a person, not with a romance, but with an art.
And this art…this art takes so many forms. There are so many stories that have been told. There are so many stories yet to tell. There are so many, so many ways to tell them.
I’m hooked. I’m in love. There are little ones around me tonight about ready to fall.
Imagining that…seeing people passionate about making that happen?
That, my darlings is big.
That, my darlings…That made me cry.

Seventeen years ago, I woke up before anyone else and ran around the house saying “I’m getting married! I’m getting married!” Over a decade and a half later, I look back at that twenty three year old and shake my head. Kenneth Sims and I seem so YOUNG to me now. We’ve been up…way up and we’ve been very very down.
Our first ten years of marriage saw several hospitalizations and funerals.
We almost didn’t make it through our first five years.
We’ve had raised voices and slamming doors. We’ve had weeks of barely speaking to each other. We’ve had nights when we tore out each others’ hearts and stomped each other to pieces.
But…but…
This man. This man.
This is the man who turned up the stove when the water heater went out so I wouldn’t freeze while washing my hair.
This is the man who carries our littlest cat on his shoulder because in her heart she wants to be a parrot.
This is the man who fixed my ponytails when I got hit by a car and couldn’t raise up my arms to do it myself.
He’s bought me gallons of bubbles just because I like to blow them.
He trusts me to work with the bank deposits, even though I don’t math. Ever.
He slides up beside me just to tell me a corny joke and shoot me a cheesy grin.
This is the man who encourages my solos, even though he can’t sing a note himself.
This is the man who takes off work early just to take me to see Johnny Depp’s latest movie…KNOWING that he’ll hate it, yet going anyway.
This is the man who took me to see Wicked, even though he hates hates hates musical theatre.
This is the man who introduced me to Styx and Foreigner and let me walk around singing “Crystal B-a-a-alllllll” until he wanted to tear his hair out.
This is the man who got me to sleep on the floor for a year, even though the concept sounded like something from a movie to me.
This is the man who taught me to play chess and even let me win a game or two.
This man…
I call him old because he can remember the Moon Landing.
I call him weird because of his sense of humor.
I shake my head and stomp my feet and wonder how in the WORLD we ever got together in the first place.
But I know…
I know…
I was seventeen years old and God put him in front of me. There he was…strange and smart and grown up at twenty eight.
It’s not been an easy seventeen years. It’s not always been good. It’s not always been peaceful. It’s not always been happy.
But I’ve always known…always believed…
That God put this man in front of me…
FOR me.
To be my love.
To be my husband.
To be my home.
Happy Anniversary, Kenneth Sims. You’re still strange. You’re still old. But I can’t…I can’t…I can’t ever imagine doing this
With anybody
Anybody
Anybody
Else

Kenneth Sims decided that I needed to get out of the house, so he took me to see Godzilla. I liked it, but, more so than that, it reminded me of the following:
The Mister listens to a series of podcasts based around technology. When the tragedy at the Boston Marathon happened, one of the hosts, who lives in New England, got serious for a moment. He commented that for him one of the most striking images of the entire situation was that of the First Responders suppressing their natural instincts and running TOWARD potential danger when everyone else was scattering and running away.

The scenes of ruined streets and buildings in today’s movie reminded me of this.

So, I would like to take this opportunity to wholeheartedly thank you. Nurses, Doctors, EMTs, military personnel, firemen, police, National Guard, State Troopers. All of you who put yourself on the front lines. All of you who deal with the blood and guts and way down nastiness of life. All of you who put yourself between my family and anything that threatens our safety.
For the sleepless nights, I thank you.
For going without food, I thank you.
For stumbling into buildings with no light and little air, I thank you.
For caring about your community, I thank you.
For sewing up wounds, I thank you.
For fighting all kinds of evils, I thank you.
For running into the unknown, I thank you.
For not thinking of your own safety, I thank you.
For the voluntary separation from your family, I thank you.
For shouldering burdens so I don’t have to, I thank you.
For keeping secrets that I really don’t wanna know, I thank you.
For doing what has to be done so others don’t have to do it, I thank you.

Thank you for my safety.
Thank you for my freedom.
Thank you for my rights.
Thank you for my loved ones.
Thank you for my country.

Thank you for running INTO things while the rest of us are running OUT.

I am sorry I take you for granted.
You will never know how deeply blessed I am.

Thank you for praying. Today was better. I’m starting to see pinpricks of light in these clouds of mine. I’m ready for baby steps. But I also recently had someone majorly hurt my feelings (not break my heart like the past year was, but I cared enough about them that they cracked me) and those are usually the circumstances under which I start to look for not always the right kind of soothing. So…A. I’m happy for the pinpricks but B. Part of myself wonders what the other part of myself is going to get into. So I’m kind of a mess….So if you don’t mind…could you label some arrows with my name while you are shooting them off for others? I’d appreciate it. I’d appreciate it very much.