Resilience

"Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery."  
- Andrea Gibson

After the divorce, I decided to finally do something for myself. I was so tired of putting myself last for so long that I risked feeling a little selfish and booked a trip to Yellowstone to celebrate my newfound freedom. 

Not gonna lie, it was actually pretty terrifying. I'd never tried this whole "vacation" thing by myself. I'd never navigated the airport alone. I'd never tackled the horrifically anxiety inducing "security checkpoint" by myself (and oh my god, what if I accidentally packed a bomb in my carry-on luggage without realizing it - because that's totally a thing that could realistically happen). I'd never rented a car or orchestrated hotel room stays. Making decisions and generally having opinions and preferences was not something that had previously been permitted. 

It's REALLY difficult to plan a vacation when you have no idea how to be a functional adult. I'd spent a lifetime learning that I couldn't trust myself, and the previous decade had been a bear constant reminder of how wholely inadequate I was. Somehow, though, I managed to figure it out. I made myself a priority for the first time in my life - and it was amazing. It was absolutely terrifying, but amazing.

I remember driving around aimlessly in Yellowstone National Park the day after I arrived. It was a nice day, but the skies were a little overcast. There had been a drought that year and Mammoth Hot Springs were not particularly "springy." Then as I drove around a corner, I saw it...

This tree right here. This simple, unassuming little tree. It's like one day it just decided, "Fuck you and your inhospitable environment - I'm gonna grow here whether you like it or not!" And then it grew out of that damn rock like the little badass it is. I decided right then that it would be my spirit tree. 

I was fortunate to be able to get a bunch of fantastic pictures of so many of the gorgeous things in the park, and yet this not-so-gorgeous picture is - and always has been - my favorite. It's not a particularly pretty picture. It's not all that interesting, and I clearly kinda suck at photography. Still, though, this picture is and always has been my favorite.

When I look at this picture, I can't help but see resilience and determination. I feel like I was meant to stumble upon that little tree, just tucked away off the side of the road. This tree was my reminder that I don't have to let my past keep me from planting my feet firmly on the ground and demanding to grow. 

Are there better environments that are more conducive to growth? Sure. But that's not the hand I was dealt. I had to choose between being that stubborn asshole that refuses to give up or just resigning myself to failure. And I'm still here, so it's pretty obvious that I live to be a stubborn asshole. 

So naturally when we took a family trip to Yellowstone recently, spirit tree was in the itinerary. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing on the itinerary for me (because truthfully I'm not much of a planner). 

Years later, this time with husband and kids in tow, I finally laid eyes on my spirit tree again. 

Those who know me well know that the first miracle here is that I even remembered where this tree was located in the park. Normally that exchange would have gone something like this:

Husband: "So where exactly is this tree that we need to go back and visit?"

Me: "Oh, you know, it's just over there..." *gestures broadly at the entirety of Yellowstone National Park*

But not this time. This time I KNEW where it was. This little tree left THAT much of an impression on me. Years later, I still knew exactly where it was. Exactly. I mean, good Lord, I can set my glasses down, and I won't even remember where they are two minutes later - but that tree, man...there was something about it. There still is...

I see you, tree. Fuck this hostile environment bullshit - we'll both make it.

Letter to a Rapist.

"What if I don't want the monster

to stop being a monster?

What if that's the only anchor I have left?

What if my sanity depends on being able to point

at a bad thing and say, That is the bad thing.

Haven't I already lost enough time

losing track of who the enemy is?

I've spent half of my life not knowing the difference

between killing myself and fighting back."

- Andrea Gibson

To My Rapist:

“My rapist.” I don't think I've ever called you that before. Frankly it feels a little disgusting. I don’t want you to be “my” anything. I don’t want to claim you as any part of my life. You don’t deserve that kind of power. You honestly never did - but that didn’t keep you from taking it anyway. You're the chapter of my story that I've been too ashamed to read out loud. 

For years I've blamed myself. I've assumed all of the responsibility for no other reason than the fact that I was the one who was sober. I should have seen it coming. I should have known that you weren't safe. There should have been signs - I should have seen them. Why the hell couldn't I see them? 

I didn't realize that making excuses for you meant continuing to make myself the “bad guy.” I didn’t realize that letting it fall on my shoulders meant giving up what was left of my ability to trust myself. I blamed myself because somehow hating myself felt less scary than admitting that I had absolutely no control. So I gave you a pass because you were drunk off your ass. I gave you a pass because I was afraid of what it would mean for my view of the world if I didn’t. You fucking raped me, and I gave you a pass because I was too broken to do anything else.

You took my sense of safety far beyond that one night. For years, I believed that I was the unsafe person - I was the one who wasn’t able to keep the bad thing from happening. I didn’t know how to trust that I even had the capacity to keep myself safe - I still kind of don’t. It’s not really even that I can’t trust other people anymore - it’s that I can't even trust myself to know who's safe. 

When we first met, I was struggling. I had just gotten out of an abusive marriage and was trying to learn how to live on my own again. You knew that. I guess that’s also how you knew I’d be an easy target. I was emotionally vulnerable and desperate for someone to give a shit. I naively thought that maybe you actually did. You took advantage of that in the most shitty way possible when you decided that your “needs” were more important than my value as a human being. 

I always thought that if I were in that situation, I would fight back - I'd kick and scream. I’d at least do something, right? You forced me to give you oral sex, and you did it with such aggression and force, I couldn’t even breathe. I literally could not breathe. It was so fucking terrifying. I panicked because I realized there was nothing I could do to stop you. I was too scared to try to fight back. There were tears running down my face - it was one of the last times I ever actually allowed myself to cry. Did you even notice my tears? Would you have cared if you had? 

I wonder these days if that’s the reason I don’t let myself cry anymore. It makes me feel too scared, too helpless, too inhuman. It’s not even the act of crying - it’s the feeling of dried tears on my face that I can’t stand. That physical sensation makes me feel like I’m right back in that moment. I never thought I'd miss the ability to cry without feeling panicked and ashamed, but there was always something really healing about a long, hard cry - almost cathartic. Sometimes it physically hurts to not have that anymore.

But you didn’t care - you just continued on with the assault. As I felt your weight on top of me, all I could do was freeze like a goddamn coward. Scared. Helpless. Vacant. Resigned. I felt your hands on my neck…and I did nothing. With every thrust of your body I felt more and more numb. I just laid there and waited for it to be over. At that point I'm not sure I could've convinced my body to move anyway. But the truth is that I shouldn't have ever been forced to choose between being scared into compliance and being brave that night. 

I completely shut down. I don't know where I went, just that I wasn't really there anymore. That was the only way I knew to protect myself. My mind keeps trying to interpret my resignation as willingness because it just can't reconcile the fact that you forced yourself on me and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. I still feel the same panic I felt that night every once in a while with my husband. I hate that you show up in those intimate moments sometimes. It feels intrusive and gross. 

You couldn't even be bothered to wear a fucking condom. At some point during the whole thing, I remember you making a comment about how I shouldn’t worry because you wouldn’t finish inside me. Your exact comment was that “it feels rude.” Are you fucking kidding me? Did you consider everything you’d done to me up until that point to be a portrait of gentlemanly behavior? Is that really where you drew the line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t? Are you really that fucked up? 

I'm curious, was there ever anything I could have done to change your mind? Did I ever even stand a chance? Did you even consider that I was an actual human being with feelings and not just some fuck doll for you to violate how you saw fit? Actually, nevermind. We both already know the answer to that question. You didn’t care how helpless or scared or humiliated I felt that night. I’m not sure I’ve ever entirely been able to get past that feeling of complete powerlessness. I couldn’t even protect myself. 

I guess I should consider myself fortunate though, right? At least I was on birth control (ironically for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with contraception, but it's the only win I got that night). Lucky for me, all I had to worry about were STDs. And let me tell you, it was an absolute joy to find out that my insurance wouldn't even cover the cost of those tests. I was a single mom - I didn't have hundreds of spare dollars to spend. But sure, let me just pull that money out of my ass because of course that should be my responsibility. I sure as hell wasn't able to pull the money out of my bank account…

Even now, when I’m out and about and I see someone who looks like you, it stops me dead in my tracks. Frozen with panic, my stomach drops and I can barely breathe. In that moment, the fear and helplessness are back, even if just for a moment. It makes me angry that years later I still let you have so much power over me that just the thought of you can make me feel like I'm right back in that moment. I've spent nearly my entire life feeling powerless. To be honest, it's getting a little old. 

When you contacted me a year later, you lamented the fact that your life was headed downhill and you were convinced that it was payback for how you treated me. Was that supposed to be a fucking apology? Was that really all you could muster - some self-pity about how your struggles were some kind of retribution for what you did to me? Did you think it would make me feel better to know that you were struggling? Do you even realize how unbelievably selfish it was to contact me at all in some buillshit attempt to clear your conscience? 

The thing I can't figure out, though, is how in that moment I still felt some compassion for you in your struggles. I wonder what it says about me that despite everything you did to me, I still felt bad for you. I’d like to think it says something extraordinary about my character, but honestly it just makes me feel weak and pathetic. It’s a struggle to accept that I can have compassion for you without feeling like I'm devaluing myself as a person. But despite being a struggle,  I CAN have compassion for you and still be absolutely livid with you. I don’t have to choose. In fact, I'm a better person when I don't. 

I thought for a long time that I wasn't actually angry with you for what you did. I was too busy being angry with myself for trusting you. I just didn't have any time or energy left to be angry with you. But it wasn't my fault. It never was and never will be. I know it, and you know it. As I begin to believe it, I'm starting to see the anger towards you bubble up. It feels both oddly liberating and completely toxic.

So fuck you. Fuck your entitlement and your belief that nobody else matters. Fuck you for taking advantage of my emotional vulnerability and trust. Fuck you and your drinking - it'll never excuse what you did. Fuck you for prioritizing your penis over my basic rights as a person. Fuck you and your half-assed, pathetic excuse for an "apology." Fuck you for being a selfish asshole. 

I've tried to find the silver lining in all of this, and I'm beginning to see that there really isn't one. I'm not a better or stronger person for having been raped. The belief that people can't be trusted hasn't been helpful nor has the feeling that I can’t even trust myself. Being automatically uncomfortable when alone in a room with a man isn't really healthy or fair to men who aren't assholes (and thankfully most men aren’t). I haven't had any profound epiphanies or fabulous personal growth as a result of this experience. As much as I'd like to believe that everything happens for some grand purpose, the truth is that some things are just shitty and there's nothing that really makes any of it make sense. 

But you know what? I'll be okay. I'm not sure how I'll get there or how long it'll take. It truthfully doesn't even matter. The important thing is that I know I'll make it. 

So yes, you'll always be a chapter in my story, but I'm starting to realize how much power there is in being the author. 

Insincerely,

Me