As you may know, I'm an advocate for overcoming fear and speaking the truth about lived experiences to promote healing. I wrote a blog a while back sharing some of my insights on this topic, and here are some more insights based on recent developments.
Safe spaces?
For those who are NOT interested in speaking out publicly but are interested in healing, there are groups like AA, women’s circles, and individual and group therapy options available. Otherwise known as “safe spaces”. These can be amazing, and if you have gotten that far, bravo. However, I do not wish to get stuck in these isolated “safe spaces,” and here is why. The expectation is that you must return to the real world and go back to being someone you are not. You return to the real world and fit back into dangerous spaces (aka, society) without causing any further disturbances to the status quo.
As a society, we send our vets, our victims of sexual and domestic abuse, our addicts to the church basement or rehab to “clean themselves up” and return to the same old society that created the conditions for such awful war and trauma to manifest. We call this type of storytelling that happens in “safe spaces” deeply personal, but is it truly so? I have been told that my memoir about becoming conscious of childhood sexual abuse is deeply personal, but I challenge this. It is indeed a profoundly personal decision to share, but millions of us have experienced this type of trauma. These stories are not personal; they represent patterns alive in the society in which we all participate.
In the Fall of 2024, local author and President of the local Writers' Guild, Marianne Monson, interviewed another local author, Karl Mantes, about his memoir detailing his experience participating in and healing from war. Marianne asked him a great and compassionate question. What can we do to help vets heal? Karl thought about it, and his answer was, “I think, listen to us, listen to our stories.” It is a simple enough answer, but how do we make it happen? I believe we have to start where we are with our own stories. We become a safe space for ourselves first, and then we reach out as we are able. This could involve sharing our own story more publicly, or it could include supporting others who are bravely sharing theirs. The monthly Women Who Write to Heal public read-aloud is one way I’m doing this work in my community. It is a privilege, not a burden.
I was chatting with a wonderful woman about this read aloud event, and she said it feels like a “safe space,” and then she went on to say, “unlike if it were to take place, say, at the Liberty Theatre”. I challenged her and asked her if she would come and listen to me talk about my memoir at the Liberty. She was perplexed and said, “Are you serious?” I replied, “I am dead serious.” When my book comes out, perhaps I will be interviewed by Marianne at the Liberty. It is not a dream. Sharing abuse survival stories is not the stuff dreams are made of; however, I know myself, and if I am guided in that direction, I would be available for it. I do not believe sharing my story poses any danger to me. I can't even imagine what that danger might be at this point.
Reflecting back
Before I became conscious of buried trauma, I was not afraid or offended by others when they were sharing what might be considered "sensitive stories", so it has perplexed me quite a bit that there is sluggishness and aversion around this topic. Once, years ago, I went on a girls' beach trip with friends. It was late at night, and we were drinking wine and chatting. One of the women opened up about how her stepfather had sexually abused her. I was making a dream catcher out of a branch I had found on the beach. Making dream catchers was something I used to do regularly. My heart ached, and as the tears dripped down her cheek, the only thought that came to mind was, “Wow, she is so beautiful and strong.” I finished the dream catcher and gifted it to her, and thanked her for sharing. The next day, I was chatting with another one of the women, and she was complaining about how the other woman, the one who had just shared her story, was unreliable and flaky. She said, “She is just broken from what happened to her”. My heart sank into my gut. What great shit that was. Looking back, this was a moment in understanding what “vulnerability” is. It is opening up to the possibility that your courage will be met with ignorance, which it inevitably will. I lost touch with the beautiful woman who bravely shared her story that night, but she is with me in my heart and motivates me to keep going and keep advocating.
On another occasion, I was leading a women’s surf camp. The women were from all walks of life, and most of us wore a size small or medium wetsuit. There was one lovely young woman who was an extra extra-large size, and I was immediately in awe of the way she carried herself with such authenticity. She was joyful and did not cower as we tried on wetsuits in the surf shop parking lot. I also noticed how the other women were polite to her, but largely ignored her. They cowered. She had the best attitude of everyone and was a total blast to be around. She had undergone a great deal of healing, I later learned. One evening, we were trying to decide where to go for dinner, and Thai food was one of the options we considered. This young woman shared that she couldn’t eat Thai food. The other leader, whom I considered a friend at the time, ignored her and said that the majority wanted Thai food, so we were going to a Thai restaurant. I stopped her and said, “But she can’t eat Thai”. I was met with an eyeroll. I then asked the young woman if she had an allergy, and she shared that she grew up in an abusive home, and her drug addict mother would bring home disgusting Thai food from the restaurant she worked at, and now the smell alone would trigger her to vomit. I thought, oh dear God, the poor thing. I brought it up again with the co-leader, and she brushed it off again. How disgusting and heartless of her! She insisted we go to a Thai restaurant, and so I split off with the young woman; we ended up getting fast food instead.
The point of these stories is not that I am a saint. I often say the wrong things. I could write a blog about all the times I said the wrong thing. The point is, let's not get too carried away in thinking being "trauma-informed" is some lofty science. I didn't know about my trauma, and I was still decent to other people.
I hope this helps. If it triggers anything, may it be bravery and compassion.