If I could change my name again...

So here I am again. I feel like I keep running around in circles, hoping to find a satisfactory solution, but in the end nothing changes. And it's extremely frustrating.

I had no idea how hard it would be for the average person to grasp the concept of two first names as one. I know it's a trend down south, but I am a yankee through and through, and would never be able to stand the hot, humid, snow-less environment of a place like Texas where everyone has two names. So that leaves me with two options: keep on owning the name I created, or give in to convention and change it, again. Only this time, I'd make it something impossible to screw up. I'd just be Beth indefinitely, maybe legally (since I'll have to change my last name when I get married, might as well do it then, if that's what I decide).

I'm beyond annoyance. I'm just tired. Really tired. And disappointed. A few months ago I wrote about my "humility project" where I'd go by Beth to stifle my un-ending battle with pride. The people who know me best know how I've always wanted to be "different," to stand out in a crowd and be remembered. That's all well and great to a point, but for me, it lead to quitting ballet at the age of six and taking up figure skating instead, so I wouldn't have to share the stage with anyone. It lead to coming home from school one day in tears and yelling at my parents when a teacher thought it would be cute to seat all four Sarahs of the class at one table, and in college, when a professor labeled us Sarah 1, 2, and 3.

So you can see, I've always had "identity issues." A desire to be unique is great, but for me it was an idol. Clearly, that's not healthy. Especially because I claim to be a Christian; I'm supposed to be humble. Who was more humble than Jesus? He didn't do miracles to draw attention to himself, so people would think he was cool. All the glory he got was directed back to his Father. Me? I'd soak up as much of that glory and fame as I could. Not exactly Christ-like.

But, as my closest friends know, the name change wasn't *just* about "being different." It was my choice after being baptized; to literally take on a new identity, and separate that from the old. It was a fresh start. Unfortunately for me, I didn't think it through as well as I should have. I never anticipated the problems my new name would create, from the spelling ("Is there an h or no h? Is it hyphenated?") to having to introduce myself twice. It's exhausting and I'm starting to regret my choice, but at this point in my life, what can I do? Especially now that I've been published.

The more I think about it, the more I long for something plain and simple. Who cares about being "different" anymore: all I care about now is being different from who I was before Christ, before my baptism. At the same time, Sarahbeth is an expression of my creativity, something I made up myself...and it's okay to be proud about that. But for the number of times people have asked me "Why go through all that legal trouble for four extra letters?" perhaps they are right. I set myself up, and while I'd like to think that most people are just "too dumb" to catch on, the reality is that I chose to make it complicated. I wouldn't be nearly as offended by being called Sarah if not for what the name represents to me. I don't have good memories attached to it, to say the least.

This concludes the latest episode of Sarahbeth Thinks Too Much.God bless you if you actually finished the whole thing.

Future projects, and a SYAK excerpt about moving on

So I have some ideas for new writing projects...the question is whether grad school will allow me the time to work on them. I decided that I need to find more user-friendly subjects, ones where readers aren't slapped in the face by a specific agenda (not that certain agendas aren't worth writing about). At the same time, I don't want to write mindless fluff. I want my work to entertain, but to also have purpose. The next novel I have in mind is one that is lighter and culturally significant, without being heavy-handed (so I hope). A fellow self-published friend has inspired me to take on the challenge of an anti-romance story, where the flawed protagonist learns what it's like to live "productively single."

Okay, so it's probably going to end up being a chick-lit novel. But an encouraging one, I hope.

As for the second writing project...that might be another memoir about being the odd Jewish kid out in seminary land, and the struggle to be a Jew-turned-Christian without being labeled a Messianic Jew. Call it a sequel to Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, maybe. But that one won't be completed until I finish seminary, understandably. We'll see how that goes. I might just go the traditional publishing route next time, but that world is far less predictable, and much more competitive.

I like self-publishing because I get to be in control of everything from the cover design to the pricing, but traditional publishers are more efficient about getting your work out there for the world to read. But the world is teeming with aspiring writers, and it's hard to imagine that my ideas are unique enough to land a spot among the best of the best. Sigh...

In the mean time, here's another excerpt from Someone You Already Know, about getting your life back after surviving a tragedy:

For the last several days, I’ve been obsessed with Googling “rape culture” and sifting through the thousands of results. It’s amazing just how much information is out there, though not all of it is helpful. There’s the occasional advertisement from a well-intentioned (I’m sure) advocacy group that basically says “This is what happens when you don’t use the buddy system,” or guard your drink at parties, hitch-hike, et cetera. A girl with her skirt tangled around her ankles, apparently unconscious, was shown in one. Quite a guilt trip for someone who just didn’t know any better!

     I have wondered just how different That Day might have been if Elisabeth had been with me. Would the attacker have targeted her, too? Or is there really strength in numbers?

     Ever the voice of reason, Cleary is quick to chime in with “It’s dangerous to play that ‘What If’ game, Katherine. You have no control over what’s already happened. You need to focus on the situation right in front of you.” 

     I know she’s right. But that doesn’t make my new post-victim life any easier. I’ll always have questions and doubts. Not having the perpetrator to direct these to is frustrating. But maybe there are some things I’m better off not knowing.

     What I am noticing is how many of these websites contain statistics and blurbs about preventing assault; not so much in the way of survivors sharing their stories. I can’t say I’m eager to share mine, but surely there has to be someone out there who is older than me, wiser than me, and toughed-up enough to no longer have shame about what happened to her. The more I keep reading, the more I feel this fire in my gut to not allow my experience to be wasted. I can’t accept that a part of me has permanently shut down. 

     But how can that happen when the memories still haunt me? When I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, because the nightmares won’t leave me alone? How can I make people understand the significance of the trauma without scaring them out of living their lives?

     For anyone who wonders what it’s like to have a tragedy shatter your very existence, this is what I would tell them: it’s like going through the motions of everyday life in a zombified state. It’s like having outbursts of anger for what seems like no apparent reason, for even the smallest of offenses. It’s like forgetting how to be your once cheerful, perky self, and having to re-learn basic social skills when mingling with new people (especially if those people are ignorant, or just plain terrible at showing sympathy). It takes a while to re-learn all those basic skills. But maybe, just maybe…it’s possible. Maybe you have to want your life back first, before it can start repairing itself. But then you also have to accept the hard fact that the mending process may take the rest of your natural life. I don’t think there’s a set time limit for it. 

     Getting your life back will also mean taking the risk of going to all the places you used to go, wearing your old clothes, hanging out in the same places, knowing full well that the person who attacked you could be there, too, watching. But real empowerment is not allowing evil to prevail by hiding.

     You can’t ever know how you’ll react to something unless it happens to you. It doesn’t help to speculate over what ifs. But it helps to be prepared. Being prepared is to know anything that happens to you doesn’t have to leave you broken. It just leaves you with a story to tell.

The struggle to be believed, part II

In terms of the number of books sold, the signing wasn't a huge success. I suspected it wouldn't be; rape culture is not a subject that tons of people would be lining out the door to read about. I did sell some copies, however; I signed books for two college-aged women who are involved in Cleveland's "Slutwalks" (an event where women "take back" the stigma of "slutty" clothing by wearing short skirts, heels, etc and march through town to send a message that men are not entitled to rape based on what a woman is wearing). So that was cool.

I judged my success that day by the number of conversations I had with people who were curious why the subject matters to me. So at the very least, I may have interested a few in the subject, if not my book. I'm okay with that. When you write for a cause, you don't do it for fame and money.

This week, I want to share a passage that deals further with the struggle of being believed, particularly that of a girl who experienced abuse within a relationship, and the surprising reasons why it's not so simple to label the relationship as "abusive" when you deeply love the person who is hurting you:

     So I guess Katherine doesn’t take me seriously after all. I had thought for a while that we were getting somewhere, but now all that progress seems shattered. Perhaps permanently. It’s too early to tell, but my hope for us is wearing drastically thin.

     At least I was able to convince her to let me take her the rest of the way home. No way was I going to just leave her there by the side of the road, ripe for another pervert to come and grab. I would have picked her up, thrown her over my shoulder, and put her in the backseat before I let that happen. Luckily, Katherine is smart enough to understand why she had to suffer the rest of the ride home with me. All six minutes of it. 

     I know it’s irrational, but remembering John cruelly mocking me with “You think Becca will believe you either?” got me thinking. It’s not about competition; she may think I’m just a bitter ex-something-or-other trying to poison her against him, but that’s only part of the reason I can’t tell her. A very small part, actually. 

     I can’t take the risk that she’ll go straight to John about it, either to make fun of me or to check his reaction to see if it’s true. I don’t know, but if she did…well, I’m not afraid of him coming after me with violence or anything, but it could mean more contact from him, and I’m already haunted by our last conversation. Is it selfish to be concerned about my own healing and my own well-being right now?

     Perhaps if there was evidence – physical evidence of trauma that wasn’t washed away – I wouldn’t have to worry about Becca believing me, because I could have gone straight to the police after it happened. Only, there probably wasn’t any trauma to record: none like Katherine’s, no visible cuts or bruising. Maybe not even a torn hymen either. For as much as it hurt, I never bled. It’s strange to admit, but now I wish I had, if that meant a stronger case against him. But there isn’t one.

     Any normal person would think Katherine had everything to turn the tide of criticism toward the man who raped her, and not herself. She had the bruises. She had the torn clothing. She insisted up and down she didn’t know the guy; couldn’t pick out any pictures in the collection of already existing mug shots from other area predators. And yet, there were a significant number of people in law enforcement who just couldn’t believe her. All they saw was her short skirt. So what would they see if they looked at me? I was supposedly in love! I’d be laughed right out of the police station without a second thought.

     All these factors make me question what my next move should be. Feelings may be valid, but they can’t be proven. So with no physical damage to show, and no other witnesses to corroborate my story, how do I know what really happened? I am a small, fragile, inexperienced girl who was willing to do anything, sacrifice everything, to be loved: something every human longs for. In a society that glorifies sex, who will believe me now? Who will ever believe me?

The struggle to be believed

The first book signing for Someone You Already Know is this Saturday (Learned Owl in Hudson Ohio, 1pm)! What an awesome way to start 2013! Here's another excerpt, depicting the struggle of one survivor to be believed by another:

There are certain things we already know, things we don’t need schooling on: that no means no, yes is yes, what is permissible at one moment may not be at another time. But the root of our conflict, as two young women struggling to understand how much of a role our bodies play in our identities as people, is that neither of us fits the definition of “That Girl” we always imagined would find herself in predicaments like ours. Somehow we believed we were born with immunity. Why is that exactly?

I explained to Katherine everything I knew for sure, everything that should have happened if he really loved me: He should have stopped when I told him to. He should have stopped right away, not several minutes later when he wanted to. His exact words at one point were “I was having too much fun to stop.” He commented on my nervousness, my inability to relax and “go with it.” He knew I was not completely on board with what was happening; that it meant so much more to him than it did to me, because I didn’t need to fool around to feel loved. He came up with that on his own. 

     “You know you wanted it.”

     “I thought if I kept going, you would change your mind and start liking it.”

     “You’d be real hot if you didn’t look so terrified.”

I stare into my coffee cup as the room starts spinning. The pounding in my head is unrelenting.

     

It was exhausting, just putting to words these conflicting feelings I’ve had for so long, but it’s still not enough for Katherine. “So he never actually forced you to do anything” she retorts. I can’t tell if this is a question or an accusation. “He never held you down or used a weapon, or –“

Obviously this conversation was not going to be easy, though for someone who was intent on listening without judgment, she wasn’t doing a very good job. “No, he didn’t hit me or threaten me with a knife or a gun or anything that put my life in immediate danger,” I snap. “But you know what, Katherine? I don’t see what difference it would have made if he had. We were supposedly in a relationship; just saying ‘no’ should have been enough. Please explain to me why saying ‘no’ was not enough.”

Even after I said that, my mind was full of the same old doubts: Did I really say “no” loudly and clearly every time? To what extent does my body language count? Is it unrealistic to expect John to have read my nervous shaking as a refusal, even when he knew I was desperate to impress him? 

It’s funny; I’ve seen enough romantic comedies to know what it looks like when a guy and a girl are mutually enthusiastic about hooking up. Yet the more I think about it, the nature of consent itself is such a fine, crooked little line with so much gray area smudged in the middle. Will guys need to sign permission slips acknowledging what behaviors are acceptable? Is a girl allowed to change her mind after saying yes? How is a normal guy, who may have the best of intentions, supposed to know if what he’s doing is okay?

The question of what consent is -- and isn't -- comes up again in the discussion guide at the end of the novel. It's true that plenty of people don't fully understand the nature of consent, but manage to have sex without raping anyone. Even still, this is a topic that deserves to be addressed by everyone, regardless of relationship status and experience.