Voices matter

In the last seven days since my Big Speech, I've received a flood of emails and, for the first time in forever, genuine dialogue in my blog comments! Not all of them agree with me, but that's okay; people are talking. There's never a shortage of words, never a true end to the discussion of something as heavy and provocative as rape culture. One week later, the dialogue is still continuing. I'm so grateful. I hope it lasts.

I never thought I'd be comfortable talking about this. Writing a book, and having my words filtered through a fictional character is one thing; talking about rape culture in relation to my own life is quite another. When I think about the bare facts, it's easy to get depressed once again. But if I can't press charges, if my vindictive-laced attempts at justice are failing, then my story is all I have left to fight with.

About 30 people showed up, mostly women I didn't recognize. My friends from my writing group were there, and a handful of classmates. The responses afterward were so incredible. And you know what I realized? I have a definite bias I need to overcome: a bias against men being redeemed. There is nothing to gain by turning the entire male species into an enemy. I have only one enemy, besides the devil -- my greatest enemy is myself. I am my biggest roadblock to recovery. I don't need my ex to apologize, and I don't need to appeal to God with the hope of triggering some kind of spell that will make him repent. That's not what healing is.

Healing is taking my story to a wider audience, because I realize how much it matters. Most importantly, I matter. My voice matters too much to keep silent.

It also helps that the more Josh and I talk about our future as husband and wife, the memory of the person who hurt me fades a bit. His influence matters less. That's not to say that I'll ever be able to forget. But it gets better.

I still struggle to believe these words as I write them. But they came to me somehow, so they must resonate somewhere.

I don't know if I'll end up a rape crisis counselor. I don't need to seek that profession in order to still care. It may have been a grief-motivated decision, not a genuine "calling." Anyone who knows me will tell you I am meant to be a writer. All six copies of Someone You Already Know were autographed and sold, and several business cards given away. So maybe, just maybe, that means something.

A very wise friend of mine told me that we don't get to choose our story sometimes, and we might hate it, but it's ours, and we're stuck with it. We can ignore it, stifle it, or tell it, and see what happens. The first two options made me crazy(er), so let's see what happens with the third.