Hiromi_X

This is something I often comment to Lili when she puts up a hard post I can't form a comment for: "No words but I'm here."

Or something close to that.

H,
I'm with Whirly.

The telling is hard and probably always will be, but the telling can sometimes help overome the aftermath. The key is to tell what you can, when you can and remember that people like Whirly and I are here for you.

You've done well.

Sorry to have gone on so long below--I know this is post length. When I realized how huge it was, I thought about just writing a short response and then posting my full response on my blog instead (and linking you there), but it felt important to me that I give *you* this, here, in your place, to honor your amazing effort and bravery above. I wanted the response to be all for you, first, you know? So:

I want to acknowledge how hard it was to write that post, how much courage it took to post it, and even beyond that, the courage it took to leave comments open. It's a huge thing, and no one knows it better than I do. Be proud of yourself, girl.

I have difficulty telling my story in detail, even on the blog, due to many of the same fears you have. But these days, that fear is also matched by a strong compulsion to just put it out there--others' discomfort (or, god help them, titillation) be damned. The second urge hasn't quite caught up with and overcome the first (the fear), which has been a tenant inside me for far longer, and isn't too happy about its pending eviction. But I know someday it's gonna move out, and the other one will take over. I think then I'll be really, really free for the first time since...well, since I can really remember. It's hard to remember not feeling like this.

It feels to me like each time I manage to tell my story and do so, despite whatever shakiness, knowing I can without shame--that this is my RIGHT, that I lose a little more of that fear.

And it feels to me like each time I get a sincere expression of horror or sincere sympathy or concern or outrage--things I never got at the time from anyone--it erases the power that fucker took from me just a tiny bit more; the power people around me gave him at the time, choosing to disempower me instead. When I hear those responses I would have wished for back then, something changes in me; my empowerment comes back just a little fraction more at a time. I learn the world supports ME, far more than him, and that I have a right to my outrage and voice AND healing, and I didn't know that for a long, long time.

The thing I guess I have to remember, is that this incremental regaining of my empowerment can only happen if I keep doing it, keep trying, and accepting that there will be a few people out there who just. don't. get. it.--for reasons of their own, not because *I'm* wrong.

Writing the above to you has made me think telling one's story is much like submitting a short story for publication or auditioning for acting parts--rejection may be part of the process, but the only people who do get the publication or the part (ultimate acceptance that THAT PERSON has defined and wants) are the ones who don't let that one rejection shut them down; They have to continue to believe in themselves, understand the rejection was nothing personal, but keep believing the person who rejected them just didn't get how good they were. Instead, despite negative responses, they have to keep believing they ARE good, and keep persevering, showing what they're about to others until they get what they want.

In short, you can choose to keep quiet and NOT talk, and that will definitely protect you from the disempowering asshole-ish statements. But it also keeps you from getting those little pieces of empowerment that I personally feel are integral to making me feel whole and self-empowered again. I think...I *hope*...the telling is worth it, even if there are a few bad apple responses among the good ones. I need to learn how to fully filter everything appropriately until I can filter out the negative responses as something wholly unconnected to me, and only keep inside any responses that help me grow.

Thanks for helping me think about that. And again, thank you for sharing your story and not staying quiet. That is the other thing--not only telling, but hearing other women talk about their own stories helps all the rest of us who have them heal, too. We realize we're not alone and we can be brave together.

And I want to say it breaks my heart to think of you in that aftermath scenario. I want you to know that when I try to imagine it, to visualize it, I literally *can't* do it without imagining me each time running in there, putting my arm around your shoulder, and holding you till you felt less shaky. Holding you up until you felt you could stand. Walking out with you, my arm still around your shoulder, keeping you close into me and away from those motherfuckers. A defiant gesture of solidarity. And as we walked out, I'd keep my head high and stare down those sick, unfeeling fucks until their laughter turned into sand in their throats and they all fucking choked on their own inhumanity.

I wish I could break into your past and do that for you. I wish I could break in earlier and stop the entire thing from having happened at all. I know I can't, but for what it's worth--I want you to know I think you're worth that kind of effort--that you DESERVED someone to make that kind of effort. You're worth that, and much, much more.

Every single time I've told my story, I've felt a tiny bit better about it and less shameful. At this point I can tell it as something that happened to me but that has nothing to do with who I am/was as a person (or child)...it has everything to do with who my parents are/were.

Along the way, there have been people who I felt were titillated by the story, and even more, people who felt that what happened "wasn't that bad." I've been asked why I didn't do x, y or z. I've been asked why I waited so long to talk about it. I've been asked why can't I just forgive and forget.

Fuck those people. They just don't understand. Lucky them that they don't understand.

It's unfortunate, but it seems as if survivors don't just have to tell our tales, we also have to educate people about how to receive our tales! God, the education is often worse than the telling!

I can picture myself (arm in arm with Miss Syl, perhaps), picking you up, staring down your attackers, and helping you get home. Would that we could go back in time and make it so...

Syl, i was at a loss *before* i read that. I'm further humbled by how good that was.

Yet, i do what i can. And you know, it makes me smile that you manage to find a thousand words to say to hiromi, and whirly manages to make "I'm speachless" elegant. You people both rule and I'm glad Hiromi has support like this from far and wide.

Hiromi, honey, I care barely think what to say, apart from that i wish i could take your face in my hand and ask you to look at me when you tell your story, so you can know in a visceral, face to face way that you can say *anything* to the people who care about you and that they won't be any different when you're done.

Don't stop. Tell your story. Put the fear down, one tiny bit at a time. The fact that bad things happened to you may have hurt you, but it does not in any way lessen you, and I can say for damned sure that *we* know that, even if you do not yet feel it.

As cliche as it sounds, you're really helping a multitude of other people by showing this to the world, as scary as it may seem. I was a reader of the other blog that shall not be named and, while I'd occasionally be tweaked a little bit by something that seemed off, everything really did seem kosher to me.

By showing that it was a facade (because so many of us are guilty of sort of putting on that "brave" face - a symptom of the "suck it up" culture that we're a part of), you're helping other people be brave and show their pain as well.

The world has made it seem like it's tougher to be strong, to keep going like nothing has happened... but the truth is, it's much more tough to allow yourself to be weak.

You gave me goose bumps and put a lump in my throat.

As a little girl I suffered a trauma that I repressed for years and years. One night, I just remembered it; I don't know why, but it popped into my consciousness ... and I knew that somewhere in the recesses of my brain I had known all that time; I had almost-remembered all those years. Then I was like the dike from which the little Dutch kid removed his finger: a flood of memories that I had to share. And share I did. I blabbed and blabbed and blabbed about it at even inappropriate times. I'm sure I was annoying, but I needed to blab. It was like vomiting for me. I blabbed so much that now I can joke about that damaged little girl because by getting to the point where I can joke about her, I have reclaimed her.

It sounds like you are getting you back, and that is mightily moving.

I'm glad that the comments here thus far have been supportive and not from trolling assholes. You may remember when I posted about the assault after it happened to me last year, among the support I got some really asshole comments. You don't deserve that, no one does. I have a button from high school that I think is still valid. It says, "Stupid people shouldn't breathe."

Telling does help... sometimes it hurts worse when you've just done it, but I know the more I've talked about what's happened to me and the more I was able to do it without shame (for the victim has nothing to be ashamed of and the perpetrator has EVERYTHING to be ashamed of. I hate that the wrong person carries the burden of shame in our society) the lighter the burden has gotten. I can understand not telling your family though. My parents and brother know nothing about my having been raped in '98, sexually assaulted in '05 and only because the pharmacy gave my mother my filled prescription for herpes medication when she went in for her own medications does anyone in my family know I caught herpes in '98 (separate from the rape but in a somewhat sexually abusive relationship) - and she and I have never discussed that she knows so she doesn't know the specifics. It's hard to let those who love us know what happened to us. They hurt for us. Someday Harry needs to get himself to a therapist so he can work out the shit he's gone through over my assault. I can't be there for him in this instance, and he realizes that.

As for the sick fucks are titillated by such heartbreaking stories - they are truly sick. I mean, I get sickened thinking about how I used to get turned on by the blog you had with your ex now that I know what you were going through. Had I known at the time I would never have enjoyed a second of it - except the posts where you spoke fiestily. (Is that a word?)

***Hugs***

Always remember that the sane people out here think you rock. And we will listen and support no matter how difficult-to-face the material is.

While I haven't had the difficult times in my life that you have endured, I am a firm believer in "talking helps to heal". Unfortunately, my family and culture discourage that, and I have found that talking to the world via blogging has made a difference for me.

You can find support, understanding, concern and caring from those that really matter. I congratulate you on how far you've gotten, and for what it's worth, I KNOW you can change your life for the better!

Having never been victimized to that degree, I can't really comment on it. It's good to see that you're wrestling with it, not just letting it eat away at your gut. You were a victim, now you're a survivor! Those who care about you appreciate you for who you are and what you're doing now. There are plenty of people here who see it that way.

Now I will shut up and brood about why we do such horrible things to each other.

sometimes, i am just in awe at the strength of the human spirit. you may not think a lot about how much you've gone forward, hiromi, but you have. and that takes courage. my thoughts are with you even if i don't comment much. xx.

Whenever you have trouble remembering how much progress you've made, just think "styrofoam peanuts".