There are stories that I carry with me, some I proudly unfurl like a flag, a banner I’m thrilled to carry– stories of my grandmother, tales from my mom. Others I’ve stuffed down deep into my cells, hoping that the deeper I keep them, the less true they’ll become. Some I carry without even being aware that they are part of my narrative. Stories so true and encompassing, they seem to be the fabric of life, rather than a thread running through it.
Today I’ve uncovered a story, one stuffed deep into my cells. One I’ve edited in my memory and recently have come to face more of its truth.
I thought stuffing it down so deep would hide it from daylight, starving it until it ceased to be true. I didn’t know that holding it so close would bring it into my bones and into my body. My body carries memories my brain isn’t brave enough to see.
But my body isn’t going to keep this story secret any longer. It’s been screaming at me, begging me to face it, to see it, to claim it and repair as much as I can. I’ve turned up the volume around me in an attempt to drown it out. But like a smoke alarm that will not cease, my body kept hollering at me, demanding attention. Rather than addressing the issue, I chose to remove the battery.
So the smoke detector in my body has been going off for decades, silently warning me, but I could not be bothered. And I knew better than to put a fresh battery in, I didn’t want to be screamed at again.
It’s funny when we finally face the things we’ve been avoiding, it’s not as awful as we’d imagine. That dealing with the thing isn’t as exhausting as running from the thing. But how could we know that?
25 years ago I was assaulted in school.
Some of you have heard this story. I’ve been dealing with it in bite size pieces.
I was in 7th grade, so either 12 or 13 years old.
It was PE class and we were playing softball.
I tagged a boy out on third base.
A few innings later I tagged the same boy out on third base.
He charged me. He pick me up and whipped me around like a rag doll. He had about half a foot on me.
These memories are not new. The parts I remember: the disorientation, the popping, the horror on my teacher’s face, running away from the field, down the stairs and into the girls locker room. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my parents, them fighting my suspension and telling me I would be allowed to attend Sports Night on campus that weekend.
Recently I realized that while I know I was in 7th grade, I didn’t recognize just how young that is.
In my memory I was practically grown, I’m the same height and it’s easy to pretend. I’d rather pretend like I was a scrappy fighter than the aching, separated body I was.
I see my niece and realize I was younger than she is now.
I see your 12 year old daughters and their fierceness and vulnerability.
I can release this story from my bones.
I can see the senseless violence and offer myself grace instead of judgement or defensive justification.
I can finally see myself.
A tall, skinny, pimply girl in glasses, who beat the biggest guy in the grade at softball, and then he tore her apart in front of their classmates and teacher who were all powerless to stop him.
I don’t carry it like a banner, but I will no longer keep it in my cells.
That experience shaped more of my adolescence and student years than I am able to articulate. The tension in my body, the fear and vulnerability, the recognition that I am powerless in so many ways, the arrogant and desperate hope that I might still have a bigger influence than I have. The constant red alert.
Because, yes, I removed the battery from the smoke detector all those years ago. I had to in order to function, in order to survive. I couldn’t listen to that blaring noise and get anything done, so I yanked out the wires. But the alarm continued to sound, silently blaring. And while my ears were spared the noise, like a florescent light bulb flickering too quickly for the eyes to register it, my brain still recorded the message, the danger, and my cells lived in a state of constant alarm.
But now I’m plugging back in. And the noise isn’t as overwhelming as it once was, I feel like I can actually take a look and hear what’s going on. It’s the right kind of hard. And we can do hard things.
Pretty Good Ugly 