Every day I ache, a
wretched invisible ache. My wounds are hidden from view unless I
choose to share them. Unless I reveal them, no one ever knows. No one
ever sees. And they have no idea how painful it is to hear, to read
their opinions – thoughts that deny my experience. Ideas that mock
my life. That mock my ache.
How many ways can a
woman suffer at the hands of men? Sometimes it feels like my life is
an attempt to answer this question. Pick a chapter of my life, and I
will show you. I spin around, eyes closed, and throw a dart. Find
another way. Find another wound.
The beginning was so
early. A toddler. A hidden memory. A dream? And it left its marks all
over me. I never trusted adults, especially men. I didn't trust my
own family members. I didn't trust boys. Any volatility was a sign to
steer clear. Every action, from avoiding the toilets outside of
teachers' sight at school, to walking home a block away from a group
of boys, it was all calculated defense.
Stay invisible. Stay
safe. Stay outside of reach. I won't get hurt – again.
But
the stage was set. Another boy, another time, bent on abusing his
power. And I gave mine away. I gave it away because I didn't know I
had it. I didn't know who I was yet. So I took his scathing tongue. I
took his sharp hand. I let him tear me down, as if it was okay, as
others watched, doing nothing. Doing nothing because they didn't know
better? Doing nothing because they agreed? Why
doesn't matter.
Followed
walking home. Anonymous letters. Laced drinks at a party. Betrayed by
someone once trusted. Telling
and no one believes me. No one knows what to do. No one knows how to
act. No one knows what to say.
It
must be my fault, right? I must have done something. I must have
deserved all this. Because I wasn't dressed in Kevlar. Because I
wasn't carrying a taser. Because
I didn't kick him in the balls when he was sitting with me and my
friends at lunch, smiling, and joking like we're all good here.
Because I should have known
that everyone close to me is a
potential attacker. I should have hid my body even more...somehow
suppressed the intense curves I was born to have. I should have… I
should have… I should have…
And
I am alone.
I
call into the chaos, speaking truth and a thousand poisonous daggers
point back.
I'm
too
mean. I'm a bitch. I'm too
sexy. I'm a whore. I'm
too pretty. I'm a slut. I'm
too vocal. I'm annoying. I'm too
smart. I'm wrong. I'm too much.
I'm
a woman.
I'm
monstrous feminine.
Despite
the hidden scars I carry, the pain I feel when reading
denials of my experience, I stand here. I stand, with natural armor,
acquired through my battles. My
skin is beautiful, perfect for withstanding any siege.
I smile, baring teeth, my
threat plain. I stand,
proclaiming truth, defying the chaos. And my power whips about me, a
hurricane beating against blind shores. I walk, back straight, head
high. I wield my ache like a
battle cry, a siren's call into the void.
Hear
me!
Hear
me sisters!
Our
time is now.
Claim
your power.
Claim
your right.
Speak.
Stand.
Fight.
****************
If you want to learn more about my story and how I gained my perfect armor, reserve a copy of my book THRIVE: HOW I BECAME A SUPERHERO. To follow a crash course of my process, reserve a copy of TRANSFORM TO THRIVE: 32 DAYS FROM VICTIM TO SUPERHERO.
