I saw on Facebook today that April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. At first I was a little skeptical as I swear the other day someone posted that it was National Debbie Day or something ridiculous like that (no offense—I love Debbies!), so I pretty much trust Facebook about as far as I can throw it these days. (Or maybe I’m just bitter because I just looked up National Jamie Day and there isn’t one. Why God, WHYYYY?!?) I digress.
So I Googled it immediately, and sure enough it is—Sexual Assault Awareness Month. SAAM they call it. I know I’ve seen posts about this in years past, but I guess I just haven’t paid too much attention to it until now (for various reasons you’ll come to know).
The word “assault” is still a bit of a trigger for me, and I didn’t even realize it until I was casually scrolling through Facebook when it lit up like neon (well, probably more like RED RUM if I’m going to be honest here—did I lose you?). Considering I spent almost 20 years believing that it was my fault, this is a stark contrast to the story I lived in for most of my life.
I was in my “tween” years—I think that’s what they call it now? I probably don’t remember everything, but I remember enough. And believe it or not, having spent over half my life telling myself it was all a nightmare, I actually started to believe that it was. Like for reals. It became a forbidden basement in my brain that I was not allowed to go anywhere near.
I thought it would eventually just disappear without leaving a trace, but little did I know it would become the crumbling foundation that my entire sense of self would be built upon. My self-worth. Self-esteem. SELF-LOVE (or self-hate). What I thought was burying it into the ground beneath me, was really building it into a mountain around me. And for the next almost 20 years, I would see myself and the world around me through a dark, muddy lens. Of course, I didn’t know that this was the choice I was making, but what other option was there?
I was a perfectionist from as early on as I can remember. If I handwrote an entire page and messed up on the last word, I would crumble it up, throw it away and redo the entire thing. If I colored outside the lines even the tiniest little bit? Start over. I was terrified of being called on in class and not knowing the answers. I just remember wanting to do everything right, wanting to make others proud of me, and living in a lot of fear of falling short. I was also hyper accountable, and I thank my dad for that (said with absolute sincerity). I grew up with Mr. Responsible/Accountable/Integrity and I am grateful to have inherited much of that goodness; it has served me in so many ways.
But what do you get when you mix an approval-seeking tweenager with perfectionism, hyper-accountability, sexual abuse and fear? IT’S MY FAULT. AND NOBODY CAN EVER KNOW ABOUT THIS OR I WILL DIE. That might sound dramatic, but I genuinely, truly, 100% believed that I would die if anyone ever found out.
So I never told. Because it was my fault and I was mortified. I was disgusting, demented, dirty, damaged. Something was wrong with me. And any time even the tiniest memory or thought would creep into my little brain, I would mentally stone the sh*t out of it until it recoiled back into hiding. It was a full-time job at first, but eventually it started to fade. The evil little thoughts came to visit less and less, and over time, I wasn’t even sure what had actually even happened. It was a nightmare. Yeah, that’s it. It was all a really bad dream. Phew. The mind is a powerful thing.
Fast-forward about 20 years of binge-drinking, blackouts, promiscuity and a SHIT TON of shame, and there I was in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. I always knew it was a matter of time for me, but I guess I just had to be desperate enough. Ultimately, shame was what finally did me in. While I think shame is a poison like no other, I am grateful for what it was in my life—a devastatingly powerful catalyst for change.
A big part of the 12 Steps is to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves (basically all the harm I’ve caused to myself and others) and to share it with another human being. Oh F*CK. I knew I never, ever wanted to drink again…
But oh my God, MY SECRET.
I can’t.
But I have to.
But I can’t.
YEAH BUT I HAVE TO.
No, no, no!!!!!!
Yes, yes, YES!!!!!!!!!!!!
So I did. I wrote it down. And I shared it with my sponsor at the time. Trembling. Tears streaming down my face. Terrified beyond words. What will she think of me? But I will never forget the words that came out of her mouth on that beautiful afternoon as we were snuggled up on her big, comfy white bed overlooking the Pacific Ocean:
“It’s not your fault.”
I wept. And I wept. I cry even as I write this, because that was one of the most precious gifts anyone has ever given me. I’m not gonna say that I fully believed her in that moment, but it was the first time I actually questioned my own story. And that was the day my healing began. And I haven’t had a drink or drug since—I will be four years sober on April 21st.
It has taken a lot of heart-wrenching exploration and courageous soul-searching with my life coach/wisdom teacher/counselor/healer/savior/Spirit mama, and I know there is still more to be revealed, but I no longer let what happened to me define who I am or how I show up in this world.
I’ve written a lot about secrets, and I’ll probably talk about them for the rest of my life. While I honor my experience and am grateful for its contribution to the person I am today, I know that keeping that secret was an enormous disservice to that little girl. Secrets are like sneaky little invisible magnifying glasses, but for some reason we think they do the exact opposite.
So April. Sexual Assault Awareness Month.
When I saw this on Facebook, although a part of me wanted to just keep scrolling and not go there today, I knew it was an opportunity to lean in and share an important part of my life. It’s a miracle that I am able to write about it like this; even after I opened up to my sponsor, I thought I would never speak those words again. But every single time I heard someone share their own story of abuse—assault—I felt a little less alone, and little less like something was wrong with me. And now here I am, sharing it with hundreds of people with—almost—a feeling of neutrality. See, even my journey continues.
So to anyone reading this…
May you know that you are loved. That you are not damaged. That you are a DIVINE CHILD OF GOD exactly as you are in this moment. May you share your secret with someone you trust. And may you write your own story if and when the time is right, so that we may all feel a little less alone in ours.
And above all, may you know that IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.
And if this doesn’t speak to you, may you teach your kids about the danger of secrets and make sure they know that there is nothing they could ever do that would make you stop loving them. May you be a concerned, compassionate and caring confidant to the people in your life. And may you be a little more vulnerable than is comfortable, so that others might do the same with you.
Tell someone that it’s not their fault. Listen longer than you’d like. Empathize even when it’s hard. Just be there. There’s probably a terrified little Jamie somewhere out there. Find her. Love her. Please.
And this Jamie, the Jamie right here—the me-in-this-moment Jamie—is here for you. I don’t care if we are “Facebook friends” at best, maybe haven’t talked in 10 years, or perhaps we don’t even know each other and this post randomly popped up in your news feed. Whatever the case, JUST KNOW THAT I AM HERE FOR YOU.
Message me. Email me. Call me. I promise you it would be an absolute honor to hear your story and to love and support you in any way that I can. I never had that, so let me be that for you.
IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT
