I have been staring at my keyboard for awhile trying to think of something chipper to post today. I'm not feeling chipper. I'm feeling the heavy weight of disappointment that has grown daily since my last meeting with my mother. I haven't spoken to her since. I thought I would, but I have nothing to say that won't be hard for her to hear, and harder for me to voice. What I have to say is pointless. I think she not only doesn't want to hear it, she is so afraid she *can't* hear it. She has to be right about what she's decided is true, and she's chosen to cling to that over a relationship with me or my children. 

*Trigger warnning. I write the shit in this post.*

I tried to find a point of compromise, bending until I was uncomfortable and uncertain I could hold up the end of the bargain I was trying to strike to keep her in my life. She was resolute to the point she believes I should give her my children so she can do right by them since she believes I can't. That lack of belief in me hurts. And that's not the only lack of trust she made clear. 

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*My experiences are as real as a unicorn to her.*</center>

I'm sad because our session ended with her best intentions. She believes with all her heart that I absorb other people's experiences and pain and make them my own. She feels she has to protect me from doing this, and correct me when she thinks I've done it. She wants to relieve my burdens. I see that. I love that about her. But I don't love that she has no idea who I am, how strong I am, the work I've done or what I am capable of.

Take, for example, that I generally have six or more students writing on issues of severe trauma at a time. I work closely with them and their written experiences. I get great joy out of listening to and supporting these clients. It is my passion. 
 
When I'm done with my work, I set it aside and I live my own life free of their pain. It is possible to hold space for someone else's hurt without hurting yourself. I have worked hard to learn that and bring it into my compassionate educational practice. I want to help people release and heal the way I have. And if I ever have trouble holding that space, I see my therapist because it is both responsible and healthy to do so.

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*For goodness' sake, I'm a Libra. I'm ALL about balance.*</center>

When I am with my family, especially in moments like the one I cited with my mother, that healing goes backwards. My experiences are denied because they bear similarity to someone else's. Perhaps they were remembered differently by someone else. This is a tenet of memoir--our experiences are our own. Readers *will* disagree. Why? Because they observed from a different angle, bringing to the pivotal moment a different lens formed by their own experiences up to that point.

There is also this: my mother asks others, "Do you remember this happening to Shawna?" And they say no. The reason, most often, is they were not there. They did not witness. They were not told by me who touched my body in what way when, who hurt me, why I was afraid, why I had the same set of nightmares for years (which, by the way, I know are not true memories). 

## We need to stop asking others whether they saw someone victimized and start asking the victim. 

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*I genuinely do not understand why people insist on trusting the victim LAST.*</center>

This morning, as I was having a crown put in, I watched Megyn Kelly run a panel on The Today Show with the women who have come forward to admit they were mistreated by men. While the panel was mostly well done, what stuck with me was Tarana Burke,  founder of the #metoo movement and goddess, saying she doesn't see much change for men. Women are shouting together in one big chorus. Men and the otherwise gendered as well. 

##  It was cited that one in five PEOPLE has a #metoo. One in five HUMANS. Who is in the room with you right now?

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The question was brought up about whether some of the accusers are lying. Perhaps. Trolls are everywhere. But when you have 80 women come forward against one man, what is the likelihood that all 80 are lying when the statistics for years have been that one in four women is raped? 

Once, in a group of carefully selected leaders-in-training, I took part in an exercise where we all drew a representation of a watershed moment from our lives. There were 10 men and 10 women selected in this group. Of the 10 women, 9 drew their rape. The tenth ran out the door crying and screaming at us. In a group of 20, nearly 1/2 admitted to experiencing rape by age 19. I was not the girl who ran from the room. I was 14 when I was raped. And that is just one of MANY #metoo moments from my life.

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*Don't worry, I won't go through them all. That would take several posts. But here are a few highlights.*</center>

My mother wasn't there for that, but she was complicit in erasing my experience and chalking it up to promiscuity. 

My mother wasn't there for the time a boy kissed me and squeezed my breast while I screamed for him to stop in front of a female teacher for told me "boys will be boys." 

My mother wasn't there when I boy pinned me to the floor where I was reading a book at the library and shoved his tongue down my throat. I was pressed up against a bookshelf and couldn't get him off me. His mom walked up and saw him and gave me a look of apology while telling him he was being ridiculous. He found me out with friends and tried to corner and assault me again later. 

My mom wasn't there when I was beaten by another family member because that family member waited until she left before she started hurting me.

My mom wasn't there when I peed on a pregnancy test post-rape and cried because it was negative and, at least if a baby came out of it, someone would love me. 

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*Which is crazy, right? Because my mom did and does love me. Just not beyond her own personal fears.*</center>

There is a lot we don't see, parents, friends, siblings or teachers. We are not omnipotent. So why does my mother insist on invalidating my bodily and emotional experiences? 

I suspect she simply can't stand the idea she didn't better protect me in this world of predators. As parents we *will* fail. That's why, when she tried to silence me through gaslighting one more time, I lit a fire. I told her a slew of what she hadn't seen which does not even match up with what I've shared above because there is SO MUCH she was not there for just like she is not here for me now because she's more interested in changing my memories and actions than supporting my growth and strength.

My okayest is writing this, I guess. Being honest. This hurts. A whole fucking lot. I'm not apologizing anymore. I cannot be silenced anymore. I am very much, very truly done. 

It's heartbreaking.

*images from pixabay.com*