#YesAllWomen

September 25, 2015

So it’s been a few days. Happens when you’re juggling multiple projects. Things take priority. Filming a feature in December of this year and that’s kind of been front burner. But I haven’t forgotten you OR this blog or future documentary.

I was on a panel about mental illness at Imaginarium. (If you’re a writer, lover of music or film this is THE place to be) It was there a panelist said because of her experiences she did not lie about sex.

She was very vocal and forceful. Assertive.

That’s something sexual abuse and rape seems to steal from its victims. Their voice.

Be it singular or collective our voices are robbed from us until we can figure out a way to take it back.

Many find it again through therapy. Trust me, therapy isn’t the coward’s way out. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. And no matter what you think there is a therapist for every victim. Of course finding the right one for you is also important.

Therapy saved my life. In and out of it from the time I was nineteen I knew this was an issue that demanded me to really dig deep and be fearless in my honesty. I graduated therapy at thirty seven years of age. And I still have my therapist on speed dial just for this issue alone.

Reclaiming my voice has been a journey that really took the onset of my bipolar disorder to address. 

As they seemed to feed off of one another.

When I was 24 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

But there were other issues bubbling around as triggers. And reclaiming my voice became a central issue in my therapy sessions.

I’ll be frank with you. I HATED talking about the abuse and rape. Sessions lasting an hour long where I had to confront the pain I had been trying so desperately to hide with humor, with food, through my creative expression only served to exacerbate all of the terrific symptoms.

Anxiety. Phobias. And while I may not have conquered all of them I am not the scared, shamed up, quiet little girl afraid of her predators anymore.

Thanks to those sessions where I would leave feeling raw, tender, tired and bruised up I got stronger. People from my past who think I’m the same person I was in high school, or even college really never knew me at all. In those sessions I found my power again. And through it all I wrote.

Writing was my strength.

Writing was my salvation.

It was where I found my voice. And with my voice I found my power.

Therapy was where I did the hard work to find that power.

It was worth it.

There you can safely talk about your predators. You can name names. You can list their crimes without fear of retribution. It might take a minute to summon the courage to talk about it. But know with therapy you’re in a safe place.

It is a soft place to land. You don’t have to prove anything. All you have to do, and it’s only if you choose to, is to share your story.

Admittedly easier said than done. Sharing one’s story takes the kind of bravery and courage of a soldier. Because you’ve been through a war and you need to be put back together again.

There’s a stigma attached to be an abuse survivor.

That goes for the brutality of rape in all its forms.

It’s not like the justice system is easy on the survivor. If you do get the courage to press charges there is the very real chance you will be put on trial and made to look to be the guilty party. Or that you, perhaps misunderstood what was just an innocent display of affection.

Don’t you believe it for a second.

If your gut tells you that something isn’t right, listen to it. But if you are a survivor who is search of their voice, don’t be afraid to seek out a professional’s guidance.

While not every therapist is not for every person. There is the right therapist out there for you. Don’t be afraid to reach out. Someone is waiting to listen.

Until Next Time,

Amy