Loud Mouth Brown Girl

The last time I was gang raped – as opposed to all the times before – I heard these words in my head, CLEAR as fucking day. As if someone was giving me advice on the worst night of my life.

So I did.

I started by reminding them that this gang rape shit had been going on for decades, reminding them that they were kids once who didn’t actually want this shit.

And then I told them I was psychic, I made up a bunch of shit about R Kelly – because who didn’t know he was a pedophiliac rapist?! And when the news came out that he’d been arrested, I laughed for a week.

I didn’t know the night I was raped that was going to happen, but it sure as fuck didn’t hurt my case for being psychic as far as I am concerned.

The point is, that night I did whatever I had to do, to survive. I became the sexual deviant they wanted, I was the siren, the little girl, whatever I needed to be, I became, so I could survive a night, I was certain I wasn’t meant to survive.

The difference between then and now is vast. I don’t have to be the crazy girl to survive. I don’t have to be a little girl, a girlfriend, a wife, or a fucking wifey, God save me from that disgusting, gross, littling fucking term.

Now, I get to be who “I” want to be, who I choose to be. That’s the power in sharing your story. It releases you from the chains that hold you back, it changes the game and puts a spotlight on what the abusers did to you, instead of what you did to survive.

I never thought anyone would care about what was done to me, but recently I was made aware that I have no idea which parts of my story will resonate with someone, and I think that’s a really powerful journey to be on.

People have told me that I am a part of their healing journey, they’ve called me a teacher, and told me flat out, that my voice – of all voices in the world – deserves to be heard, by at least some people.

Not everyone is going to resonate with my story, not everyone is going to care. Some people are going to play “I had it worse,” or “You have too much trauma for me to function around you.”

For so long, I built chaos around myself because that was the only way I knew how to function. Now I have the ability to open doors, I can take opportunities. I can build opportunities for myself that I never in a million years thought would be possible.

And the craziest part is that I am not even the first person to say that. I’m not even the ten thousandth person to say that.

So many people before me have said “It can be done,” and “You can build a life of purpose and joy, simultaneously,” and it wasn’t that I didn’t believe it, it’s that in my case, none of the doors they were offering, led me out of the darkness.

It wasn’t I read The Tao of Wu by RZA, and handed a copy of that particular book to one of my rapists that I found a way to escape. I had to tell my story. I had to put my story on the line, so that I could break the cycle, if not for the others, at the very least for myself.

I went back, after I was raped, repeatedly, to talk to my rapists, to talk it out, to hear what they had to say, if anything, and all I got in return was threats, and reminders that they were weak pathetic little boys who had grown into vile, disturbing men, who were perfectly okay with being rapists.

They just weren’t okay with being called out on it. That’s not my problem. If you’d wanted me to tell a different story, you should have treated me better.

Sending all my love,