*Warning this is a blog post where I get really real and let you into my very guarded world. If you like your perception of me, and don’t want to see me in a different light that I don’t suggest you continue reading. Skip to the next blog post.
Hey,
This is maybe not the best timing but I have had a few days of some really intense days with my own thoughts and I hope this helps me. My therapist thinks it will help me and my therapist says their no time like the present and I usually listen to him so this is about to get a little real but here it goes.
So...where were we?
I finished with teaching my roommate how to drive and have since heard that he passed his permit exam and is on his way to being a fully licensed driver. Kudos to that guy but how scary is it that there's someone out there on the road ways that was taught by none other than me? Hahaha suckers…
I also got my very first (and probably very last) tattoo. Now. For those that know my family this may come as a shock since the rule growing up and still currently is that if the Allen kids want to stay in the will and to be invited back for any holidays you can't have two things: toe rings or tattoos.
Dad and Mom are old school and this was the rule. We could come back with a crazy gothic boyfriend or say we joined a band and was dropping out of school to backpack through Asia and we most likely wouldn't get their automatic blessing, there would be a definite sit down and come to Jesus moment to be had but we wouldn't be shunned automatically. The other 2 though...all bets were off.
So why the big rebellious move? It wasn't to stick it to my parents. This wasn't and will never be about them. It's tough growing up. Life is hard. I grew up very blessed and very safe and had nice things. But life has a funny way of forcing you to grow up the hard way. And I am a very sensitive person. I feel all the feels for real all the time. I cry and I hurt when I should let feelings go but I wear my heart on my sleeve. It's been quite the ride these past 6 years since I moved away from the daily routine of high school and my very comfortable life living at home. Lots of downs. Lots of ups too. I moved across the country. Twice. I made friends. I lost even more. I was rejected by schools, jobs and internships and even by professors/mentors/coaches saying I wouldn't make it or wasn't good enough for x,y,z, etc because of a,b,c etc.
And I have been hiding from myself and others for a long time. Shortly before I moved away to UC Davis, I went to my first high school party. I got brave and lied about where I was going and things got out of hand and some decisions were made that were rather poor. I was sexually assaulted. I left that party a different person, scarred and frightened but quietly I got out and didn't tell anyone what had happened. Little did I know that pushing it away and pretending that nothing happened wouldn't solve my problems. If anything they worsened as time went on. I told my closest friend and she told me to get help. I brushed it off and said that it was partly my own fault and there wasn't anything to do and that I wouldn't. And so I became a very unhappy, conflicted person. I turned to toxic things to distract myself. Through time and some random therapy attempts but mostly dealing with it on my own I was alright. I told a few close friends if I felt like I needed to but otherwise it was my little, dirty, dark secret that I was ashamed of.
And then I had a very close friend get attacked and raped at her school. I was heart broken for her but because I felt that I had let her down. I somehow led her to her demise because I was also assaulted and tried to run from it and pretend it didn’t happen. But because of my story she did what I never could. She reported it. And that terrible human got what he had coming and she broke his nose but not without leaving her permanently affected and not for the better. If I could go back I would have done things with my own story differently. I would haven’t had that last drink. I wouldn’t have stayed out. I would have gone home. I would have told. I would have prosecuted. But I didn’t. And these are the cards I was dealt and the outcome is the outcome. I can’t change that. But don’t think for one second that I think all victims are the same or that girls shouldn’t come forward. I also know that some girls use it as a means of revenge. Look up the case concerning UC San Diego students recently. But also know that I do think and know that there is a very sickening rape culture in today’s world and not many people are able to comprehend that perpetuating it is happening daily. But not teaching our girls to protect themselves isn’t right either. I knew the dangers but only like that of a person understanding that yes, getting on in a car could mean it could potentially crash but it most likely won’t happen to me. I didn’t think it would. And here I am. It unfortunately happens much more than we realize. And we have to educate both sexes.
Coming out with my story has been something that my therapists have suggested to do since the very first time I walked in to the counseling center 6 years ago. And it’s not easy. I’m crying writing this and I know it will change how many of my friends will see me. It’s human nature. My own family took it hard. And I can’t tell them how to grieve or how to feel. They blame themselves for not noticing or being there as I didn’t say anything sooner. But this was never about them. Ever. Nor will it ever be. And some of the comments when I do tell people are meant well but hurt more than they think. It’s not easy to understand or empathize with. And sometimes people ask questions or try to turn it around and bring it back to their own focus and about them and that’s not what I wanted or need to hear. I have my own reason and it’s not rational but I did what I did and that’s that. So it’s been rough but it’s ok. I had to tell them, this is me and like it or not I will own it if that means I can save one girl from experiencing the pain I did. And for those that I don’t want to tell in person, well I guess this is my way of avoiding having to do this more.
That’s what the tattoo is for. It’s a bouquet of California Poppy flowers and blue violets. My favorite flowers that have a couple of meanings for me. California poppies represent mourning and moving on and my original home. And because after the attack I spent a lot of time writing to my deceased grandfather, who we called Poppy, as I wasn’t able to tell anyone else yet. I know it seems silly but writing to him made sense to me and made it so I didn’t have to keep it all bottled up inside. Blue violets are the state flower of Illinois, my second home, and where I have grown into the young woman I think I want to be and to represent that I made out of the hardest thing I have ever done in my life this far. Moving to New York was easy because I did move to Illinois before that. But not only did I make it, I was successful and I proved everyone who told me no or doubted even for a second or said that I was the wrong choice that they were wrong. Really wrong. You know who you are. And I’ve got to tell you, I can do this. I’m still growing and learning but I’ve got this.
My family was definitely shocked that I got the tattoo. My siblings saw it first. My sister and brother were like “Ooooooh you’re in trouble. You’re dead. Dead dead dead. Dad’s going to freak. Nice, it’s Zane’s graduation weekend and we have to have a funeral too.” I tend to tell the little siblings about my secrets first. They hate that but so far they haven’t tattled yet. I end up telling anyway but they always keep my secrets. When I showed my parents my mom said nervously, “Have you shown your father yet?” And my dad just laughed at my tattoo said that it at least looked nice but that I was nuts for getting it because it’s permanent. And that the siblings were still not allowed to get one. So I’ll take that. I guess I’m still invited back for Christmas.
Please don’t think I am an unhappy person. I am a little lonely in New York and I miss my home, family and friends. But I’m ok now, a much better place than I was. I still live, and try to be spontaneous and I still enjoy my life and I don’t hide from going out or trying new things. It may be a defining moment in my life, a paradigm shift but it was not nor will never be all that I am. I still laugh and love. And please don’t pity me. I am not a survivor. I honestly hate that term. Abhor it. That should be reserved for people who beat cancer and are heroic. I am not. I am a girl who had a rather unfortunate event happen who is still working on figuring out what that means for the big picture and grand scheme of things. So don’t call me a survivor, or a victim or brave. I’m not. I just had someone take something from me that I wasn’t willing to give. And I’m doing what I can to be ok. And I think this will help me mourn a little and get to that ok place. I’ll figure it out eventually, with the right therapist and journaling, I’ll make it out just fine, I don’t need pity or sympathy. I am who I am, don’t be sorry for that. It took awhile, but I’m not sorry for who I am at all.
Here’s some links on how to talk or just be there for someone who went through a tragedy. It’s very common and it’s hard to know how to respond sometimes. But this is a good start on educating yourself for the possibility.
To be continued.
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