For the last three months I have been a regular writer at Elephant Journal. I am not going to lie and say I'm getting rich. Though I've been among the top eight writers (the only ones who get a guaranteed pay out) for three months in a row - the pay is crap. I mean total crap. I've made less than $25 an article. Some are getting paid $5 an article. Most are paid nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
Most sites don't pay writers much or at all and if they do, in exchange, they pummel readers with ads. This is not a piece about lousy pay rates and starving writers though. That is a larger topic and not at all unique to Elephant Journal.
What is unique to Elephant Journal and ACEs Connection, too, is allowing and encouraging writers to express truthfully and honestly about topics often considered taboo.
Trauma. Neglect. Sexual abuse. PTSD.
This is radical, life-affirming and life-changing. Maybe even life-saving.
Life-saving is better than dollar bills.
Truth-telling is what motivates many writers. But some truths are easier to share than others.
I write most about post-traumatic stress and being a survivor of sexual violence and childhood abuse and parental abandonment.
Despite how common it is to be a post-traumatically stressed high-ACE scoring adult with long-term and lifelong impact from violence and neglect, there is still very little understanding of these issues and talk about these subjects.
Anywhere.
In homes or families, in publications or in doctor's offices.
It's still a cringe-fringe-wince topic that makes many uncomfortable.
No one thinks I'm generally happier, more employable and a better date after finding out my history. They should, because I'm gritty as hell, tough as shit and can laugh at most anything.
But there's still stigma about being out as a survivor.
I push through it because breaking silence, challenging shame and helping people feel not alone is a balm for the writer and readers.
I am glad to have a platform to write openly and honestly today.
"You should write for paying markets," one writer said to me.
"Yeah, but I wouldn't be able to write on these topics," I said. It's true. Every once in a while I write for better pay, to make sure I can. And then I return to activism.
Because I know this: It's still not easy to be out as a survivor.
And I know this.
I almost died of silence. I couldn't understand as a young adult how I'd ever make love, have a family or manage post-traumatic stress. I wasn't sure it was possible. In fact, I was sure it was impossible.
I was so damn wrong. This is something every survivor needs to know.
Even though most prefer we keep our traumatic experiences to ourselves, it does not help us - only them - if we're quiet.
I'll take any microphone that will let me speak.
Finding people willing to publish even work done for free is not easy.
Being allowed to write about trauma, abuse, recovery and healing from various angles again and again and again is a gift and I am grateful.
It gives me and other survivors something rare:
- The ability to speak for myself.
- Direct access to other survivors.
This is groundbreaking.
Refreshing.
Necessary.
Rare.
We can share about the hell of kicking Klonopin or Paxil, or parenting while triggered, or telling a lover about our family of origin.
We can talk about childbirth or menopause and what it does to anxiety or depression. We can share tips on getting through holidays.
We can tell each other to go read Childhood Disrupted by Donna Jackson Nakazawa, and how validating it is to know we don't just suck at being human.
Often we don't need solutions or fixes but just to be able to be real.
So while I don't like struggling to pay my bills, I like something else even less.
Silence. Hiding. Shame. Secrecy.
As a high-functioning trauma survivor who could "pass for normal", I often felt phony, unable to be real or relaxed or myself.
I don't feel that way any longer.
I feel real, transparent and honest.
"You're aging backwards," my friend Kathy said yesterday. "You look better than you ever have."
She's not talking muscle tone, hair styles or skin care.
"I feel so inhabited," I said.
"You look unburdened," she said.
"I feel more open," I said (though I admitted to feeling scattered and too busy too). This is because of the work I've done but also the community I've found.
I don't feel alone.
It makes me brave. I no longer write, talk or live around the edges of my truth.
I feel like just another human.
I used to avoid conversations about fathers because mine, if alive, is alcoholic and homeless.
I used to feel unfeminist and guilty for wishing my own mother was more protective, loving, traditionally maternal - even though it was true and even as I get why that wasn't possible for her.
I didn't want to say what it was like to be abused by my step-family even though the experience shaped me. If I did talk, I did it in therapy, where I paid someone a $100 an hour just to listen to me. But honestly, that gave me the feeling that this is so bad only someone I pay a C-spot can bear it.
I talked and wrote and lived around my past, my feelings and my truth.
I felt outside of myself, my life and soul.
Silence seeps life force energy. Shame prevents joy and ease and feeling honest.
But it wasn't and isn't always possible to be out as a survivor.
I have needed the words of others to be an umbrella that I cling to and read and hide under when I had nothing of my own to protect me.
Not because I was too afraid to speak up (though sometimes I was) -- but because interpersonal violence and developmental trauma and neglect are topics people have a hard time "liking" or even tolerating.
There are topics people are afraid of. People are afraid of identifying as or with survivors even now.
Or worse. People stigmatize, shame, blame or further traumatize survivors.
Developmental trauma is the curdling of life-giving milk that soured rather than nurtured our infant, toddler or child selves. We fed on pain, and we survivors understand having to swallow what tasted bad and made us sick when the other option was to go hungry.
We know sometimes the choices are bad and worse.
We know we are not met with compassion all of the time. Sometimes silence is better than the alternative: Rage. Persecution. Further traumatization.
When I think about the women who came forward to speak about being raped or drugged by Bill Cosby I want to cry. They were belittled, attacked, questioned, doubted and disbelieved.
Until and only until what? Until Cosby's own words damned him and "credited" them. Before that time, they weren't worthy of being believed. The benefit of doubt goes to the perpetrator just about always. Survivors know and have often experienced this unfair truth.
Survivors have to recover from violence but also the way we are treated and regarded in the aftermath of violence. Traumatic stress is amplified rather than ameliorated.
It is rare to have spaces to share openly and honestly about the reality of having survived trauma, abuse and sexual.
It's also medicinal, healing and groundbreaking. The truth is that the more we are welcome to talk and share about our past reality the more joy and space we feel to inhabit the present.
This process is accelerated when we can relate, inspire and validate one another. We can comment, text, or pick up the phone and hear and be heard. We can text: "Can you stand the Duggar case or the Cosby coverage?"
And for all of this to happen unmediated by a therapist or support group or anyone speaking for us or telling us what we need is fabulous and saves boatloads of cash.
Humans require solidarity and peer-to-peer knowing and sharing and relating.
This very basic telling truth and story telling has been lacking in our family life and societal communing. I learned in writing workshops with Nancy Slonim Aronie how wonderful it was to share stories and not be asked to sit at a "too-triggering table", but to just share words.
It changed my life and made me feel hopeful. I realized I would not have to only work on the me I would present but learn how to be the me I am. I didn’t have to forever weigh what or if or where it was okay to share, but to just go with the truth. This had never been an option.
It’s becoming more possible and easy. As a columnist I get to share online and people can feel more real too, for free. That’s fortifying.
I'm glad to be a part of this silence-breaking movement.
We are starting to find and believe in ourselves and each other.
There is nothing more beautiful and sacred than breaking silence and telling the truth about our humanity.
We have incredible stories that are gripping, interesting and worthy of being told.
We are finding our survivor voices and using them. We are getting brave enough to start sharing. We
appreciate being listened to, respected and heard.
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