SLUT walk 2013

"I love the cause. I hate the name."
That's what BJ said when I told him I was going to Slutwalk, SLC this year.

I was scared.

Do I even have a right to call myself a survivor?
Nobody blamed the way I dressed for the way Larry treated me... It was just his right as my husband.
That old belief. That old fucked up idea. That stupid thing repeated to me by well-meaning (and ignorant) people just keeps hanging around. Even though I know it's stupid, fucked up, irrational, and NOT TRUE, it comes back to haunt me regularly.

Being there, with other survivors and supporters and advocates, was an incredibly emotional experience. It also showed me that although I am better off than I ever dreamed possible, I am not yet where I want to be.

Seeing her. I wanted to cry. Pretty damn good way of displaying the voicelessness I have felt.

The sign behind me: awesome.

Sign making.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign. I know what I wanted it to say, but I felt too scared to write that and then carry it around. I borrowed someone else's sign.

This is a very powerful project. Victims of abuse: sexual, physical, and emotional as well as secondary survivors (those who know someone who is a survivor of abuse) made T-shirts. Seemed like it could be a very healing thing.

This was my favorite shirt. I HEALED! I will be silent no more!

The Clothesline Project

I wondered if these little girls understood what they were protesting. To some extent, they did. "My body is mine. No one has a right to touch it without MY permission. And if they do, it isn't my fault!"

There were a lot of men and secondary survivors there. I felt grateful for the secondary survivors in my life: The ones that wouldn't give up on me and KNEW I could heal from the abuse.

Some of the signs. It seemed like a very healing thing for a lot of people. Maybe next year I'll be ready to hold up a sign.

This sign broke my heart. PLEASE, let's change things, so no more children have to deal with this.

In memory of those who didn't survive.

There were a LOT of people walking.

I'm still not a "proud survivor", but I would like to be some day.

There were several business where the people came out and clapped and cheered as we walked by. I didn't expect that... I still feel a lot of shame. It was good to see that not everyone believes it was my fault, or that I should keep silent. Some people cheer for the survivors who won't be silent anymore.

I couldn't bring myself to make a sign, so I just signed the poster. I got an eyebrow raise from BJ, "'What you did was not okay!'? NO!!! What he did was fucking SICK, but if that's all your ready to put out there, then that is enough."

My life wasn't his to give, but he gave it to me anyway

My last entry was about my own suicidal thoughts and feelings. BJ pointed out that I could have said so much more. He's right of course...

I tell the rest of this story VERY CAREFULLY.
Please stop reading if you are dealing with your own depression or suicidal thoughts. I don't mean to be triggering, but this could be.

I don't tell this story lightly. There was definitely a time that living for other people kept me alive, and I am grateful for that. I don't know what would have happened if the timing hadn't been perfect. I don't have to know, because the timing was perfect. I'm not giving advice - only telling you MY experience.

On with my story:

I had felt suicidal for as long as I can remember, but when I was 29, I became a different kind of suicidal. I don't know why it happened when it did. I know some of the things leading up to it, but for whatever reason, my brain broke. I can't think of a better way to put it. I felt shattered, broken into a million pieces. I was in so much pain: physical, emotional, mental... every single second felt eternally, despairingly, painfully long. Flashbacks. Weeks and with NO sleep. When I did sleep, nightmares. Pseudo-seizures. Crazy thoughts. Dissociation. Pain so intense - there really are no words to describe it. I wanted the pain to end, and I saw no end in sight.

It was kind of like I had to experience ALL of the pain of being abused. All of the pain that I hadn't been strong enough to feel when it happened, I felt in those few months. Years and years of being used, abused, raped, and beaten... experienced all at once. I eventually got through it all, but in the middle, I didn't know if it would ever end.

 I didn't want to stress anyone out or hurt anyone with my pain, so I hid it as much as I could. BJ convinced me to share with him and to talk to him. I'd try to smile, but he'd look deeper. He saw the pain even when I was trying to protect him from it. He created a safe space on the floor (at the time beds and homes weren't safe. Too triggering.) I'd curl up in a ball and he would sit with me for hours. In the worst of it, I'd hear myself crying, "I just want to go home. Please..." He understood that "home" meant heaven or God or someplace without suffering. Death felt like the only way out.

He'd tell me I needed to stay... How lonely he would be if I died. How sad. How much I meant to him. I kept on living, so he wouldn't be lonely. I kept on suffering, so he wouldn't feel sad. And then one day, he stopped saying that.



Instead of begging me to live, he said, "Jen, I love you. I want you to stay alive. SO MUCH. But I won't be selfish. I won't ask you to live for me anymore. This is your life, and your choice."

At first, this thought scared me. If I wasn't living for him, how could I stay alive? If I wasn't living for other people, what reason did I have to live?

I almost said, "Okay. I'm done," but I didn't, because I also felt excitement. Hope. No one had ever told me it was my life before. No one had ever given me permission to live or to die... My life wasn't his to give me... but he gave it to me anyway. MY life? MY choice? What did that even mean?

I had spent every second of everyday worrying about, thinking about, and considering what everyone else needed or wanted. I analyzed and tried to anticipate everyone's needs. I'm not saying I succeeded at my endeavors to take care of everyone, but I never stopped trying. Somehow, he was able to show me that I didn't have to live like that.



The pain didn't go away. Everything was still just as intense, but I felt a sense of peace. If it ever got to be "too much", I had permission to end it. It was MY life. MY choice. It seemed whenever I was faced with the choice after that, I WANTED to live. The freedom to choose death finally gave me the freedom to choose life.

It's my life, and DAMMIT, if I'm going to live, I'm going to LIVE!

It's suicide prevention week.
I spent most of my life (29 out of my 33 years) feeling suicidal. "Suicidal Ideation" is what the professionals called it. Suicide sounded like a good idea. I dreamed of my death every single day. I prayed for it every single night. I hoped it would come, and on many days I planned for it. I attempted it once. I lived through it - in part because I immediately started throwing up. Apparently, although I didn't want to live, and didn't believe I deserved to live, my body decided something else. I also tried starving myself, and an addiction to exercise... somehow I survived those too. I'm pretty darn lucky.

I've sat here trying to think of what I would want someone like me to know. The only thing I can think of to say is, "LIVE!"

I wanted to die, because mostly, I felt like I was already dead. I was still breathing, but I wasn't living. I was doing what I thought other people wanted me to do. I was being who I thought other people wanted me to be. Looking back, I can say I barely even existed. That is no way to live... and something deep down inside of me knew it. That is the part of me that kept telling me to either LIVE or DIE. (I'm not a black and white thinker... at all.)

A while ago, I was talking to a friend. He was suicidal. He thought his death would end the craziness he felt, and he figured if he died, he wouldn't have to live with disappointing others. Since I had felt that so strongly myself, I had words that were helpful.

"You go through life trying to make everyone else happy. And then one day, you say, 'I can't live like this anymore!' What do you do? Do you end your life? Or is there another option? For me, at one point I just decided, it's my life, and if I'm going to live, DAMMIT I'm going to LIVE! It's my life, and I can't live it for anyone else anymore."

It sounds strange now... I thought I was selfish. I thought I was SUPPOSED to live my life for everyone else... In fact, that is one of the things that kept me alive for so long. I wasn't willing to put my sister through the hell of my death. I'm glad I had that bond with her, because it kept me alive long enough to find myself.  There came a point where even living for her wasn't enough to keep me breathing. There came a moment when I had to love myself enough to live for me.

I understand feeling sad. I understand feeling overwhelmed. I understand wanting out and away from all the hell. I also know what it feels like to find ME. I know how good life can be.

So, my advice is simple. Find a way to survive today, because tomorrow (or sometime in the future) will be worth living for. My life is nothing like I thought it "should" be, and everything that I want it to be.

Just because they didn't take the handful of pills DOES NOT mean they are hurting any less.

My heart hurts today. Yesterday, one of my favorite people decided to end her own life. Luckily, she shared her plan on facebook, and there were way too many of us to let her just go. (Facebook has a way to report suicide threats. As well as a link to Suicide Hotlines all over the world.) Her father got to her and got her to the hospital. She's been in the ICU on a breathing machine, but is now breathing on her own.

My heart hurts for the friend that was hurting so much that she saw no better way. My heart hurts for how hard she's fought, and how close I came to losing my friend. My heart just hurts.

I spent the day with another friend who has been really struggling for a while. She's suicidal and depressed, and watching Kate go through all this is only adding to her struggle. I know that just because she hasn't taken the pills, doesn't mean she isn't hurting just as much. Kate's getting the love and support, because people KNOW what is going on, but other friends are not. And I'll say it again:

Just because they didn't take the handful of pills DOES NOT mean they are hurting any less. They need to be heard, to be loved, to be accepted just as much. My hope is that one day, everyone will have someone who will listen to them, love them, and accept them BEFORE it gets to this point. Kate's father went to her house when she was nearly dead, but she had told her parents for months that she was hurting. She had been trying to get them to see her, to give her the love she so desperately needed, but they wouldn't hear. (I know... there comes a point when you have to just say, "Who cares what my parents think, and go on living without their love, but that just sucks. No one should HAVE to do that.) I don't think she realized how many friends around the world she has. How many people she has touched. How many people REALLY love her. Here are some of the things her friends have posted in the last two days:

"So very sad and worried tonight about a friend who tried to take her own life today simply because she is told over and over that she can't be her wonderful self. This madness has got to stop. If you are the praying type, please pray for my friend, Kate. If you are not the praying type--positive thoughts and energy. What is wrong with our society when people think they are better off dead then being GLBT? She is in ICU."

And one more:

"Struggling today. A wonderful woman tried to end her life yesterday. She is a lesbian, and her family has been taught by their church that she less of a person because of that. And consequently treat her as less of a person because of that. They "love the sinner", which may sound okay at first blush, but at it's core is a judgmental statement, which automatically denigrates the person it's directed at.

One of her last posts before she went and took a double handful of pills stated that she wished she could be straight, because then maybe her mother and father would love her. Doesn't exactly sound like someone who *chose* to be gay, does it?

My heart hurts for her, and for all those in her position, who are rejected either tacitly or outright by friends and family because of their religious beliefs. It's almost 2012 people. Can we finally shrug off the 2000 year old prejudices? Can we simply love and accept people for who they are inside? Stop the judgement. Stop the hate. Stop the inequality. As a parent, I simply cannot fathom rejecting my children for who they are, or who they're attracted to.

This change isn't coming quickly enough for some..."

And one that took a lot of courage to share,

"For those who may or may not know, I have officially resigned from the LDS church. I haven't really talked about it publicly. One of the key triggers in my apostasy, or enlightenment, depending on your point of view, was Prop 8. I am not gay but a staunch supporter of the Constitution and basic human rights. I am a member/participant of a few post/exMormon groups. Today, a friend I met in one of these groups posted her suicide farewell on FB shortly after posting the following: "I just wish I was straight My Mum and Dad would love me if I were straight." She made it to the hospital but has been recently moved to the ICU. I'm deeply saddened and my emotions are spent as I've been following all day on pins and needles.

I refuse to allow my children to be raised with the "Better dead clean, than alive unclean" religious moral mentality. May we love our family & friends for who they ARE and not who we believe they should be."

Today, I am crying for all those that are hurting. I am smiling for all those that can see and are making changes. I'm crying for all those that don't understand the pain they are causing. I'm smiling for the progress I have made.

I've been through this before with other friends. I've called the police. I've shown up on a doorstep and insisted they go to the hospital. I've sat on the phone across the country talking someone out of taking their own lives. I didn't write about any of those things, because back then, I was barely hanging on myself.  For the first time in my entire life, I am not wishing it was me that was dying. Death (or near death or talk of suicide) has always triggered me. I didn't realize why until today, when this isn't triggering me. I dreamed of dying. I felt jealousy whenever someone else got to do it, and I didn't. And then I felt crazy for wanting to die. Who gets jealous of death?

Those feelings have changed. I can be here and present with those that are hurting, because I'm not looking for my own way out. Now, I can say, "It gets better. Just hang in there. I know it hurts. I know it seems like there is no better way, but there is."

It really does get better.

What's changed?

My youngest brother started reading my blog. He decided to start at the beginning, which was two and a half years ago. A LOT has happened in my life since then. I started this blog because I had been writing in "The Crap Journal" for Paul. It was dark and hard and AWFUL. It had all of the flashbacks, body memories, thoughts, urges, pains, everything that I had never shared with anyone. It was intense. I filled the whole journal, and wasn't quite sure where to go next. I started keeping a private blog.

I let Bishop C and BJ read the private blog, but it was a little TOO much for C.
I wanted a place where I could be ME. Like the intro to the blog says, I spent so much time hiding and pretending, I wanted just a little corner of the world where I was more me.
At the beginning of my own journey, I desperately wanted to know that someone else had been through what I was going through and not only survived, but was actually happy. I searched, but only found one blog. PTSD and Me. It was helpful. He talked about pseudo-seizures as part of the trauma response. SO helpful to have a name for what I was experiencing. I didn't even care that part of the name was pseudo... Still, I wanted a story closer to my own. I had been raped. Over and over. And never even known it.

I wanted so bad to hear someone's story that had made it through being abused: sexually, physically, and emotionally, I decided I would be that person. Whenever I REALLY wanted to give up, I'd picture someone else who had been raped finding my blog. They'd read about my journey, they'd know I could understand their pain, and then they'd read about how I was happy, alive, and good.

The truth is, in my effort to be uplifting to others, the beginning of this blog didn't even begin to touch on the pain of the fight. I wouldn't use the word rape, but that is what happened to me. Because I was raped, hit, and emotionally beaten down, I dreamed of dying. I planned for it. Hoped for it. Wanted it so bad. I had other people convinced that it might be better for me to die. I would go days and days with NO sleep and weeks with very little sleep. For HOURS at a time, I would lay in my bed with my whole body seized up - every muscle tense and my thoughts racing, as I relived being raped or thrown across the room in a rage. There were times I thought I would die from the physical pain. Sometimes, the flashbacks and memories were so intense, I'd have bruises on my arms and legs - in the same places I had been bruised during the abuse.

I felt panicked ALL the time. I spent many nights under a trailer on the street, or behind a church, because the house was SO frightening and upsetting to me. I slept at my office often, because there was no bed and I was totally alone. I was less afraid to be alone in the street or at my office than in my home. I understood why people would become homeless. I actually feel pretty lucky that I never ended up there.

In some ways, its hard to remember how bad things were. Its all SO different now.

Justin's question brought all of this back. Back then, I went to church and hated myself. I had the hardest time with eating disorder and self-harm urges on Sundays. I'd sit in meetings and shake. Then I'd walk for hours and hours trying to run from something, and I didn't even know what.

BJ told me to stop going, because it made me miserable.He told me to stop forcing myself to do things I didn't want to do. He could see that I was being triggered just by being forced to do something. It felt like rape, so the flashbacks would start, and I would spend the rest of the week trying to recover. Then I'd go back on Sunday, and lose my mind all over again.

I knew divorce wasn't an option in the church. As a woman, I covenanted to obey my husband. And yes, he was supposed to obey God, but who was I to judge when he was obeying God's will? I didn't have a right to question the priesthood authority. And I knew I was supposed to go to church, serve, give, love, and everything would work. It just wasn't working.

I spent countless hours on lds.org. I read EVERY article I could find on abuse, marriage, relationships, depression, addictions. And there was so little that gave me hope. Most made me feel more hopeless. They all talked about how abuse was wrong, but... what was the victim of abuse supposed to do? Go to the temple, pray, read the scriptures, and love her spouse no matter what. If you've done all of those things, then what??

I started reading about abuse outside of the church. What is abuse? What is aggressive communication?
I started to see that almost everything said at church is aggressive communication. (Telling others what they should do. Saying "good" people do this. "Nice" people do that. etc.)

EVERYTHING was to tell people what to do, when to do it, how to do it, and how to feel while they are doing it.I was reading books telling me not to let anyone speak to me in that way, but then I would willingly go to a meeting where mere acquaintances could talk to me that way? It didn't make much sense.

I started reading what most professionals tell a person in an abusive relationship to do: GET OUT!
Then why did the church tell people to stay? And go to the temple more? And read the scriptures? And serve their spouse? And not be selfish?? Often those things TRAIN an abuser to continue to be abusive.

I listened to people at church. I watched others be abused by members of the church - using church teachings to justify her abuse. Just like Larry did. Just like many in my life had. It wasn't just MY experience. My therapist tried to tell me it was just me, but I knew he was wrong. It wasn't just me, and it wasn't my fault!

I started asking questions. I started admitting to myself and others that I had never felt the beautiful confirmation that the Book of Mormon was true. I had never had the answer that Moroni promised. I had felt angry and nothingness when reading the scriptures. I TRIED, but...

Still, I knew all the words to say, I'd been taught how to bare testimony, even if I had never felt it for myself. I stopped pretending to believe. And I stopped blaming myself. If I didn't get the answer, maybe it wasn't because I wasn't good enough. Maybe it was because it wasn't true: the church wasn't what it claimed to be. Or it just wasn't right for me. I didn't know, but I stopped taking the blame for everything. I also stopped taking the blame for my abusive (now ex) spouses. Being raped wasn't my fault.Being beaten was not my fault. Being told I was wrong and crazy and delusional and under satan's control had NOTHING to do with me. None of that was my fault!

When I stopped taking the responsibility for my lack of testimony, everything else just started to fall into place. In a really good way.

I'd fought for so long to find relief, and suddenly, the fear and the guilt weren't ruling me like before.

The final piece came the last time I went to church. I hadn't been for a few months. In January, Bishop C had finally convinced me to stop coming. He'd arranged to have the sacrament brought to me at home, but that never quite worked out. I was too embarrassed to have them come, and then try to explain why I was perfectly healthy but not at church. In April, ward boundaries changed, and I got a new bishop. I went to church once, because Bishop M asked me to come back, but I hated it!

A few weeks later, Justin was singing in church. I went to his ward to accompany him. (I still love accompanying him when he sings!) I have always felt miserable during the sacrament. This time, I looked at it, and thought, "I don't want it."

All at once, I realized I really didn't want it, but when you're taught that is what you SHOULD want... and you don't want it. What do you think about yourself? I thought I was bad, and I needed to change me to want it. EVERY time they passed the bread and water, I felt sick with the knowledge that I didn't want it, and that made me bad, so I'd try to change me to be good, but I couldn't. I couldn't make myself want that.

That day, I let it pass me by. With the full knowledge that I didn't want it, and I didn't have to take it.
And that was okay.

I've never really looked back.

Many in my family think I will come back when I have healed, or when I find love for myself, or... They don't understand that I just don't want to be there. Its not good for me, and as I heal, I grow farther and farther away.

I know its hard for them to understand. They love the church. They find peace and friendship and hope there. I'd compare it to ketchup. Most people love ketchup on their hamburgers. I do NOT. I think its nasty. Jalapenos? Those I love, but I understand that a lot of people do NOT like them. That's okay.

I'm not sure if I've made any sense, but I hope this answers your questions.

Prayers for Bobby

I saw the move, Prayers for Bobby, and was so impressed by Mary Griffith's journey, I started reading the book that night.

The book is a compilation of journal entries from Bobby, a gay young man who committed suicide at age 20, and his mother's thoughts. She was a fundamentalist Christian who called her gay son to repentance daily. He wrote daily of his hatred for himself and who he was. He vacillated between pleading with God to change him and cursing God for leaving him alone. He stopped writing in his journal a week before he jumped off a freeway overpass. No one knows exactly what caused him to jump that day.

His mother, Mary, has become an activist for gay and lesbian youth, and her only mission is to tell children "Don't give up on love." I loved reading her journey to find herself.

She was a traditional 1950's wife and mother. Bobby's death turned her into an assertive, strong, activist. In the end of the book, she said, "I'm no longer afraid."

I cried through most of the book. I felt Bobby's self-hatred and sadness. I felt Mary's confusion, anger, and helplessness. Her journey introduced her to many suicidal youth, and each of their stories brought me great sadness.

I also felt anger at myself. I (like Mary) thought I was doing the right thing by pushing "traditional family values" on those around me. Reading this, I want to get more involved and help change attitudes of those around me.

a life worth living

Something amazing happened today. I went to dinner at my parents' house. (That's not the amazing part, what comes next is the amazing part.) We all moved to the living room and hung out on the couches. When I left, I wasn't freaking out. I wasn't in pain. I wasn't in a place where I had to then go walking, or crying, or... I left calm.

As I was driving home, Dann called. He said that at first, he couldn't put his finger on the difference in me. Then he realized, it was the way I was sitting. On the couch in my parents' home, I sit and shake, or I cross my legs into what is commonly called "the pretzel" trying to hide my anxiety and my pain.

Today, I didn't. I sat like a normal person. I can sit like a normal person. Even if its hard and I go crazy inside my head, I can force myself to sit normal. This wasn't like that. This was just me... being relaxed...


As I drove, I cried. Happy tears. I have worked SO hard. I have fought for so long. All I've wanted is a few moments of peace, a few moments without pain, a few moments where I can just BE. I have fought so hard for THIS, and THIS is here. I'm not sure if anyone who has not been through this could understand, and it amazes me.

I didn't know if I could survive the hell I have been through, and I never dared to believe that life could be better. I have dreamed of, and thought about, and planned for death everyday of my life... for as long as I can remember. My death brought me more peace than anything. And then I'd feel guilty, because what kind of person thinks like that? But dying was the only way I could see out. If I just hung in there, eventually, I would get to die and be done.

I don't know when it happened, but I realized it last week. I don't think about dying anymore. Not ever. I find hope and comfort in living. I find hope and comfort in knowing who I am and what I can do, and... for the first time ever I feel positive enough about life to not need anything but life.

I've often referred to things in my life as "Miraculous Shit", because most people would not see what has happened in my life as miraculous, but I know better. I know that many people who have gone through what I've gone through don't survive, and definitely don't ever find a life worth living. I have, and I am.

thank You.

A reminder

Paul said something yesterday that really touched me. I told him that I have been feeling suicidal, but its been different than I used to feel.

It used to be that I longed for relief. I longed to get away from the pain and the heartache, and death seemed like the only answer. Then I would think about Mellen, or Dann, or even Bishop Johnons. I knew it would hurt them if I died - especially from suicide. I know that devestates people.

Lately, its been that I should do the world a favor, and die. I just make life difficult for everyone. No one wants me around. I am just a burden. If I die, they might be sad for a little while, but then they will be able to get over it much quicker than if I stick around.

Paul pointed out that those thoughts were placed there by an evil spirit. That evil does not want me to survive, because the truth is, The world needs to hear what I have to say. I need to do the world a favor and survive this crap, and then share with others how to overcome.

That meant a lot to me. I was reminded of the day 12 years ago in the ER. I just knew I was meant for great things, and I couldn't let ED run my life anymore. I knew the Lord had a grand plan for me in this life. So, I got over all of the ED behaviors.

And I believe that everything that has happened in the past two years has been part of His plan too. I look forward to overcoming, so I can share my story... Maybe write a book like Paul suggests.