Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 65

I guess it's time I start calling myself a feminist...

Feminism is a funny word in my vocabulary. For as long as I can remember, "feminism" is defined as this crazy, radical idea that women are human beings, and should be treated as much...meaning they are entitled to the same rights and privileges as men. Can't say I disagree with that definition, but unfortunately, that's not what is commonly associated with "feminism" when people hear it today.

I've been in the church long enough to have heard the rants of evangelicals, accusing feminism as the great destroyer of families, usurping traditional male duties, etc. I don't buy into those. I think there have been some unexpected consequences of the feminist movement, such as teaching women to have sex "like men" (without strings), and as long as both genders can get away with it, then that's equality. Feminists, from a stereotypical standpoint, tend to be in favor of abortion, which I am most definitely not. I believe there is nothing more feminine than a mother wanting to protect her child, in the womb and out. Consequently, I've avoided the label of "feminist" because I didn't want to have assumptions made about me that weren't true.

If I call myself a feminist, the evangelicals will call me a heretic. If I don't call myself a feminist, the rest of the world will see me as anti-woman. Are those my only options? I hope not, because they kind of suck. Clearly one side of the spectrum, or perhaps both, is misinformed.

Yet here I am, crusading for advocacy against rape culture, and appealing to the minds of liberals and conservatives alike. In this, we are all equally vulnerable. So that leaves me to question my beliefs about what I think feminism is...and why I'm so apprehensive to call myself one. Because really, as a woman, there must be something fundamentally wrong with me if I can't identify as such.

I'm rereading Jonalyn Fincher's book "Ruby Slippers," which addresses the Christian approach to femininity and women's roles in the church (and it's fantastic, for those who haven't read it). Throughout history, Christianity and feminism have not gone well together. So it seems I have another hurdle to jump when it comes to reconciling my feminist opinions, because I subscribe to the teachings of a holy book with passages by the Apostle Paul that say women must not speak up in church. At the same time, the first witnesses to Jesus' empty tomb were women. In an age when a woman's testimony was considered worthless, why would the Gospel writers have named Mary Magdalene as the first witness, and not someone more credible? If the resurrection never happened, that's a bad way to try and convince people that it did.

If people are wrong about Christianity being a misogynistic religion, then I'm probably wrong about my reasons for avoiding calling myself a feminist.

Maybe, just maybe, people of all religious and political persuasions can agree that feminism is about discovering what it means to be female. How to be feminine in a society that favors men, and not see that as a weakness. How to maintain a healthy identity when fashion magazines try to sell us beauty in a package, when toddlers in tiaras are in such a hurry to grow up, but women in their thirties are desperate to look younger. Most importantly, maybe feminism is about how to feel like a "real woman" even if you don't have much in the way of curves, haven't had sex, aren't married, or in a relationship, and despise dressing up. Maybe it's about appreciating the differences of both genders, instead of trying to make them one and the same, because we're not the same. We're made differently, we think differently. Or maybe it's about trying to find that common ground.

So. Am I completely crazy, or might I be on to something?

Ask if you want, but you may not receive

I'm slowly starting to embrace this new introverted side of me. This is a fairly recent development, so part of me couldn't help wondering if it's a phase, or something permanent. Being that outgoing social butterfly who goes up to strangers introducing herself is no longer comfortable. Speaking in front of people doesn't come as easily as it used to...well, depending on the subject. There are some subjects I now denote too personal for discussion with people I've just met. When it comes to my books, though, I'm like a new mom showing off all 50+ pictures on my iphone of my baby in the exact same pose, thoroughly convinced she is the most adorably original creature anyone has ever seen.

There are some situations I'll have to get used to, like the dreaded "What do you want to do with your major?" question that everyone always asks at parties. It's my own fault, I know, for choosing something that makes people feel awkward. Or maybe it's God's fault for, as seminarians like to say, "Putting this calling on my heart." Explaining that I want to work with rape victims almost always shuts down conversation. I understand why, but there's not much I can do about it. Only on rare occasions have I been asked "And what made you want to do that kind of work?" I'll say "Personal experiences," and leave it at that. You don't get more of an explanation if you're not a close friend of mine. In that circumstance, it doesn't matter whether one is an introvert or not. There's healthy curiosity, and then there's a complete lacking of tact.

But then there's this other thing...this "OOOOH you grew up Jewish?! Tell me your whole life story RIGHT NOW!" In not quite those exact words, this has happened to me dozens of times, not including the time I've spent in seminary. And when this happens, my former self and new self collide. The old self wouldn't have so much of a problem with this. I confess, I was "that girl" who loved being the center of attention, and dropping the "I was raised Jewish" bomb in a Christian setting was always the best way to make that happen.

Now, it's different. Aside from trying to be more humble, I'm realizing -- shocker -- that I don't owe everyone who asks a detailed explanation, about anything. For one thing, it's exhausting to recount the majority of my life in under five minutes or so. For another, being barraged with questions (or so it feels) is even more exhausting. My life is a literal open book -- I don't regret writing one that answers all those questions -- and that's exactly why I wrote it. To let myself off the hook for having to explain everything...just read about it instead! (Shameless plug, I know)

Moreover, there's a certain "novelty status" that comes with being different. I'm starting to get a little sick of it, honestly. As a new introvert, being the target of personal questions, especially from strangers, freaks me out. If I want to put myself out there, I'll write a book or volunteer in some other way. I like the freedom of choice. I no longer revel in turning the tide of a social gathering because my background is suddenly the most interesting subject. But then, introverted or not, wouldn't that make anyone feel uncomfortable?

The moral of this story is this: feel free to ask whatever you want. But don't be offended if I decline to answer.

God takes crap and makes fertilizer

A timely excerpt about trials and forgiveness from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter:


     I wish I could say that the rest of my senior year was relaxing and relatively trial-free. The following verse from James became the theme of my last few months of college: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (1:2-4). Naturally, this verse did not sit well with me the first time I read it. Consider it joywhen facing trials? What kind of crazy logic is that? But setbacks are only setups for God to work. He makes all things work for the good of those who love him. The biggest trials we face are also where our calling for ministry can be found...
     As John was trying to convince me to fall back to our old ways the next time he’d return home, I also found out he was seeing someone else. To add further insult to an already gaping injury, the medium in which I discovered this information was Facebook. He couldn’t even tell me himself.
     That night started well enough. I had gone out to sing karaoke with the girls in my h2o bible study, and did not return until midnight. I now know better than to check my Facebook or email just before going to bed. That night was, without being melodramatic, the worst night of my life. I cried so hard I was dry-heaving and dizzy. When you find out that the man who has been a god-like figure in your life since you were seventeen is now in the arms of someone who isn’t you, it tends to wreck your world. Mine shattered instantaneously, and I’m still amazed at just how easy it was. 
     I realized that the timing of our inevitable downfall was actually in response to a prayer from the weekend before. I attended a women’s retreat with h2o and listened to a speaker talk about her struggle with a spiritually and emotionally damaging relationship in college. I felt as if she was addressing me personally. I perfectly understood the ugly cycle of giving in to the same old sin, even with the best of intentions to avoid it. I also understood the feeling of hopelessness that can lead to dangerous forms of compromise. 
     It was easy to stay in a relationship that was destroying me from the inside out because I firmly believed that was the best I’d ever have. In looking for a quick fix to my loneliness, I made a personal god out of a fellow human being who was incapable of fulfilling me. Even when I felt disrespected and worthless, I believed I could fix him when I couldn’t even fix myself. I remained convinced, despite warnings from Bethany and Anne, that the man I’d originally fallen in love with still lived somewhere inside him.
     I knew there was no way I could spend the night alone. Kaitlin was the first person I could think of to call, even though it was after midnight. The night I spent sobbing my guts out on her couch was the first time since accepting Christ that I felt so completely worthless. Even before my family found out about my faith, I don’t think I’d ever felt grief this big. This was a man I had known for half a decade, someone I loved with the depth of life itself, even if I was not being respected by him as a daughter of God should be.        What should have been only a five-minute walk from my dorm to her apartment took nearly half an hour because of all the snow I had to trudge through. By the time I made it to her place, I was a wreck and could barely stand up. We stayed up nearly all night, and I could not believe her when she told me how God would use this pain for glory someday. I could not believe her when she told me I deserved so, so much more than what I had settled for in a man. I felt that my self-worth was permanently shot to pieces, and no godly man would ever desire me as a girlfriend, much less a wife.  
     I needed to do a spring cleaning of my life more than ever, but even that could not be done completely on my own. I hardly ate, slept, or showered within the first week of my newfound “freedom” as an officially single woman. I thought that with enough prayer and support from close friends I could get through this, but I couldn’t. My mind was a broken record of all the things I should have done sooner, things I wish I’d said. 
     Eventually, I decided to get counseling so I could at least finish my senior year on a strong, healthy note. Sometimes I think it will be easier to forgive him than it will be to forgive myself. But I know there is no point in continually beating myself up. I know that the past cannot be changed or undone.
     Jesus’ attitude toward forgiveness never struck me as borderline insane until this moment. I had been hurt before, certainly, but never enough where the thought of forgiveness seemed completely impossible and ludicrous. To forgive someone who hurt me this deeply felt ridiculous and unnatural. It contradicted everything I know that is true about human nature. 
     But then, by sheer grace alone, I remembered how I became a Christian becauseof the fact that it is unnatural. Christianity calls its followers to rise above their natural condition, to be more than they could ever become on their own. It is completely counter-cultural, and the standards set by Jesus are often perceived as unrealistically high. His words about forgiving those who mistreat you have caused him to be labeled as crazy by many of his critics. But turning the other cheek is anything but a passive response. 
     Forgiving those that the world considers unredeemable is just one of many examples of embracing God’s vision for our lives. It is by no means a light and easy task, but it is necessary for healing. Many people equate forgiveness with excusing poor behavior, but the reality is that holding on to anger is emotionally crippling. It robs you of the chance to heal from tragedy. That’s not to say that it isn’t natural to grieve, but even now, while still grieving, I know that holding onto it for a lifetime and still hoping to heal is like gorging on cupcakes daily and still expecting to lose weight. Refusing to forgive someone who has wronged you only gives them permission to dominate your life. 
     Still, I continue to struggle with it every day. Some days are better than others, and then there are days I feel like I have fallen back to the hopeless pit I was stuck in before. Some days I have to force myself to pray even harder for the ability to choose life again. Hell hath no fury like the prayers of a broken-hearted woman.
     A song that is commonly sung in h2o services contains a verse that says “You make all things work together for our good.” That is another one of my favorite things about Christianity: the fact that no experience, good or bad, is ever wasted. As a friend of mine likes to say, God takes crap and makes fertilizer.

Off-the-market author on developing single characters

I've arrived at that strange turning point between perpetual adolescence and adulthood: my high school friends are getting engaged, some are having kids (or getting engaged after having kids). Since I myself am not there yet, it will be a while before I start writing any stories about women who are married or have kids. Imagination notwithstanding, I'm a fan of writing only what I know, for now. Never mind that "what I know" is constantly changing.

I've longed for a book that chronicles the life of a single twenty-something that doesn't make her a modern Cinderella, or a Sex and the City character. If such a book exists (and I'm sure it does somewhere), I've never read it, hence why I'm writing one. The idea of a 21st-century single woman evokes an image of Bridget Jones awkwardness, Zooey Deschanel adorable-ness, and Carrie Bradshaw promiscuity in my mind. I want a character who has fallen in love with the wrong person, made some mistakes, but doesn't want to be defined by them, or be consumed with molding herself into someone who's perfect for a man she hasn't met yet.

Not surprisingly, I'm writing about what my own life was like for most of college. But once I got the idea for this novel (the working title is "Public Displays of Convention"), I couldn't help but wonder: who will believe this story? I wonder this because the author has been in a relationship for the last year and a half. Still, I can't help but remember the countless times when older women reached out to me at the lowest points of my singlehood, when I'd hit rock bottom and felt like I'd be alone forever. They tried to encourage me, and I'd think bitterly to myself, You can't help me. You're happily married; you can't possibly remember what it was like to be where I am now. 

Well, I still remember very well. It wasn't too long ago -- barely two years, actually -- when I sincerely believed I'd be single for the rest of my life. Not because God told me so, but because I didn't think anyone would want me. Now I know I was wrong, but that doesn't mean I can't empathize with the pain of not knowing if it's meant to happen.

I don't want to create a character who gets a happy ending, though. I've read plenty of novels that do have happy endings, and enjoyed them immensely, but for the purpose of this book I think such an ending would be irresponsible. Why? Because I've learned that relationships are not a cure for whatever self-esteem issues exist before a relationship starts. The habits formed as a single person won't disappear the moment you meet the love of your life. I don't want to perpetuate the lie that true happiness and fulfillment can only be found if you're in a romantic relationship, a message that's not-so-subtly implied by 99% of all chick flicks. It's simply untrue.

Not to mention, the expression "work on becoming the kind of person you want to end up with" is misleading. You don't want to fall into the trap of becoming the best person you can be for the sole purpose of attracting a significant other. No, you should focus on becoming your best self, FOR yourself!

So while I'm still a full-time grad student, and have a lot of responsibilities on my plate without taking on the task of writing a new novel, I'm doing it anyway, while the memories of trying to live "productively single" are still fresh in my mind. It saddens me how so many people essentially waste themselves on the myth of "you complete me." Without being preachy, I want this book to drive home the point that worth is something we're already born with, not something to wear on a ring finger.

Keeping calm and writing on

Being published is something that's hard to talk about without sounding like a pretentious snot. But I digress: the reason it sounds snotty is because most people don't understand just how much the industry has changed. With the invention of e-books, especially, publishing is now easier than ever. Writing something worth reading is another issue altogether. Snooki from Jersey Shore can ghost write a book that sells three million copies after being on a shelf for fifteen minutes, but twenty years from now, no one will be discussing it in their book clubs.

Inevitably, those who know me will find out I'm a writer. When they do, they'll sometimes ask one of my big pet peeve questions:

"Have you written anything I might have read?"

If only the literary world were that small.

At the same time, being published in any form is still noteworthy. It means you've put yourself out there to be admired and/or criticized, and there's no way to know for sure how your work will be received. Still, knowing what I know now about publishing, how companies like Amazon produce thousands of e-books every day by virtual unknowns like me who all dream of winning Pulitzer (so I assume), it's hard for me to accept the compliments. Or maybe I'm too hard on myself.

I'm proud of what I've accomplished, but I've learned something else about the phenomenon of seeing your name in print: it doesn't last. To use an extreme analogy, it's like winning a Grammy, but then listening to a song that one of your contenders wrote, and thinking to yourself Damn, I wish I'd written that. There's competition and petty jealousy in the writing world like there is in any other.

I'm in the middle of a friend's novel right now, also self-published, and this was my first thought after reading the first few chapters: This is so legit, totally something Barnes & Noble would sell, and my books read like a highschooler's creative writing project. That's not to say that Halo Publishing did a bad job; I'd highly recommend them for anyone looking into self-publishing. What I'm criticizing instead is my choice to self-edit (bad idea!), and my writing style itself. Panic strikes at odd moments: will a serious reader take my work seriously?

I know it's futile to think like that. Even the best of the best (according to the New York Times) get dismissed as poo on paper by handfuls of critics on Amazon. That's the biggest reason why being published is admirable: critics, especially anonymous ones online, can be mean. I haven't gotten much of it yet, but if I take this job seriously, then it will happen. No amount of editing, and no impressive publishing label will prevent that. You can't please everybody.

I'm reading this book right now (yes, I perpetually read more than one book at a time, and I'm in grad school!) called Why We Write. It's a collection of essays from various authors on why they do what they do even when the inspiration is lacking, the rejection letters keep mounting, and they question their own talent. For the moments I get trapped in thinking I'll finally feel like a talented writer when I publish a best-seller, this book is bringing me back to earth. Writing just for money is pretty much a guarantee that you won't make any. Being "good" is irrelevant (and completely subjective). I write because I believe in my work, and really, that's all that matters.

Grammys, rape culture jokes, and another SYAK excerpt

It always surprises me how rape culture jokes come up in the most unexpected contexts. I wouldn't have expected to hear one relating to the Grammys: "Will Rihanna be on the cover of Chris Brown's 'greatest hits' album?" Took me a second, but that "aha" moment wasn't too long in coming, and I groaned. The person who posted the joke to Facebook, and some of the people who 'liked' it, were good friends at one point. But I've realized that the people I choose to surround myself with play a significant role in healing whether they realize it or not. I could stand up and educate them, but too often this results in arguments and I'm the one told to "lighten up." I do need to "lighten up" about some things, but this is something I have absolutely no tolerance for anymore.

For the record, I do think Rihanna is a terrible role model, but not because of the way she handled the abuse of her ex boyfriend (or current boyfriend? I can't keep up) Chris Brown. Celebrities in general do set themselves up to be emulated, to an extent, but no one plans to be a poster child for domestic violence. To hold Rihanna up as a standard for how all women should react is ridiculous not just because she's only human, like all of us, but arguably because being in the spotlight increases the pressure to hold herself together. And we don't know the circumstances of why she's chosen to forgive and/or reconcile with Chris Brown.

With that, here's another excerpt from Someone You Already Know, depicting another example of ignorance (based on a real-life incident where I used to work):



The ignorance just never ends. I learned very quickly after the party incident with Trevor that I can’t afford to lose my cool every time someone makes a stupid comment about rape. This is something I’ve discussed at length with Dr. Cleary: the tactful way to respond to ignorance. I have no desire to be considerate to a person who makes an offensive, galling statement, though. I made it clear to my therapist that I’m tired of being labeled as the “damaged” girl. 
     If I had to pick out the dumbest person in my class, I’d have to say it’s Melanie. She’s the kind of girl who seems very nice and sociable, but completely lacks common sense; she’s a girl who kept saying “orgasm” in biology class instead of “organism,” and couldn’t understand why everyone including the teacher kept snickering. 
     She also may well be the only person in school who hasn’t heard of what happened to me. I know this because she’s the only one who hasn’t treated me any differently.
     Somehow, I misplaced my car keys, and Melanie was the one found them and brought them to me at the end of class. She noticed the "rape whistle" in addition to pepper spray on the keychain, which is more for my mother's comfort than my own. In reality, those would be the last thing I'd think to use if I was being attacked again (God forbid). I'd probably be too busy running or fighting for my life to bother fumbling through my purse for them. 
     Anyway, I half-heartedly said "Yes, that is my rape whistle," to which the idiot girl replied "I wouldn't fight back if that happened to me. I mean hello, it's free sex! And no one will think you're a slut for giving in because, you know, you could say you were raped."
     Thankfully, I wasn't the only person to hear this. Another girl standing nearby immediately turned around, and was just as shocked and dumbfounded as I was. "How could you think something like that, much less say it?!" she demanded. 
     Melanie simply shrugged and quipped "Well, if you're not getting any..."     I was torn between wanting to shake some sense into her, walking away and ignoring her completely, or taking the time to attempt educating her. Crazy, right?
     As a survivor trying to find a new normal, I can’t shake the stupid out of every ignorant person I come across. This is not the first bout of ignorance I will face, and it will not be the last. Who knows, in earlier times I might have rolled my eyes at a rape joke and let it slide off my back. I hate, hate, hateto admit this, but my patience and tolerance levels will have to improve tremendously if I expect to have some semblance of a normal life. Perhaps this episode is my first training session.
     In a strange, back-handed sort of way, I envy Melanie for being able to afford that kind of ignorance. More likely than not, she hasn't experienced the trauma of a sexual assault. She's lucky she has not the foggiest clue what she's talking about. As offensive as her comment was, I sincerely hope that she never has to learn first-hand just how wrong her thought process is about this issue.
     I consider it a small miracle that I was able to take a breath, compose myself, and say calmly, albeit through clenched teeth "You know Melanie, you wouldn't think that way if it happened to you."
     She didn't do much more than shrug me off with a "Whatever," but my point was clear. The other girl who overheard the exchange thanked me for attempting, however feebly, to set Melanie straight. And just like that, it was all over. I survived another ignorance attack. Hallelujah. Only an unforeseen number left to go.
     Episodes like this make me all the more cautious of the words I choose, and how I use them. It also makes me aware of the possible damage that can occur by speaking blithely of things I know nothing about. You never know who might be listening.

If I could change my name again...

So here I am again. I feel like I keep running around in circles, hoping to find a satisfactory solution, but in the end nothing changes. And it's extremely frustrating.

I had no idea how hard it would be for the average person to grasp the concept of two first names as one. I know it's a trend down south, but I am a yankee through and through, and would never be able to stand the hot, humid, snow-less environment of a place like Texas where everyone has two names. So that leaves me with two options: keep on owning the name I created, or give in to convention and change it, again. Only this time, I'd make it something impossible to screw up. I'd just be Beth indefinitely, maybe legally (since I'll have to change my last name when I get married, might as well do it then, if that's what I decide).

I'm beyond annoyance. I'm just tired. Really tired. And disappointed. A few months ago I wrote about my "humility project" where I'd go by Beth to stifle my un-ending battle with pride. The people who know me best know how I've always wanted to be "different," to stand out in a crowd and be remembered. That's all well and great to a point, but for me, it lead to quitting ballet at the age of six and taking up figure skating instead, so I wouldn't have to share the stage with anyone. It lead to coming home from school one day in tears and yelling at my parents when a teacher thought it would be cute to seat all four Sarahs of the class at one table, and in college, when a professor labeled us Sarah 1, 2, and 3.

So you can see, I've always had "identity issues." A desire to be unique is great, but for me it was an idol. Clearly, that's not healthy. Especially because I claim to be a Christian; I'm supposed to be humble. Who was more humble than Jesus? He didn't do miracles to draw attention to himself, so people would think he was cool. All the glory he got was directed back to his Father. Me? I'd soak up as much of that glory and fame as I could. Not exactly Christ-like.

But, as my closest friends know, the name change wasn't *just* about "being different." It was my choice after being baptized; to literally take on a new identity, and separate that from the old. It was a fresh start. Unfortunately for me, I didn't think it through as well as I should have. I never anticipated the problems my new name would create, from the spelling ("Is there an h or no h? Is it hyphenated?") to having to introduce myself twice. It's exhausting and I'm starting to regret my choice, but at this point in my life, what can I do? Especially now that I've been published.

The more I think about it, the more I long for something plain and simple. Who cares about being "different" anymore: all I care about now is being different from who I was before Christ, before my baptism. At the same time, Sarahbeth is an expression of my creativity, something I made up myself...and it's okay to be proud about that. But for the number of times people have asked me "Why go through all that legal trouble for four extra letters?" perhaps they are right. I set myself up, and while I'd like to think that most people are just "too dumb" to catch on, the reality is that I chose to make it complicated. I wouldn't be nearly as offended by being called Sarah if not for what the name represents to me. I don't have good memories attached to it, to say the least.

This concludes the latest episode of Sarahbeth Thinks Too Much.God bless you if you actually finished the whole thing.

Future projects, and a SYAK excerpt about moving on

So I have some ideas for new writing projects...the question is whether grad school will allow me the time to work on them. I decided that I need to find more user-friendly subjects, ones where readers aren't slapped in the face by a specific agenda (not that certain agendas aren't worth writing about). At the same time, I don't want to write mindless fluff. I want my work to entertain, but to also have purpose. The next novel I have in mind is one that is lighter and culturally significant, without being heavy-handed (so I hope). A fellow self-published friend has inspired me to take on the challenge of an anti-romance story, where the flawed protagonist learns what it's like to live "productively single."

Okay, so it's probably going to end up being a chick-lit novel. But an encouraging one, I hope.

As for the second writing project...that might be another memoir about being the odd Jewish kid out in seminary land, and the struggle to be a Jew-turned-Christian without being labeled a Messianic Jew. Call it a sequel to Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, maybe. But that one won't be completed until I finish seminary, understandably. We'll see how that goes. I might just go the traditional publishing route next time, but that world is far less predictable, and much more competitive.

I like self-publishing because I get to be in control of everything from the cover design to the pricing, but traditional publishers are more efficient about getting your work out there for the world to read. But the world is teeming with aspiring writers, and it's hard to imagine that my ideas are unique enough to land a spot among the best of the best. Sigh...

In the mean time, here's another excerpt from Someone You Already Know, about getting your life back after surviving a tragedy:



For the last several days, I’ve been obsessed with Googling “rape culture” and sifting through the thousands of results. It’s amazing just how much information is out there, though not all of it is helpful. There’s the occasional advertisement from a well-intentioned (I’m sure) advocacy group that basically says “This is what happens when you don’t use the buddy system,” or guard your drink at parties, hitch-hike, et cetera. A girl with her skirt tangled around her ankles, apparently unconscious, was shown in one. Quite a guilt trip for someone who just didn’t know any better!
     I have wondered just how different That Day might have been if Elisabeth had been with me. Would the attacker have targeted her, too? Or is there really strength in numbers?
     Ever the voice of reason, Cleary is quick to chime in with “It’s dangerous to play that ‘What If’ game, Katherine. You have no control over what’s already happened. You need to focus on the situation right in front of you.” 
     I know she’s right. But that doesn’t make my new post-victim life any easier. I’ll always have questions and doubts. Not having the perpetrator to direct these to is frustrating. But maybe there are some things I’m better off not knowing.
     What I am noticing is how many of these websites contain statistics and blurbs about preventing assault; not so much in the way of survivors sharing their stories. I can’t say I’m eager to share mine, but surely there has to be someone out there who is older than me, wiser than me, and toughed-up enough to no longer have shame about what happened to her. The more I keep reading, the more I feel this fire in my gut to not allow my experience to be wasted. I can’t accept that a part of me has permanently shut down. 
     But how can that happen when the memories still haunt me? When I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night, because the nightmares won’t leave me alone? How can I make people understand the significance of the trauma without scaring them out of living their lives?
     For anyone who wonders what it’s like to have a tragedy shatter your very existence, this is what I would tell them: it’s like going through the motions of everyday life in a zombified state. It’s like having outbursts of anger for what seems like no apparent reason, for even the smallest of offenses. It’s like forgetting how to be your once cheerful, perky self, and having to re-learn basic social skills when mingling with new people (especially if those people are ignorant, or just plain terrible at showing sympathy). It takes a while to re-learn all those basic skills. But maybe, just maybe…it’s possible. Maybe you have to wantyour life back first, before it can start repairing itself. But then you also have to accept the hard fact that the mending process may take the rest of your natural life. I don’t think there’s a set time limit for it. 
     Getting your life back will also mean taking the risk of going to all the places you used to go, wearing your old clothes, hanging out in the same places, knowing full well that the person who attacked you could be there, too, watching. But real empowerment is not allowing evil to prevail by hiding.
     You can’t ever know how you’ll react to something unless it happens to you. It doesn’t help to speculate over what ifs. But it helps to be prepared. Being prepared is to know anything that happens to you doesn’t have to leave you broken. It just leaves you with a story to tell.

The struggle to be believed, part II

In terms of the number of books sold, the signing wasn't a huge success. I suspected it wouldn't be; rape culture is not a subject that tons of people would be lining out the door to read about. I did sell some copies, however; I signed books for two college-aged women who are involved in Cleveland's "Slutwalks" (an event where women "take back" the stigma of "slutty" clothing by wearing short skirts, heels, etc and march through town to send a message that men are not entitled to rape based on what a woman is wearing). So that was cool.

I judged my success that day by the number of conversations I had with people who were curious why the subject matters to me. So at the very least, I may have interested a few in the subject, if not my book. I'm okay with that. When you write for a cause, you don't do it for fame and money.


This week, I want to share a passage that deals further with the struggle of being believed, particularly that of a girl who experienced abuse within a relationship, and the surprising reasons why it's not so simple to label the relationship as "abusive" when you deeply love the person who is hurting you:



     So I guess Katherine doesn’t take me seriously after all. I had thought for a while that we were getting somewhere, but now all that progress seems shattered. Perhaps permanently. It’s too early to tell, but my hope for us is wearing drastically thin.
     At least I was able to convince her to let me take her the rest of the way home. No way was I going to just leave her there by the side of the road, ripe for another pervert to come and grab. I would have picked her up, thrown her over my shoulder, and put her in the backseat before I let that happen. Luckily, Katherine is smart enough to understand why she had to suffer the rest of the ride home with me. All six minutes of it. 
     I know it’s irrational, but remembering John cruelly mocking me with “You think Becca will believe you either?”got me thinking. It’s not about competition; she may think I’m just a bitter ex-something-or-other trying to poison her against him, but that’s only part of the reason I can’t tell her. A very small part, actually. 
     I can’t take the risk that she’ll go straight to John about it, either to make fun of me or to check his reaction to see if it’s true. I don’t know, but if she did…well, I’m not afraid of him coming after me with violence or anything, but it could mean more contact from him, and I’m already haunted by our last conversation. Is it selfish to be concerned about my own healing and my own well-being right now?
     Perhaps if there was evidence – physical evidence of trauma that wasn’t washed away – I wouldn’t have to worry about Becca believing me, because I could have gone straight to the police after it happened. Only, there probably wasn’t any trauma to record: none like Katherine’s, no visible cuts or bruising. Maybe not even a torn hymen either. For as much as it hurt, I never bled. It’s strange to admit, but now I wish I had, if that meant a stronger case against him. But there isn’t one.
     Any normal person would think Katherine had everything to turn the tide of criticism toward the man who raped her, and not herself. She had the bruises. She had the torn clothing. She insisted up and down she didn’t know the guy; couldn’t pick out any pictures in the collection of already existing mug shots from other area predators. And yet, there were a significant number of people in law enforcement who just couldn’t believe her. All they saw was her short skirt. So what would they see if they looked at me? I was supposedly in love! I’d be laughed right out of the police station without a second thought.
     All these factors make me question what my next move should be. Feelings may be valid, but they can’t be proven. So with no physical damage to show, and no other witnesses to corroborate my story, how do I know what really happened? I am a small, fragile, inexperienced girl who was willing to do anything, sacrifice everything, to be loved: something every human longs for. In a society that glorifies sex, who will believe me now? Who will ever believe me?

The struggle to be believed

The first book signing for Someone You Already Know is this Saturday (Learned Owl in Hudson Ohio, 1pm)! What an awesome way to start 2013! Here's another excerpt, depicting the struggle of one survivor to be believed by another:


There are certain things we already know, things we don’t need schooling on: that no means no, yes is yes, what is permissible at one moment may not be at another time. But the root of our conflict, as two young women struggling to understand how much of a role our bodies play in our identities as people, is that neither of us fits the definition of “That Girl” we always imagined would find herself in predicaments like ours. Somehow we believed we were born with immunity. Why is that exactly?
I explained to Katherine everything I knew for sure, everything that should have happened if he really loved me: He should have stopped when I told him to. He should have stopped right away, not several minutes later when he wanted to. His exact words at one point were “I was having too much fun to stop.” He commented on my nervousness, my inability to relax and “go with it.” He knew I was not completely on board with what was happening; that it meant so much more to him than it did to me, because I didn’t needto fool around to feel loved. He came up with that on his own. 
     “You know you wanted it.”     “I thought if I kept going, you would change your mind and start liking it.”     “You’d be real hot if you didn’t look so terrified.”
I stare into my coffee cup as the room starts spinning. The pounding in my head is unrelenting.
     It was exhausting, just putting to words these conflicting feelings I’ve had for so long, but it’s still not enough for Katherine. “So he never actually forced you to do anything” she retorts. I can’t tell if this is a question or an accusation. “He never held you down or used a weapon, or –“
Obviously this conversation was not going to be easy, though for someone who was intent on listening without judgment, she wasn’t doing a very good job. “No, he didn’t hit me or threaten me with a knife or a gun or anything that put my life in immediate danger,” I snap. “But you know what, Katherine? I don’t see what difference it would have made if he had. We were supposedly in a relationship; just saying ‘no’ should have been enough. Please explain to me why saying ‘no’ was not enough.”
Even after I said that, my mind was full of the same old doubts: Did I really say “no” loudly and clearly every time? To what extent does my body language count? Is it unrealistic to expect John to have read my nervous shaking as a refusal, even when he knew I was desperate to impress him? 
It’s funny; I’ve seen enough romantic comedies to know what it looks like when a guy and a girl are mutually enthusiastic about hooking up. Yet the more I think about it, the nature of consent itself is such a fine, crooked little line with so much gray area smudged in the middle. Will guys need to sign permission slips acknowledging what behaviors are acceptable? Is a girl allowed to change her mind after saying yes? How is a normal guy, who may have the best of intentions, supposed to know if what he’s doing is okay?

The question of what consent is -- and isn't -- comes up again in the discussion guide at the end of the novel. It's true that plenty of people don't fully understand the nature of consent, but manage to have sex without raping anyone. Even still, this is a topic that deserves to be addressed by everyone, regardless of relationship status and experience.