I'll be honest: I don't
want to write this. I have been an
honest-to-goodness mess today as me and my body and my brain attempt to settle
from last night's incident. Between clients
and everything else that occurs in my typical workday, I was fielding emails
from various people at the college about the issue. I'm not pleased with the direction things
have gone. But that's not what I want to
write about.
Instead, I want to
write about the push and pull. I want to
write about why I am writing about
this. I need to write the struggle. I need to
write the struggle. In order for me to
feel whole, and worthy, and as though I matter, I need to write the struggle.
On its face, this issue
does not seem complicated. In fact, it
seems pretty easy, actually. What should
happen is this: a person feels unsafe.
Said person takes action to feel safe again. The community hears that person and
responds. The person feels safe.
Ideally, this is how it
would happen. Every time. We would all feel as though we matter enough
to advocate for our safety. Our
environments and communities would reinforce these choices, and feelings of
safety would abound. Women say to one
another, "you have the right to feel safe.
You are entitled to safety. You
deserve to feel safe and supported in your place of employment." And we mean it, because -- of course -- we all have the right to feel safe.
But the fact of the
matter is that this pattern isn't always the way things go. What happens instead is this: a person feels
unsafe. Said person takes action to feel
safe again. The community does not hear
or respond. The person feels
unsafe. She takes another action to feel
safe again. The community does not hear
or respond. The person feels unsafe.
Guess what happens
next? She stops taking action. Why wouldn't she? Aside from the basic behavioral principles at
play here (i.e. if a behavior is not reinforced, it will not continue), Einstein
said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and
expecting different results, right? So
why would she keep trying?
The only thing worse
than feeling unsafe is feeling as though you lack the agency to make it better.
The ONLY thing worse than feeling
threatened is feeling like you are unable to make a change to push you towards
feeling safe again. Every time you feel
you are advocating for your own safety and it gets shot down, you learn that
advocating for safety makes you feel more unsafe. Every time you try to speak up and state your
needs and change is denied, your sense of threat increases. Each time a piece of that agency and autonomy
is taken away, each time that ability to effect change and protect yourself in
an environment is denied, your sense of safety is further taken from you. Then it is not one person or a group of
people that are a threat. It is your
entire environment. When people fail to
stand next to or behind you when you ask them to, they are a threat. Maybe not as big of a threat as the initial
threat, but a threat to your autonomy and your ability to advocate for your
needs and effect change. It is a threat nonetheless.
And unfortunately, once
you have had this experience once, in one environment, it generalizes. You are then forever faced with an impossible
choice: when I feel unsafe, do I advocate for my safety, even though I have
this intimate knowledge of the ways in which advocating for safety can make me
feel even further unsafe? If I stay
quiet, maybe my silence will protect me.
If I stay quiet, I always have that option of speaking out stored in my
back pocket. If things get bad, I am
still holding the potential for agency and change. If I use that now...I'm out of tools. When you feel unsafe, the last thing you want
to be is out of tools.
If I heard a client say
this, my first thought would be, "oh shit, this girl is really vulnerable
to being re-victimized." And it's
true -- the rate of revictimization of women who have been sexually
assaulted/victims of crimes is ridiculously high (code word for: I know it's
high but don't have the energy to look up the stats right now. Sorry).
There are lots of reasons for
this. This may be one of them.
As I was driving to
work this morning, thinking about this point, I thought of this quote by Audre
Lorde. I've read it so many times, but I
understood it today, perhaps for the first time: "...we are taught to
respect fear more than ourselves. We've
been taught that silence would save us, but it won't."
"We are taught to
respect fear more than ourselves."
This is part of that push and pull.
It is part of the struggle. We
become frightened, and then are saddled with the additional fear of being
unable to make a change. That fear is
real. All of it. She is something that inhabits our bodies,
changes our breath and our muscles, and if we're talking about trauma, changes
our brains and our genetic make-up. She
is something to be respected.
I believe we can
respect ourselves in spite of the fear.
We can respect ourselves more than the fear. And, I believe, we have to learn to respect
ourselves alongside the fear. I also
believe that respecting ourselves is not as easy as it seems. In fact, it is frequently a violent push and
pull, and often, I'm not sure what it means.
Andrea Gibson says, "Safety is not always safe. You can find one on every gun." When your attempts at securing safety
backfire, and "safe" is not something you can trust, how do you do
anything but respect the fear -- more than you trust or respect yourself, even? It is, sometimes, the only thing that is
rewarded.
"We've been taught
that silence would save us..." We
are taught this in so many ways, both implicit and explicit. Silence is reinforced by lack of additional
fear. Silence is reinforced by lack of added
shame. Silence is reinforced by the
recognition we receive as we pretend that all is well. When faced with the choice of speaking and
risking shame or re-traumatization, or remaining silent, we sometimes believe
it is better to be silent. And
sometimes...sometimes...for the
moment, it is.
But silence won't save
us forever. Respecting the fear won't
save us forever.
So this is the
precipice I find myself standing on: I cannot possibly be naive enough to
believe that my environment will support my right to safety. This
was emphasized to me today. I played my
cards wrong, perhaps, in that I played my speaking up card too soon, or in the
wrong manner. Perhaps it was my silence
that would have saved me. I made the
choice to respect myself more than the fear.
It wasn't rewarded. It seldom is.
I don't know where I go
from here. Right now, self-care and
respecting myself feels like it would be letting it all go, sucking it up,
dealing with the fear and the discomfort, and walking myself to my car alone
every Tuesday. My head knows this is
wrong. My head knows that this is not
what respecting my safety looks like.
But it feels like respect because it means that I no longer need to deal
with my environment telling me "your safety doesn't matter." It feels like safety because then I am in
control. I have made a choice, and no
one is accountable for me but me. I can
be hurt, but not by people I know. Not
by people who are supposed to protect me.
Not by people who are supposed to be on my side.
My head knows that the
right decision is to fight the bureaucratic bullshit, and to demand that they
respond to my requests for changes to be made so that I (and other women) feel
safe. I know that this is supposed to be
my action if I truly believe that I am worthy of safety. But my heart knows that we are tired. We've been in this fight before, my heart,
and my brain and me. And we lost. We gave up because we had to. Because we were so broken down, that fighting
was no longer what self-care, and advocacy, and strength, and bravery looked
like. Instead, they looked like
survival.
The fight could be
short. It could not even be a fight at
all. It could be a push, a leaning into
the resistance, and the wall could give way, and a sense of safety could open
for me and for other women there. Or I
could meet brick roadblock after brick roadblock with no end success. I have no way of knowing which path this
would take, and the unknowing feels unsafe.
It's not supposed to be
this hard. I know that. I realize that it's completely ridiculous
that I could write 2.5 pages on this topic, and reach the end still without
definitions or answers. I'm not even completely sure this makes
sense.
The only thing I know
for sure is this: our silence will not save us.
My silence? It will not save
me. And so I write, with a whispered
prayer that one day I will write myself into change, or safety, or an
answer.
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