My Sister Is My Reason

Sometimes the reasons we do things may not be so apparent.  The reasons are ours and not meant to be shared. A woman came to the shelter I was the director of straight from prison. She’d been incarcerated for well over a decade, a lot had changed and some things remained the same in her life.  Her first weekend of freedom, she relapsed.  The staff had failed her…I failed her. I hadn’t made a plan for her to get her through the weekend without someone there full time for her to lean on.  On Sunday night when she didn’t show up, I called a friend and we went in search of her.

My friend had nothing to do with social work; he was just a big guy who cared about me. When you’re about to go hit the streets and parks of Seattle in the middle of the night, a little backup is necessary.  We went to Freeway Park, we went to Broadway, we went to Victor Eckstein park…and we finally found her.  High, wet, cold and frightened.  We put her in the car, took her to the Hurricane Café, fed her and she very honestly said she had a little more and she wanted to finish it…it was gonna eat her alive to not. So, we made a plan to meet at the benches at 6 AM…just a few short hours away. My friend and I went home.  The next morning I went alone to the park, found ‘V’, took her back, fed her again, she took a shower and went to bed to sleep it off. She’d been out of prison for 5 days.

The powers that be fired me. Said I crossed boundaries, acted unprofessionally, told me it wasn’t my job to chase clients through the streets of Seattle.  They couldn’t understand my reasons.

My sister is my reason.  Today is her birthday and she tried to drink herself to death.  My gut couldn’t rest after our morning phone call, so I went to find her.  When I did find her, she was – literally – moments from death.  She was non-responsive, nearly over the edge.  We spent her birthday together at Harborview.  This isn’t the first time I’ve found her like this, isn’t the first time she’s drank so much she nearly died, not the first…or even twentieth or fiftieth….trip to the hospital.  It’s the third just this month.  And no matter how many more trips we take, no matter how many more drinks she takes, or where she lives, or how she lives, I’ll be there.  And when she’s lost, I’ll go find her. When she is covered in puke, I’ll hug her. When she’s scared, I’ll promise to never leave her.  She’s my sister.

My reasons for giving my all for mentally ill, incarcerated, addicted, homeless people? My sister. That person in front of me may not be my sister, but they’re someone’s sister, mother, daughter, brother, father, son, friend. 

You see a drunk, homeless, worthless person. I see my sister.  Look in her eyes…they look just like mine. 

A Crucible....

Can a human be a crucible? According to Webster, a crucible is "a heat resistant container in which material can be subjected to great heat". Let's ponder this one....Is holding other people's pain "heat"? I take in their stories, hold it, reform it, re-tell it, teach them to re-invent and then give them their material back. Maybe I'm a crucible.

If I Told You...

If I told you how scared I am sometimes, would it change your mind?
If you read my journals, would you be more kind?
If I told you about my mother,
Would you find it a bother?
If I told you I want you to know me,
It's the real me I want you to see,
Would you listen
Or just walk away pissin'?

Forgive: to cease to feel resentment against

Yesterday I asked forgiveness from someone, someone who my actions had offended. I didn’t sugar coat, didn’t minimize and didn’t blame. I stated forthrightly that what I had done had been outside the bounds of my agreement with them and I had been dishonest in my cover up of those actions.


Let me tell you about this person: they are a strong advocate for prison reform, they work diligently to provide opportunities for people who are incarcerated, they espouse publicly that everyone deserves a second chance, that people shouldn’t be defined by their mistakes. They align themselves with folks who most of society would deem reprehensible and deserving to be locked away for life. This is a person who offers compassion, opportunity and understanding to folks who have committed egregious acts that most other individuals couldn’t look past. These are qualities I’ve always admired in this person.

Their response was startling and hurtful. Their response was full of anger, lack of forgiveness, saying that as far as they were concerned the bridge was burnt and no forgiveness would be extended. And in fact, told me that they thought I should have nothing to do with anyone involved in any sort of advocacy work. Ever.

It took my breath away. It knocked me on my heels, I was reeling for hours from it. Maybe still am a little.

What did happen is that it offered me the opportunity to see that folks rarely actually live the values they espouse publicly. This person obviously has some sort of rescue mission and deems the population they work with as needing compensation the rest of the world doesn’t. Forgiveness and compassion are offered in a public arena but not lived values in their private life.

Thanks to my friend Anthony I have a new word for that: hyposhit. A hypocrite espousing bullshit.

Let me tell you something: even middle class, highly educated women get involved with abusive men and make poor decisions. Even a wickedly smart woman can be duped into a façade and make poor decisions based on that façade. In the end, I got my ass beat, lost my job and clearly have spent the last year trying to recover and make amends. In my family, we worked through my absurd behavior and know that it will never happen again.

As I begin to emerge from my shell, I am finding that victim blaming goes far beyond what happens in a court room or a doctor’s office or within families.

I was used, manipulated, deceived, controlled and eventually physically assaulted. I own my part in those events. I own that I made poor choices based on false information and trickery. I don’t own that I did anything to have the shit beat out of me when I finally started coming to my senses and found courage to walk away.

Am I embarrassed? Fuck yes. Do I want a do ever? Fuck yes. Do you have the right to judge me when you have limited and likely false information? Fuck no. Are you entitled to tell me who I can or cannot talk to now? Fuck no. Are you in a position to tell me who I can advocate for and who I can’t? Fuck no.

So, let me put this out there. I believe in change. I believe that education changes lives. I am not going to judge an entire population of people by what one person did to me. I believe that when a person is truly remorseful for their actions and willing to be held accountable, change does happen. I also believe that no one is better or worse than me…just different with different experiences. I also believe in forgiveness, compassion and second chances – for everyone. My experiences haven’t changed my core values. It’s not just a public performance; it’s how I live my life.

There Is A Before And After

I normally ride the bus to work, today I drove so that I could drop the dog off at Becki’s house.  I turned on music that I like, up loud and sang along. I’ve forgotten how joyful it is start my day with music.   9 ½ months ago I was brutally assaulted and then spent several months after that being mind fucked into believing that somehow I was to blame.  There is scar on my lip, a dent in my face…the outward scars that reveal nothing of the inward hurts. 

There is a before and after.

Before, I used to walk around with an Ipod and head phones in my ears. After, I am too nervous that I won’t hear danger coming. Today I walked from 15th and Yesler to 4th and Jackson…I wanted so much to continue listening to music I like…but I’m living in the after.

There is a before and after.

 Before, I did powerful work with folks who had experienced some of their own trauma. Work that challenged me, changed my life and changed the lives of those around me. After, I work in a fucking cube surrounded by shallow people who are completely defined by the amount of their paycheck. People who look sideways at my tattoos and gossip when they think I can’t hear them.

There is a before and after.

Before I used to talk to people and listen to what they were saying. After, I talk to people and listen for what they’re not saying. I look for the game…the mind fuck. I listen with suspicion instead of anticipation.

There is a before and after.

Before I was easily tricked, couldn’t always say what was on my mind, didn’t demand respect. After, I say exactly what I think, demand respect and have the ability to walk away when it’s not there. 

Before, I spent a great deal of time with other people. After, I spend a great deal of time with me. 

Before, I knew a lot of people. After, I know a few.  A few really good friends who put up with my tears, questions, anger, confusion and struggles. A few who know me and love me. Believe in me and don't believe the stories they hear from others.

Before, I was unhealthy in so many aspects. After, I’m healthier than I’ve ever been – mentally, physically and emotionally.  When your soul is laid bare and the wounds gaping, there’s no choice but to examine them.

After, I started going to the gym.  I thought it would be a good way to relieve stress, work out some tension and do something positive.  For the first month, I couldn’t make it through a workout without crying.  The trainer stuck with me, pushed me harder than I’ve ever been pushed physically and understood that the tears were not physical pain but the release of long held memories in muscles.  He didn’t baby me through the tears but instead showed me how deep the wounds were and how hard I was going to have to work to excavate them. Now, I work equally as hard, with no tears, a ton of joy and my body looks and feels much better.  I sleep through the night, think about what I’m putting in my body and am learning how to ‘have a proud chest’ all the time. 

Before, I processed alone. After, I have an amazing female friend who calls me on my shit, points to the right path and makes me laugh at myself through the tears. 

Before was 9 ½ months ago. After is forever.

Perceptions of an Abused Woman

More than 1.5 million women annually seek medical attention for domestic violence related injuries while the estimate is that between 2 and 4 million women are assaulted by their intimate partner annually. Domestic Violence is the leading cause of injury among females aged 15 to 44 and is higher than cancer, auto accidents and muggings combined. 90% of incarcerated women have been victims of sexual and/or physical violence as children and adults. 40% of female murder victims were killed by their intimate partner.

A woman who is assaulted behind the closed doors of her home, is again victimized when she emerges from behind those doors. By a system of professionals who ignore her cries for help, by friends, neighbors and co-workers who blame her for staying, by a system of patriarchy and traditional gender roles that reinforce her misguided beliefs about her own self worth and place in the world. In one case, a judge refused to grant a temporary protection order because the woman admitted to having fought back after she was assaulted. The judge stated “she didn’t need protection from the court.” She didn’t look enough like a victim. In a New York University public opinion survey of 1,200 people, 75% believed that the violence was the woman’s fault and over half believed that if she wanted to leave, she would. According to the National Center on Public Opinion, 49.2% of people believe that DV is a private issue and does not affect the general public. The cost of treating victims of DV is approximately $44 million annually – that seems like it should raise some interest in the general public.

If a woman gets hit once and leaves, she is not the same as the woman who either stays with the same abuser or has a pattern of picking abusive partners. It’s like the person who tries drugs as a youth as compared to the person who is an addict. In fact, in our society, addiction is viewed as an illness – not that person’s fault, there are precipitating factors that lead to the disease, the person needs treatment. A woman who stays in or repeats abusive relationships, is viewed as lacking in character, it’s her fault. None of the precipitating factors that would lead a woman into this pattern are considered by the general public. In fact, people are more comfortable with a drunk or high person in public than they are with a woman covered in bruises. Think of the angst you feel in your belly when you see that. How awkward you feel because you want to look, want to know what happened, and you feel a certain level of disgust – at her. She should be ashamed of herself.

The pattern of abuse is complicated and multilayered. Those of us who have lived, and continue to live it, struggle to recognize our individual patterns and step out of that cycle. The reasons women live this pattern are as multiple as there are women. I can map my road – literally – from being extremely unwanted as a child and told repeatedly that I was a mistake and good for nothing all the way up to the most recent event of being told that I was not safe and my entire life would be destroyed. The map never veers far off the path that was programmed into my DNA as a vulnerable toddler, reinforced in childhood and placed solid as concrete in my teenage years. I can chart specific events, hits, comments and practices by my parents that set up my choices. I’m not blaming, don’t get me wrong. My parents did the best they could with the tools they had available. But, if I can’t recognize the early mind mapping, I can’t navigate myself a new destination either.

Just as the bruises on my face, the hand print around my neck, the stiff body movements make you uncomfortable when you see me on the bus, my transparent recovery makes you equally as uncomfortable. I’m supposed to keep the abuse in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or the living room couch. The shame is supposed to keep me hidden.

To change requires an exchange. An exchange of lies for truth. An exchange of hiding for transparency. No one wants to talk about abuse because it makes everyone uncomfortable. We need to explore that uncomfortableness. Why do you find me less intelligent because I have a pattern of picking abusive partners? Why does it make you uncomfortable for me to talk about this out loud? If I was a drunk and said “I’m in recover” you’d say “good for you! I’m proud of you. That takes courage.” But if I say “something went real wrong when I was a kid and I’ve lived my adult life trying to work that out with abusive partners and now I’m in recovery from that” you run and hide!

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” – Gandhi. I may not be able to change the world, but I can change my patterns, unprogram my messed up belief system, teach my daughters from my life, and if even one other woman is positively impacted by my uncomfortable transparency, your discomfort is worth it.

How Do You Know?

How do you know anything? In your gut...when you feel it, that's how you know it. You can ask as many people as you want to ask, get as many different opinions as there are people, but in the end, it's what YOU feel that determines what you know and do not know. In the academic world, they call it 'experiential learning'...you know things by doing them. In the spiritual realm, some folks would call it intuition. The truth is, I know what I know and you know what you know...it's just that most of the time we don't listen to ourselves. We trust those outside of our knowing and then we use the excuse "I didn't know." Really, the truth is...I didn't want to believe it. The truth doesn't waver. Knowledge changes, grows, enlightens us, expands our experiences, but the truth never wavers. The truth sets us free because we are no longer bound by doubt. I may not know much, but I know me. And, this is truth. I know that I am intelligent, funny, a servant, an incredible employee, a great mom, a decent friend. I know that no matter what happens in my life, I wake up with me and go to bed with me so I better learn to live with me throughout the day.