Content Warning: This entry contains references to sexual assault. I would like to clarify that while I am referring to sexual assault, what happened to me was not rape. However, I choose to still use the term “sexual assault” because it is the legal definition of what happened. It was important to my healing to learn and accept that what happened to me was serious and by legal definition, sexual assault. I don't want the term I use to seem misleading; however, at the same time, I want the audience to understand that sexual assault has a wide definition and leaves a lasting impact in all of its forms. Thank you.

Blame

June 29, 2020

I’m lying on a yoga mat in my favorite pose, shavasana. It’s typically the final pose of every class where you’re lying on your back, arms out by your side, palms up, legs wide on the mat with feet facing out, and your eyes are closed. It can last anywhere from 5-10 minutes and it’s wonderful. Usually, halfway through any class, I’m reminding myself that I’m so close to shavasana, and just keep going. I love it. 

On this Tuesday morning class, I’m drifting in and out of consciousness during shavasana, present in this moment, exerting no effort or energy, simply allowing the cool breeze coming from the open doors to flow across me while I remain still when a thought weaves in and out of my mind like the wind through my hair. 

I try to be perfect so I can control as much of my life as I can in order to mitigate all that I cannot control.

The thought leaves before I can explore it and soon the instructor is pulling us out of shavasana, instructing us to deepen our breath, wiggle our fingers and toes, and bring movement back to the body.

I feel unsettled as I walk out of class with my rolled-up yoga mat under my arm and my water bottle in my hand. Muscle memory is the only thing getting me into my car and getting me home. My mind’s preoccupied, pensive.

Do I still try to control things?

Before my brain surgery, I was very perfectionistic and even more controlling. I thought my brain surgery and subsequent illnesses broke me of that. But maybe not. The stress, the pressure I’ve been feeling lately isn’t coming from anywhere but myself. The pressure in my job isn’t coming from my boss or my employees. The pressure in my personal life isn’t coming from my parents or my friends. Any pressure I experience comes from myself. And I think it’s coming from an internal pressure to be perfect.

If I’m perfect, then everything is controlled within my life. If everything that I can control is perfect, then when something like brain surgery or a tumor or whatever’s next hits, then it won’t have that much of an impact. I can deal with whatever happens because everything else will be perfect and I’ll have the bandwidth to accommodate any new trauma. Perfectionism has become my coping mechanism, and even though it has a high cost, I consider it worth it for being able to function the next time tragedy strikes. 

The only problem is that I’ve recently been told of an early-life trauma and I’ve learned I can’t control anything, regardless of how perfect I try to be.

Learning what happened to me as a child has shaken me a great deal, but also makes me feel a little free, in some ways. Or at least in one way. With all of my other traumas, I felt like there was a component of consequences, whether I verbalized that or not. I felt like if I had been more perfect in some way or another, maybe whatever it was wouldn’t have happened. It’s not rational, I understand that. But trauma never is.

Maybe if I had not carried a backpack, then I wouldn’t have had so much pressure on my spine and wouldn’t have needed brain surgery. Maybe if I hadn’t played the flute and piccolo for so many years, I wouldn’t have had the muscle or bone changes in my right arm, and maybe I wouldn’t have needed a rib removed later on. Maybe if I hadn’t walked away from my mom in that Books-A-Million, then I wouldn’t have been alone and that man wouldn’t have assaulted me. Maybe if I had just been better, then maybe nothing bad would have happened.

But I was a toddler when the first bad thing happened to me. There’s no blame in the world I can manufacture to shoulder for that incident.

And it makes me think that maybe I can’t take blame for the others either.

I’m hesitant to accept that bad things happened to me, that none of this was my fault. Because if that’s the case, then I feel powerless. If none of this was a result of something I did or said or thought or whatever, then I have no power to stop such bad things from happening to me again in the future. Maybe that’s true of all of us.

I don’t want to think that one man can feel entitled to my body because I’m a woman and with one decision can leave me to pick up the pieces of trauma for years to come, but that’s the reality I live with as a woman. Physically, I’m not intimidating. I’m overpowered easily. I’ve already learned this is a reality. More times than I’d like to acknowledge.

I don’t think any of us can prevent trauma or tragedy. I think we want to; we try to.

I think perfection has been my preferred defense.  

But maybe there’s another option. Maybe there’s a difference between perfection and responsibility. No, I can’t be perfect. But I can be responsible. 

Sure, there are men that believe they have a right to my body for their own purposes, men that don’t see me as a person with hopes and dreams. No, I can’t be perfect to prevent that from happening or to control as much as I can from being part of the fallout if it does happen.  But I can be responsible in how I handle my own personal safety and relationships to prevent a lot of it, and if it does happen, I can responsibly pursue healing and justice and forgiveness.

No, I can’t be perfect and prevent another illness from hitting or control the other aspects of my life so it doesn’t all spin out of control. But I can responsibly care for my body which will prevent a lot of health issues and can responsibly seek medical attention and help from my support network if it does happen.

I think the truth really is that all of us are powerless. In some way, shape, or form, we’re all powerless. We’re all powerless in similar ways and in different ways. I think if we believe we have power that we’ll be protected from trauma, tragedy, and grief. That’s an impossible fairy tale and even fairy tales are riddled with trauma, tragedy, and grief.

We’re all powerless.

I’ve spent so much time fearing what my powerlessness means and hurting from how it manifests that I haven’t appreciated how well I handle and heal from trauma, tragedy, and grief. It’s empowering to recognize I am resilient. I can cope, I can grieve, and I can heal.

Perfection, control, and power are an illusion.

Responsibility, resiliency, and grit are much better.

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