Nothing Has Ever Happened To You

Some years ago, I visited Chicago and met up with some people I know.  They were going to visit a relative, who was some kind of a fortune teller or wise woman.  I wasn't interested in having my fortune read, but once everyone's gotten their messages they turned to me.  They said, "Well, we're here anyway, you might as well...."  On that note, I said sure.

This kind-looking, older woman looked at me at some length, examined my palm and back, then said (she spoke in Spanish; a friend translated), "Nothing's ever happened to you.  I don't know why you're so troubled/sad."  That was it.  That was all she said.  That was all she needed to say.

I carried those words with me for a very, very long time.  I wasn't sure what to make of it.  It didn't sit right.  But I couldn't deny it either.  All my life, I've been told no matter what happened that I should consider myself lucky.  And indeed, I've been through some tough times, but I was there, and I was doing fine, wasn't I?  So every time I got a little depressed, a little resentful, a little upset at the world, I got a pang of guilt and thought I had only felt that way because I was an ungrateful person.  I needed to remind myself that I was lucky enough to have made it so far, even though I didn't feel there was much to hang in there for because there might not be light at the end of the tunnel.

I was a pessimistic optimist.  I held on anyway, because, well, what's the alternative?  Deep down I knew I believed in something--humanity, perhaps.  Or something spiritual.  Something bigger.  I kept trying, stumbling and falling as I went.  Just before I turned 30, I hit a new low.  I sought counseling and met my healer.  And things began to take a turn for the better.  Finally, someone made me tell my story in a way no one had before.  It was like learning a new language.  When you're finally tasked with articulating something in a very specific way, the wheels in your brain turns and you listen to yourself speak a certain truth, one you've rejected time and time again because it wasn't objective, because it didn't matter, because you had to consider what it's like to be the other person first....  I told someone what this kind lady had said to me, and he responded, "That's bullshit.  Something has happened to everyone.  No one has had nothing happened to them."  Why didn't that make sense to me before?

So I learn to tell my story.  I learn to seek out other's story.  I learn to own my story, whatever it is, "good" or "bad, " fair or not.  I learn to accept someone else's story, whatever it is, "good" or "bad," fair or not.  And turns out, this is sort of what a sociologist does.  But before we go on that tangent, here's what made me say all of this:  I have experienced sexual harassment, abuse, and assault.  I've hardly ever told anyone, and if I had, it was never in that context.  Because even if something had happened to me, I had been made to think that a) it's normal and/or b) it's my fault.  Oh, and also I am tough shit.  Why would I embarrass myself?  What could be done?  Who would have listened anyway?  So while the whole world is hashtagging "why didn't she report," let me tell you, even my trusted therapist who had changed my life had barely heard any of this.  We spent more time (we still do) focusing on my relationship with my mother than these events because I was too ashamed and afraid to even tell her.  This is going to change.

So thank you, Dr. Ford.  The Kavanaugh confirmation brought back a world of pain for many, but women are ending the silence and the shame by responding with #whyIdidntreport.  We all need so desperately to heal, and while we might be a long way before we'd win politically or socially, we're here with each other, and we all believe.