The Uncomfortable Telling, Part I
“C…c…can I come in? I need to talk.” Crying the ugly cry before Oprah ever coined the term, I stood shivering in the sunlight on his doorstep. There was snow but I wore only a thin green t-shirt and jeans. I couldn’t remember where I’d left my coat and sweater.
He nodded, running his hand through his hair and squinting against the sun. It was obvious I’d woken him and I wondered what time it was. Surely I didn’t need to apologize though. We were old friends, the type that always promise each other, “If you ever need anything I’m there before you call twice.” I’d been there for him after The World’s Worst Break-Up (followed by the World’s Most Humiliating I-need-closure Phone Call). He could be there for me, now.
He opened the door and let me stumble to his couch where I burst into tears anew. Patting my back gingerly, he whispered – almost in awe – “What happened to you?”
“I.. I… don’t know.” I didn’t know. I had no words for what had just happened to me. Nothing that had happened in my previous 19 years of life was an apt comparison. There were no words. Years later, I would try out many different terms for that event, finally settling on the one that made my blood curdle the least: sexual assault. But back then, years before G. did it again, years before the court case, years before I was forced to find words, I simply said over and over again, “I hurt.”
I expected him to ask the logical questions like who hurt me and how was I hurt and where was my coat? I expected him to hug me and bring me a box of kleenex (or at least a roll of toilet paper – we were, after all, poor college students) and make me hot cocoa. But he didn’t do any of these things. It was clear my vulnerability made him uncomfortable. I told myself that it was okay, because I really didn’t want anyone to touch me and I really couldn’t answer those questions anyhow. But it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. And so I cried harder.
Finally he reached out. “Now, now, don’t do that. Your mascara is running.” He picked now to care if my makeup was smudged? Then I looked at the arm of the couch I was sitting on. It was covered in snot and black tears. How very Wedding Singer of me.
He obviously didn’t understand. I tried again, “G. hurt me. Really hurt me. I don’t know what to do.”
I saw his face. He got it. In the aftermath, I would learn that my friend had known all along. G himself had told him. But that bright, snowy morning, he didn’t know what to do either. After an awkward silence he finally said, “Hey, it’s going to be all right. He probably didn’t mean it that way.” The thought that G. had meant to do it was a novel one and startled me right out of crying. What was the meaning of such violence?
I felt dizzy, lightheaded, unclear. Later the prosecution would posit that I had been drugged – a theory that both comforted and sickened me. But at the time, all I could do was stare at my friend as if I were looking out of two windows conveniently placed in the front of my head. “No worries, okay?” He looked happier already. “I’ll talk to him, tell him he can’t do that again, all right?” I stared numbly. “Look, I have to go to work now but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. Whatever you need, okay?” Stared.
I didn’t need his couch. I needed his shoulder.
That first experience “telling” shaped the way I would (not) talk about it for years afterward. I can’t blame it on my friend. It’s true, he failed me in a most desperate hour but it is abundantly clear in hindsight that he hadn’t the strength to help me. He did what he could. I should have tried again, with someone more adult or more reliable at least. But I didn’t.
I accepted my friend’s interpretation: that I didn’t understand the meaning of it, that it wasn’t worth crying over, that I shouldn’t talk about.
The Uncomfortable Telling, Part II
Was that story hard for you to read? Even now it is hard for me to tell. And not because of the subject matter. But because of how awkward and exposed and raw I was. It makes me cringe all over again, remembering. I was reminded of this intense vulnerability the other day in the gym whenI was approached, mid kettlebell swing, by a little old man.
“Are you a lady marine?” Somehow this is the pick-up line of choice for sweet little old men at my gym because this is the third time one of them has used it on me. Either that or I really do look like a lady marine. Anyhow, our Y is right across the street from a large retirement home and so little old people are a fixture at the gym. Other than requiring the gym to be a balmy 90 degrees year round, they bring nothing but joy into my life. I love that they are there.
And I love when they talk to me. I could tell from this man’s face that he had a story he wanted to share so I smiled and replied, “No, I’m not. But I bet you were!”
“That’s why they call me Mel! Rhymes with ‘Give ’em hell!'” He nodded proudly and then proceeded to tell me about how he had fought on Iwo Jima during World War II. How he was one of the original marines sent in and one of the few to make it off alive, a substantial feat in one of the fiercest battles of the War. 26,000 Americans – more than the sum of Allied casualties on D-Day – lost their lives on an island that only held 22,000 Japanese (all of whom were killed save 216.) The old man’s eyes filled up with tears as he told me about all of his friends who had died. How he, a colonel in a gunnery unit, had ended up leading 30 men. How the Japanese had burrowed deep into the tiny six-mile-long island in a warren of hidden caves and tunnels. How the island was supposed to be taken in 2 days but the fighting dragged on for a nearly a month.
At this point, I pulled Gym Buddy Allison over to listen. Mel showed us his still-vivid shrapnel scars. “Those japs, they fought dirty!” he said vehemently, then paused and added sadly, “But we did too.”
I told Mel how grateful I was that he had done this for our country and how proud of him I was. I told him that I couldn’t imagine what he had been through but I thought he was very brave to tell us about it.
His eyes watered again and he said, “I never knew why we had to take that god forsaken island. No, not until years later when I found out they needed it for an airfield. Bombers flying over the ocean had to stop there to refuel. We saved thousands of lives. We did, The Marines.”
“And you changed the course of the war in the Pacific theater,” I added. For those of you who don’t remember your history lesson about Iwo Jima, perhaps you remember the most famous war-time picture ever taken? This pulitzer-prize winning picture was snapped on Iwo Jima. Three of the six marines in this photo died on that island.
“We sure did!” he beamed. “But I never could talk about it. Not for 40 years. Then they brought all of us old guys back for, well, you know, that honorary thing they did on the island.” He tried to play it off but I could see it was a very big deal.
“No! What honorary thing?”
“Aw, it was just this ceremony they did. You know, to honor all of us. We got a plaque and they flew us out. It was real nice. Real nice.” He smiled. “Now I can talk about it.”
Our conversation concluded some twenty minutes after it had started (so much for that KB circuit!) with Mel telling us about his grandkids and greatgrandkids. And then, his desire to tell sated, he walked away.
Naked In the Gym
There is something about being in the gym that exposes people. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that we all wear less clothing. Even those who cover up in baggy sweats and loose T’s are still not in their everyday wear. There are no power suits or sexy heels to mask weakness. Add to that emotional vulnerability: most of us are not athletes or gym rats by nature. Even when we’re doing everything right, tummies jiggle, thighs chafe, arms shake. And of course there are bodily functions. Because of this vulnerability, it creates a strange sense of cameraderie. Nothing like a good sweat to get things whispered on the stretching mats, shouted over treadmills and confessed between weight sets. Things that we would never normally say.
It scares some away. The nakedness makes them feel unsafe, defenseless, and – worst of all – fallible. I think it’s a gift, this vulnerability.
Some stories just need to be told.
Wow. Powerful stories. I don’t know what to say.
Thank you for sharing.
As a man, it has been really eye-opening for me as I have started to realize the trauma that so many women have gone through because of some bad men. It has made me try to be more understanding when women are reluctant to talk with men they don’t know. I used to think that many women were just rude, but I’m learning that they have good reasons for their reticence. Thanks for sharing your story. It’s the kind of story that all men should read and think about. Best wishes.
So powerful!
I’m teary.
And so in awe of what this must mean to you to write this all down.
And making me think of my most vulnerable times…
Some stories definitely need to be told. Sometimes it may feel better to keep things inside, but when you can just let it out, you grow stronger.
Thanks for sharing.
wow, Charlotte, your story brought goosebumps and tears. Thank you for sharing.
and thanks also to that awesome Marine.
You are right, many stories just need to be told.
thank you for sharing that. I cant even comment on how strong you are for posting that.
The hardest part of my recovery from bulimia, and of course the most intergral part of my recovery, was needing to be vulnerable. I thought i could kick it myself and dint need any help from anyone else, but then i realized, that was part of my problem. The day I sat down with my friends and family and told them everything, and told them that i needed them because there would be times i would call, day or night, and need to share that I was feeling the need to binge and purge with them (MY secret for so many years) was the most petrifying and freeing days of my life. KNowing that people would know the exact second I was weak was so scary, but in the end, just telling people helped. rarely did i ever make that call, but knowing they were there for me was what i needed most.
hijacked that. sorry. just a subject near and dear to me as I HATE for people to see me as weak.
Kelly Turner
http://www.groundedfitness.com
I’m late for work and yet I couldn’t not finish reading, and now I can’t not say that charlotte, that was beautiful.
Wow. I just got that sick feeling in my stomach as I read your “Part 1″… I remember telling somebody that should’ve taken care of things and she just looked at me and walked away. It taught me to hide things that hurt. Not to impose on others. Amazing how one small moment of how one chooses to react to one’s vulnerability can impact one for a lifetime.
Completely blown away by this, so sensitively and honestly writen. Thankyou Charlotte.
I believe that asking others for help is someimes one of the hardest things to do. Trusting another human being with our most painful experiences is such an enormous, brave step. It’s devastating that sometimes the people we turn to when we open up just can’t handle it the enormity of that situation. And although it’s (arguably) not anybody’s fault, it can prevent us from ever opening up again.
Like Kelly, my eating disorder taught me to show myself as vulnerable, which was really, seriously hard for me because I’m such a proud, stubborn old boot. But even after that lesson there are still things I would never tell a soul because the risk of opening up to the wrong person scares me way too much.
I sense that one day I’ll have to express it somehow, because burying these things can often be just as poisonous.
TA x
no words really.
powerful. brave. amazing. strong.
all like you are, C.
incredibly powerful Charlotte.
Thank you.
Wow.
I’m having trouble finding words. Not only to describe how I felt reading your powerful post but also how it feels to read some of these comments which are also so brave and moving.
Thank you.
Beautiful Charlotte! Sharing can be scary, but so freeing at the same time. I think being vulnerable makes us stronger. And WOW for the little old man. There is nothing better than stories of a time that I can’t even imagine. It really puts things in perspective for me.
And Jim, thank you so much for being so open-minded and kind. Your words touched my heart.
Very powerful, Charlotte!! I saw those words written by others, but as I thought them before I read any other comment, I still say it. Yes, vulnerable can be a very good. It’s a doorway that often will lead to places that we cannot reach otherwise.
We have old soldiers at our fitness center also. I do have my favorites!
Thank you for sharing.
Keep telling your story, Charlotte 🙂 It will never be told without pain, but just like those old soldiers, will give us grace to know what we’ve come through.
Last week, an older gentleman at our gym told me about 2 navy seals that lost their lives that day. He spoke in plural, first person as he told me about their deaths. “We lost 2 more today”, he said.
He brings his disabled son to the gym and helps him workout. He, himself, has had 2 knee replacements and is rather overweight, but when he tells the stories the same eyes that were present all those years ago are very much the same.
People that are brave enough to tell their painful stories are inspiring to me. I hope I always take the time to listen.
It is incredibly hard sometimes to be vulnerable in front of people, as I’m learning in going to therapy now. I find that for me, talking about stuff with friends helps me get perspective on things. But I imagine it would be so much harder if I had been through something like you have Charlotte, so I so appreciate your courage for sharing it with the world.
That got me teared up.
This is very powerful. Its going to be turned over in my mind for quite some time. I love your thoughts on vulnerability.
You’re amazing Charlotte.
How do you accept it that someone is just not strong enough to be there for you at a moment like that?
It’s a problem I just keep on ignoring, because you don’t just leave a friendship- and it hurts to much to even really think about it.. How do you deal with that? I’m amazed.
I second what mizfit said.
And Jim, thank you for writing what you wrote!
i feel like I was there with you on that doorstep and wish I could have put my arms around you in that thin green t-shirt and comforted you. Re-telling the story makes other people feel less alone and helps heal you from the inside out. I hope you’ve been able to burn that t-shirt (lke, literally, set in on fire) to help symbolically let go of such a painful time. No forget – just let it go anough so it doesn’t have so much power. It helped me…
and sometimes, the gym prompts storytelling. thank you for sharing. it hurts to reveal pain and things that had previously been hidden deep inside. still, i know it feels oddly good to get it out. i know it did for me recently.
i love the old man’s story, too.
((HUGS)) to you, Charlotte! I am so proud of you for your honesty and bravery in writing about your pain. And I’ve always wanted to talk to the old vets I see and personally thank them for their sacrifices, but I’ve never done it… So thanks for asking that man about his story and sharing it with us! What a beautiful post.
Bravo to you for recognizing that the KB circuit could wait. This man and those like him who are lucky enough to still be alive, have amazing stories to tell but so many people today are too busy to listen. I’m SO glad you did! I’m a history buff of WWII and a huge supporter of our serving troops today so this is an interaction that I would have just cherished so much.
I’m so glad that Mel and you both feel as if you can talk about your survival experiences with strangers. Each time the story gets retold, I would imagine that it gets just a teensy bit easier. I hope you are both healing through your storytelling. I for one am so glad that you are sharing.
Thank you.
Wow. Well done.
My mom once told me and I’ll never forget that people love you, not because your perfect but because of your imperfections. I really think this is true and I love that the gym can open people up and they don’t have to hide behind the “power suits.” I’ve been in Utah for almost a year now and haven’t met any friends that I could talk to and relate with like our Minnesota group. I don’t know if you remember our conversation in the car on my birthday night last year but I can’t believe we trusted each other enough to talk about such a sensitive subject. I love you for being brave enough to open up and let us see your vulnerable side- it’s what makes you loveable. I miss you- we almost came out for the state fair but thought that would be a little weird 🙂
I couldn’t tell anyone what happened to me 3 years ago for a long, long time. I can finally talk about it without crying (too much) now but yeah, I could tell that my friends had no idea how to react. And neither did I. I didn’t know how to reach out, even though I had reached out before when I went through the whole depression thing. This was different and it was uncharted territory that I really didn’t want to explore.
Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is scary and so is witnessing it.
Hi Charlotte. Thank you so much for telling your stories. I wanted to ask you more about your friend, this super-close male friend who you later found out knew about and blew off your assault. Did you ever get to confront him? Was his behavior typical of your and G’s mutual friends? I just don’t get it. Why would he be loyal to G over you? It’s such a multifacted betrayal, coming at you from every direction: first your boyfriend, then your mutual friends, then even your close male friend. Who did you have in your corner?