Why I'm Talking About My Abuse —?Even When It's Hard

I have noticed a new self-policing voice in my mind. This voice worries that I am becoming shrill the more I talk about domestic violence. This voice tells me that I am being too loud, that I am posting about abuse too much. This voice tells me that people think I relate everything back to abuse, and that I see abuse all around me in places where it doesn’t exist. This voice tells me that people will think I am hysterical if I continue to write about this topic, and that they won't take me seriously as a result.?

This voice is wrong. I know this voice isn’t mine. These are not intrusive thoughts, but I am not their source.

As an undergrad, my concentration was feminist pop culture criticism. I studied how the media teaches us about gender and sex and power, in good ways and in bad. These lessons are baked into sitcoms, Oscar-bait dramas, beloved Top 40 singles, tabloid headlines. Usually we are not aware that we are learning anything at all. We take in these lessons like UV rays as we play volleyball on the beach.

What does the media tell us about victims of abuse? These days it is a mixed bag. The Me Too movement created an unprecedented space for speaking up, and its backlash created a vicious arena for tearing down. Violence against women is algorithm bait, not a global crisis. We mourn Gabby Petito and we pillory Amber Heard.

I worry that the only believable domestic violence victim is a dead one.

I've been thinking about the photographs that publications use when they cover domestic violence trials. The living victim, usually female, is sneering and screaming. This is an editorial choice — it makes her look hysterical, petty, dangerous. This image selection may be unconscious, or it may not be. Either way, the impact exists. We are less likely to believe someone who appears unhinged.

Strangers on Twitter tell me that I am lying about my abuse. They say that I have made it up for attention, for more followers, for money. They do not know me, and they know even less about my relationships. Despite not personally knowing my abusers, not even knowing their names, they side with them by default.

I consciously dismiss their tweets. They are cranks, misogynists, conspiracy theorists. I can see their hateful replies to other survivors. I can see their anime avatars and hardcore pornography retweets. Their drive-by commentary on my trauma holds no substance. It is not about me at all.

But. I have been told that women lie my whole life.

I know that this is a patriarchal myth and I've still absorbed it. No one needs to tell me that I am lying. I already tell it to myself.

Why now? Why am I hearing this voice now? This could be a side effect of months of backlash to my tweets about Johnny Depp and Marilyn Manson. This could also be my brain processing my decision to share more of my story as a victim. It was not a simple decision to make.

But there is also that meme: I do not wish to be perceived. This internal voice tells me to quiet down at a moment when I have never been as professionally successful. My platform has grown in the last year. I just sold my first novel. People are paying attention to me, and that attention will only increase. At a time when I take up unprecedented space, this voice tells me to take up less. It is not a purely misogynist thought. It is a self-protecting one, too.

My success is due to my writing about abuse, not in spite of it. I know that. My readership has grown because people want to learn about this stigmatized topic. They want to hear stories like their own, to understand their experiences, and to have new vocabulary to explain their trauma to loved ones. Abuse has always, always been a theme of my work. If writing about abuse is what I become known for, I think I am good with that.

And yet. You’re exaggerating. Everyone knows you’re exaggerating. He’s going to sue you and it doesn’t matter that you’ve anonymized your abusers and it doesn’t matter that you’re writing behind a paywall and it doesn’t matter that you are so careful not to overstate. You’re a liar. It was your fault. How dare you. Shut up. Shut up.

There is one thought that sounds so much like me. It perfectly mimics the cadence of my voice. If what happened to me was so bad, why am I still alive? Why am I so successful? Why am I able to eat ice cream, and raid the clearance section at Forever21, and tweet my opinions about the latest Netflix flop? If it hurt so much, if trauma still lives in my body, why am I capable of joy? Does my survival discredit me as a victim??

If you wanted people to believe you, why didn't you just go through with it and kill yourself on the floor of his bathroom.

My goodness, what kind of a hateful rape culture thought is that??

Writing about abuse has been cathartic and meaningful for me. I am proud of the work I do and of the analysis I share. My readers tell me that I make a difference, and I do not intend to stop. That being said, speaking up about abuse is hard. It is dangerous and uncomfortable and demands sacrifices from us. I don't want anyone who also hears that voice to feel alone or weak. This isn't easy. Not for anyone.

I know this much. On days when the terms "victim" and "survivor" don't seem to fit my broad shoulders, I can just be a writer. I am still here. I can put words on the page, one word at a time.

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