It’s one thing to be called a liar, it’s another thing to be called a liar about your lived experience. Sare from my novel, An Impossible Dream, knows this all too well. She notes the “righteous fire” that comes from the injustice of it. For her, the experience she lived is one multiple characters continually seem to struggle to wrap their brain around because it is not a story many would have heard before. It is shocking to them, uncomfortable, and maybe even challenges their views of the world as they think they know it. Her frustration goes a step further, in someone digging into her past without permission. That, on top of not being believed, she does not even have a say on who she chooses to share said experience with. As is stated in the novel, “Never mind not even her own history belonging to her.” This idea of the preciousness of our personal stories is an ongoing theme in this series, as well as the violation of that sacredness from others. In book 1 of the same series, Be, Ari deals with this, too. In her case, along with the dismissing or discounting, she also deals with her eldest brother, Nick, using her lived experience to his advantage, making it about him, and trying to dictate how he feels she should respond to it. In that moment, she reflects: “It’s my story, she wanted to tell him now. It’s mine. It happened to me. And it’s mine to do with as I wish.” This becomes a central theme in book three, Where the Heart Is, with the Queen and the realization of the erasure of her overall story over the course of the first three books, and the eventual reclaiming of her narrative in book four.
It felt like a sort of rebellion against the patriarchy. That she was going to speak regardless of his response or his purposely deaf ears. It felt inevitable that speaking to “her father” would mean never being heard the way “her father” assumes he would and, even, should be heard. As Dr. Karen Ward says in the preface of the Girl God Anthology, Re-Membering with Goddess, “Speaking about trauma is political.” It is as “liberating” and “revolutionary” as she says “understanding trauma is” and “healing trauma is.” When it comes to CPTSD, one of the common struggles people face is the re-traumatization that occurs when they try to share their stories. The dismissing, the discounting, and even the excuses people make for why the abuse or trauma occurred. I know this from firsthand experience and have seen others sharing across social media of similar experiences. It’s not just mental health, either. What immediately comes to mind is my mother’s experience as someone who lives with chronic illness. One of her many, many experiences that she shares in her book, The Unchained Spirit, involved an intrathecal pump that was meant to aid the “intense, unrelenting pain over [her] entire body” that caused further problems and torture. She came close to losing her feet and “finally, the pump was removed at [her] insistence.” She was back to dealing with the horrific pain, but as she notes about advocacy and pushing to be heard, “What was important was that I spoke up and followed my instincts. I knew what was causing the problem and, despite all those who said otherwise, I insisted the pump be removed and the meds stopped. And, I was right.” It’s worth noting, my mother and I are straight, cis, and white. We’re conscious of all we do not have to face because of the privilege that comes with that. We are conscious of the devastating consequences that come with not being heard, not being believed, with someone else trying to take over the story or erase it, with not being allowed to decide who gets to hear our stories or when. We’re also conscious that we are not the authority on someone else’s lived experience and that no one owes us their story. That someone else’s experience is not about us.
When someone tells us their story, we shut up, we listen, and we believe them.
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AuthorGathering dust in the depths of my mind, random thoughts dusted off and put out there for the world to see... Archives
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Ellie Lieberman |