I like to write. I don't know if I love it. Perhaps it's more that I need to write. It's a means to sort out my thoughts and feelings - deriving perspective and clarity out of the chaos that I concoct around me. Writing started as a 3rd grade assignment, and I would write about anything and everything - I took to paper like a fish to water. Thoughts, words, expressions, descriptions, plots, character, observations - I would fill out the pages of my notebooks.

Do you have your own set of commandments that you follow?

Yesterday marked the 24th anniversary of the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women.  For years, I've observed this day with detached deference - always thinking of the 14 women, the police officer who responded to the call only to learn that his own daughter was one of the victims, and the senselessness and selfish act of one man.

I think of all the other women who have suffered or survived violence and I would send out a silent prayer of love and courage out to the universe.  Oddly, I would never include myself - my blinkers of denial and shame kept me from seeing or feeling things.  I was 14 years old when the Montreal massacre took place, and I remember reading and watching the news with avid attention. It was sensational, and all the news media were on fire. It was a defining time as a teen - this was something closer to home - it wasn't Hollywood and the reality of it was there was a collective sense of innocence lost. Little did I know then, a few weeks after this event, danger lurked in the shadows and I would experience the first of a series of unwanted sexual attention and manipulation, setting in motion my patterns of disassociation, secrets and hyper-vigilance.

But this year has been different and as I thought of the women, I felt a stronger sense of solidarity and ownership of the significance of this day.  It's as if the cloaks of shame and guilt have fallen off my shoulders so that I can stand with the other women.  For the first time, my heart, mind and soul shout out in unison, "I refuse to accept any more of it."  I am not alone in my suffering.  I was/am a victim of a violent act.  I was/am a victim of manipulation. And further more, I no longer want to be silent.

I'm reminded of the song The Reason by Hoobastank.  It is one of my anthem songs. My therapist had me memorize the lyrics, repeat the words over and over again and letting them touch an emotional place within.  In the beginning, this song would bring forth a flood of tears and pain, but now I find solace, reassurance and hope:

I've found a reason for me
To change who I used to be
A reason to start over new
And the reason is you.
I've found a reason to show
A side of me you didn't know
A reason for all that I do
And the reason is you.

Changing my own personal narrative of my circumstances has helped me to see things with greater clarity.  I feel more grounded.  I feel more assured than I have ever been in years as I continue to confront my past and my present so that what comes next will be a better tomorrow.

It's beautiful outside today...first main snowfalls of the season and there is a pure yet rugged feel to it all. The snow is cradled in puffs by the tree branches but every so often, when the tree can no longer bear the weight of the snow, the branch gives a little tug and releases the snow.

I'm inspired by this view. It's been a productive few weeks since my last post - I feel I have momentum on my side and I'm loathe to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. There have been a number of "Aha!" moments as well as acceptance that have aided immensely in uncovering my authentic self.

Shame is a topic I've been exploring and for me, this is a topic that I found most difficult to voice.  I know my shame, I cradle it like precious cargo. I've also treated it like a companion or something comforting like tea and cookies. And all the feelings that arise with my shame, I've kept them locked in a vault. And so this past month, I have faced them through visual exercises - drawings, post-it notes plastered against my wall, and in my journal writing. It's often been a confusing and anxiety ridden experience. I have a number of records that I play on my broken record player inside my head that make it hard for me to really see and uncover the truth.  Here are some of my top ten records:

• "I'm broken. I'm damaged."
• "I'm not worthy of love."
• "I'm only worth a secret and pussy."
• "This isn't true love.  It's just a game."
• "I have to work hard and prove myself because I'm not good enough."
• "I'm not desirable. I'm ugly."
• "I have to stay in control."
• "I'm a bad person."
• "I'm invisible."
• "Don't let the secrets out...let the world think I am OK."

All my past abuse and rape experiences are my shame, but the result of one of the past experiences deeply affects me still and it's a secret I've buried deeply for a long time.

Secret Reveal #5: I am not disease-free.

18 years ago - He was my first sexual partner and as a young woman, I was both naive and ignorant. I was self-conscious and lacked the confidence to stay firm about what I wanted, one of which was safe sex. I thought saying "NO!" would be sufficient enough and that he would listen to me. But when I didn't play along with what HE wanted, he would become aggressive, and that night was no different...he pinned me down and was deaf to my pleas. The result - I ended up going to the campus clinic and the doctor diagnosed me with genital herpes a week later. I was mortified. I was shocked. I was angry. I was hurt. I was ashamed. When she asked me if I knew who and how I had contracted the virus, I replied in matter-of-fact tone and described what happened. She asked me if I wanted to speak with a counselor and I said, "No thank you. I'll be all right."  In hindsight, I wish the doctor had been more persistent and insist I speak with someone about my experience. Back then, friends said I should have reported him and the date-rape to campus police. I wish I had listened and acted on all their advice.  But I couldn't. The chains of shame already claimed me as a prisoner.

Present - I shared this shame with the women of my therapy group last week - it is my scarlet letter. It felt good to release the weight...like the branches releasing the snow. Their compassion and support was truly appreciated in helping me face this shame aloud. And in acknowledging the shame and secret, it's given back a piece of myself. And hope.