Today someone asked me out.  I freaked.  Considering that it was my very best friend's ex-boyfriend as well as a very good friend's brother--the answer was obviously no.

My friends were there when I was asked, and they all had a different opinion on why I should refuse.  The fact that my life was even normal, that I was getting asked out was a shock.

I'm not ready to be in a relationship.  I could say I just got out of one and that's why.  But someone asking one out on a date--well that's not a relationship.  How does one explain that the one reason that I don't want to go out with anyone is that I can't trust.  I can barely be involved with a guy and most certainly not on an emotional level.

But you can't explain to every guy that flirts with you or asks you out that oh, you just got out of an abusive relationship and you were raped.

So I said I was tired.  Didn't want to go out that night.  That I wanted to sleep.

I know I don't owe anyone the truth, but it's pretty awful to have to make up lies and hope that they hold firm.

Cause I'm holding firm.  The wind may be trying to knock me over but I'll just ride it.  As best I can.

Block after block flies by.  My brain is a pile of mush--taken over by anxiety and sleep deprivation.  I'm running fast trying to pound my troubles in the pavement, as if somehow they will travel out through my feet and stay left behind on the cobblestones.  I feel like oobleck, the force of my feet pounding is the only thing that's making me a solid and not a puddle of tears.

I wonder how many more times I'll need to stay up till 3am writing legal briefs, now crafting a case against this or that, then writing support and testimony so I have to avoid being interrogated one more time.  I wonder when I can choose to be up till 3am again instead of having that chosen for me.

Everything in me tries to hold my emotional self together but it's not working.  If I don't let it out, then it comes out physically--the headache that's persistent, the shaking hands as I try to complete procedures in lab while waiting for results from meetings I cannot be present at--because after all I have class--after all I am a student.

The tears that come when I realize a long term flirtation has come to an end are almost a relief.  They're normal; something that I've felt before, that my friends have felt before.  I can't say I'm sad that it ended, to be honest.  It's, like so many of other things, something that's not in my script for life.  But the difference is that I've decided on this script--it's my choice.  Now no one will see the scar, there won't be any covering it up every day.  There's no more pressure trying not to fall for someone or trying to figure out why I'm not falling for this person.  But if there's one thing I've learned, emotions don't come single.  Or double.  They come in droves and it's ok to be confused about any or all of them.

I have to emote.  It's necessary.  It's helpful.  It's normal.  And I'm starting to learn that too.

You would think that the thing that pains me most was my rape.  Those minutes where I was made helpless and hurt, body and soul.  I thought it was those that would stick with me forever.  The incident that caused me for several weeks to involuntarily rub my wrists together to try to forget the feeling of my wrists being pinned down--it's a trick my therapist taught me in dealing with post traumatic symptoms.

But no.  The rape doesn't hurt the most.  It's how it has affect my future, from big to small.  There's the friends who say I should start dating again soon, those who say I shouldn't date for another semester, those who question old crushes that are coming back.

It's affected how I deal with the deluge of emotions that are coming back all at once.  I was numb for so long but now I feel everything at once: anger, fear, annoyance, joy, sadness, freedom, hope, despair.  Sometimes it feels as if my skin will burst, other times a quiet peace takes over me.

It's affected my relationships.  I don't know how to explain to my male friends that this happened to me, and i'm not ok, but at the same time I am oddly--ok.  Everything I say, do, write I must make sure will not be used against me.  Cause no matter how many times someone tells me it's the 21st century, I know someone can still call me a slut in a court case.

It's affected how I think of myself.  Sometimes I wonder...am I a slut?...did I do something wrong?...was it because I decided to be alone with him?...was I being a tease?  None of these questions should even be in my head.  I know what happened, I know I am innocent, I know I am a good, respectful girl.  But that doesn't matter.  I live in a culture where it is totally appropriate and the norm for one to ask oneself these questions--and also to have others ask them of you.

Except for my scars, I am physically well.  I am one of the lucky ones--I suffered no permanent physical damage, to my knowledge.  But my psyche has taken a bad beating, one it may take a while to recover from.

This is part of my story.  I will float on whatever breeze it keeps sending my way.  But I will not let things within my control be controlled by it.

My life has always been fragmented, separated into many pieces that are each distinct and do not invade each other--that is the ultimate sin.  There is home life and school life and social life and each of these are fragmented in many pieces.  No one knows all aspects of these groups.  The only thing that I allow to permeate through all groups is my faith.  Privacy is worth something to me, but how I do it depends--I believe sharing my story gives strength but my anonymity is important.

But my assault has permeated everything.  Some days when I walk down the street I feel that I'm labeled on my forehead--victim written in red letters.  Like I wear an embroidered scarlet V on my chest.  Telling my story didn't remain my choice--countless administrators and officials, his friends, my fellow students.  Sometimes, my only hope was to preemptively tell my friends--before he or his friends did.

I remember the day someone assumed that I had never been through trauma.  You think I'd be offended by the fact that someone would assume that my life was all rose petals and rainbows.  Instead I was grateful--it made me feel that maybe after all I had a shred of privacy left.

Privacy in rape victims doesn't mean them shutting down and never telling their story.  It means allowing them to truly have control of the process of telling their story.  When, where, and how they open up remains up to them.  It may not be the timing that someone wants, it may not be when or where that someone wants.  But it is the survivor's trauma, their own to decide, share, and explore.

Assault doesn't stay contained no matter how much we want it to.  But others can help by allowing it to be the victim's survivor's choice on how and who they tell.  First amendment rights are important, but isn't human decency more important?

I am Brisa.  I am a university student.  I am a young woman.  I have friends who I care deeply about.  I have family I love very much.  I believe in a God who loves me, cares for me, and has saved me.  

I appear to be a typical girl.  I am organized, a good student, and a creative researcher.  I have a supportive family and have been given every chance at life. 

But under the surface there is pain.  I'm not perfect.  I'm not whole.  

I was raped.  I was in an abusive relationship that last four months and that resulted in a rape.  Nothing in me was prepared for this, nothing in me wanted this, nothing in this was my fault.  I am blameless, innocent, broken, but slowly trying to put myself back together.  

This experience is not what defines me as a human being.  It is not what defines me as a woman.  It is not what defines any part of me, from all of me to the tiniest cell.  It does not define my sexuality or how I decide when and how to use it.  I am more than this, bigger than this.  It is merely a gust of wind that has swept me off my feet for a moment.  I will get back up.  The gentle breeze will come again and bring good things--it's all ready starting to.  

This has become part of my story.  It may not be of my choosing, but if there's one thing I've learned--it's if the wind blows, ride it.  

So this blog is dedicated to me learning to ride the wind--when it gusts and when it's just a breeze.