I’m Fine.

I saw an old friend yesterday. We met for a drink at a bar in Korea town where we always liked to frequent.

“How are you doing?” she asked with that slightly condescending tone stinking just enough of pity.

“I’m fine,” I replied casually, tossing back a shot of soju—Korean rice whiskey. It’s smooth, so very dangerous.

“You’re so strong.” She shook her head in wonder. Eyes wide with what I suppose was sympathy. “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like…”

I had no responses. All the words I’d planned to say had dried on my tongue.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Don’t worry. I’m fine…

 And yet—on the inside, nothing was “fine.” Sometimes it felt like it never would be again.

In November of 2015, three days before my 28th birthday, while on my way home from that same Korean bar, stumbling from too many shots of soju, I was intercepted by a group of men, taken to the basement of a house a few blocks from my Crown Heights apartment and violently raped by one,

and then another,

and then another…

“Girl, you’re so fine—” They’d said to me on the street trying to get my attention… But everything that was, died in that basement bedroom, or so it seemed.

Everyone said it was a miracle, a blessing that I survived and got out of that situation alive. How did I do it? I’m about to get real with you.

I got out by pretending—by getting aggressive. For a brief moment I took my power back, pure survival instinct kicked in. Because looking back on it—I can’t really believe I did what I did—

“So is anyone else going to fuck me?” I snapped, challenging them, throwing them off their guards. “Because if not, I’m going home.”

As steadily as I could, I stood from the mattress, adjusting my clothes and grabbing my bag. “I’m going home.” I stated, and moved past the men who had been tormenting me the past hour.

 It was like they didn’t even know what to do—my behavior had completely confused them. Were they expecting tears? Was I supposed to beg?

I will never know why it happened the way it did, but I walked out of that basement of nightmares on my own two feet. It wasn’t until I was out on the street, walking at a fast pace through the crisp November night that shock and terror set in. I was intensively frightened and disoriented, and I just took off, not even paying attention to where I was going.

I remember walking

And walking

And feeling like I’d never get home.

This all took place within a three-block radius of where I’d lived for three years, mind you. That’s how out of my head I was—I was lost in my own neighborhood, the place I thought I knew like the back of my hand. It was at this time I also discovered they had taken my phone, my wallet and my keys (including my car key, which led to my adorable VW Beetle getting stolen and burnt to a crisp after a high speed chase through Long Island—but that’s a story for another day…)

I didn’t know how I was going to get home. When I momentarily came out of my shock, I realized I’d wandered so far in the wrong direction, I was on a street I’d never even heard of. I saw a cab and begged him to help me. Luckily he got me back to my place and with incessant buzzing I was able to wake my roommate from the downstairs lobby.

“Hello? Who is it?” A groggy voice came over the speaker—at this point it was past 3am.

“Kelly let me in, let me in! Let me in! Please!”

A savior. A blessing. I’d never wanted a roommate in my one bedroom apartment (necessity had led to that) but at this moment I’d never been happier. If she hadn’t been there, I would have been in a lot more trouble.

Inside I was able to call the police and my mom who lives in Dallas Fort Worth, and that set off a whirlwind of gritty, miserable events and experiences. The attack itself had been surreal; it was like I’d stepped outside myself—I even remember wondering who was screaming, only to realize it was me—that’s how disassociated I was. But now harsh reality had hit and I was dealing with the fallout under the biting neon lights of the emergency room and the SVU detective’s office.

The whole experience left me reeling, shaken to the core. In shock and struggling with the early signs of PTSD.

I was not fine.

I couldn’t fathom feeling stable or normal again, like the person I’d been before was completely and utterly lost to me. But I suppose…

Somehow, through this all there was something guiding me—some positive energy, or “bigger reason” why this had happened. And through it all I had wonderful friends and family who supported me and showed their love in many ways, from helping out with expenses, to just making me laugh, to even tweeting out about my CAUSE when I was fighting with the banks (another story for another day, that involved checks getting re-cashed and stolen) blech.

Anyway—though this intense darkness, there was this thin ray of light, almost invisible at first but getting slightly bigger week to week. As corny as it probably is, I literally visualized it as a light at the end of a tunnel, and I just moved towards it step by step. Sometimes even less then that, sometimes tiny centimeter by centimeter, sometimes I even moved backwards, but that light was always there…

In the distance…

I cocooned myself, leaving the cruel city to stay with my mom in Texas for a few months. I was surrounded by family, but mostly I just liked being by myself. When I was with others I had to put on a mask and pretend I was ok. Not that they all expected me to be ok, but I’m the type who doesn’t express their more “intense emotions” very well. And my family, though very supportive, are not of the “lovey-dovey talk about feelings” variety.

Still, this break was good for me—the demons seemed farther behind me than before and at last I felt that I was at the end of the tunnel, ready to step out into the sun. I decided it was time to come back to New York.

I was returning to a better situation, many friends who were eager to see me, and a new apartment far enough from my old place that I’d never have to return to that area—never have to walk down those streets littered with bad memories, ever again. 

But I can’t say it’s been easy.

After the whirlwind of moving, my mom flew back to Fort Worth and again I was on my own, for the first time since the night it had happened. Every day is a struggle and the Post Traumatic Stress has reared its ugly head more intensely than before.

I get scared and startled easily—something I’d never experienced. And my anxiety is off the charts. I have intrusive thoughts, visual flash backs every day.

But the nightmares have stopped. And I feel like I’ve stepped out into the day.

That darkness is still right behind me—over my shoulder, and sometimes (more often than I’d like) it reaches out a slippery tendril and coils its way around me. But still …it is behind me. And every breath I take, every waking moment, propels me away from it and into the light.

Since this trauma happened, I’ve been determined to make something of it, to turn it around, to find a way to channel it and maybe, possibly, help others who have experienced something similar.

For a long time I wasn’t ready. I still may not be. But I’m a big believer of fake it till you make it.

So for now, I’m going to keep pretending “I’m Fine.”

And wait for the day I finally am.

#MeToo, But Not Me Too

Ever since the breaking news this past October about Harvey Weinstein’s sexual assaults and harassment, a deep discomfort and malaise has been growing within me. With every new headline of some entitled, male predator I find myself voraciously consuming every article I can find about each case. I have a sick fascination—near obsession—with hearing the accounts of what happened from the victims. But there are rarely details in these articles and I’ve found that frustrating. It’s like I need to know what happened to these women for my own sanity.

With what I’ve been able to glean, I’m still not satisfied. In all these recent stories I haven’t been able to find what I’m desperately seeking: word or whisper of something similar to what happened to me. It’s not out there. For that, I guess I should be happy. I’m glad these women haven’t experienced what I have. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so isolated—so alone.

Ironically, this #MeToo movement which I believe was meant in part to create solidarity amongst survivors and show how horribly normal it is, has had the opposite effect on me. I want to say #MeToo because I’ve also had creepy, bordering on non-consensual sexual experiences. That’s been almost my norm with cis-gender, heterosexual males. I’ve experienced the street harassment and feeling uncomfortable with an older man who has more “power” than me. Being propositioned in gross ways, being demeaned and sexualized. So, yeah, #MeToo! But I’ve also experienced hell. I’ve also experienced something so terrible, so soul shattering that I still haven’t recovered. I still struggle with PTSD every fucking day. I’m still not the same person I was before and may never be again.

In November of 2015, three days before my 28th birthday, I was abducted, taken to a basement and raped by a group of men who beat me and then stole everything I had: my money, phone and my much loved silver VW Beetle, a car I’d had since I was sixteen and had driven from Detroit to Chicago to its final resting place, New York City. In a scenario that, even to me, still sounds too crazy to be true, the perpetrators took my Beetle on a high-speed chase through Long Island that eventually ended in literal flames after driving it into oncoming traffic and then into a telephone pole.

Unlike my car, I survived. Somehow.

Everyone who knew what happened to me said it was a miracle I got out of that situation more or less unscathed. It wasn’t until I spoke to my dad a few days after my assault, that the severity struck me.

“You could have been killed,” he was weeping. “Men kill women in basements. Girls disappear off the streets.”

His words made my blood run cold. It was a disturbing truth. Yet there I was: hurt, in shock, but alive. I could have died that night, I know that now. And in the extreme depression that followed I could have killed myself many times, but I’ve survived that too. Though it’s hard for me to believe sometimes, I am strong.

What I’ve been wanting so desperately is some kind of validation. Some kind of normalization. Now I know that sounds depressing—why would we as a society want to normalize the horrifying experience I had? But the truth of the matter is I know women have experienced these kinds of traumas, and yet I haven’t heard anyone who has proclaimed #MeToo talking about this kind of experience. Everything I’ve read has fallen more into the harassment category. I do not at all mean to belittle or demean the experiences any of these women have had, it’s just a different kind of experience and not what I’ve needed to feel normal. I need to feel normal. I would love if other women who have survived violent rape would talk about it. Let me hear your story. Let me know that I’m not alone.

With this recent commotion involving Aziz Anisari, I finally had to say something about my whole discomfort with the #MeToo movement. Since its inception I’ve wanted to jump on the bandwagon and shout “Hurrah! Sexual assault survivors standing together! Fighting the man!” But I honestly don’t feel that excited about it. I feel bummed. I feel kind of left out. Because as much as I can say Me Too, it’s also not Me Too. I feel like I don’t fit in with the narrative, like my story isn’t what people want to hear. With all these women standing up and talking about harassment and creepy sexual experiences, I still sometimes feel like I’m the only one who has ever experienced this level of criminal assault. I know that’s not true. I know it’s not. Maybe, it’s just too painful for survivors to talk about. But god I want to talk about it. I want to talk about it with women who have been through it. I want to be told I’m not alone. I want to know that they were able to pull through and live normal lives. I want to have hope that I will get through this. One day.

I guess I need to remind myself that revolution starts small and gets bigger and bigger. So the fact that we are talking about sexual assault and rape culture at all is a huge step forward. But I'm hoping that eventually we can start airing our more painful experiences. Because if we just sweep them under the rug and carry them as our secret burdens, we're not moving forward. We have to talk about it. We must.