Posters and Tweets

The last week has been an eye opener for me, and reminded me of the kindness, resilience and passion of the women out there, regardless of whether I know them or not.

Due to a series of strange migraines which leave me unable to move or speak (they present themselves a bit like strokes), I've been off work for two weeks. And, somehow, my consent forms and other details went missing from occupational health, prompting my boss to suggest I deliver them by hand.

So, last Friday, I did exactly that. I printed and completed another consent form, phoned the occupational health people to warn them that I was coming, and hopped in my car. I was a little hesitant and determined to put on the "calm, put together" facade, because they obviously know about my past and I didn't want them to decide I was hysterical and incapable of working. Not that it was likely, but I do tend to over-think these things, and I had poor experiences with people wielding power (whose preconceived ideas about sexual assault caused big problems) last year.

I arrived at the building and rang the doorbell. The lady I spoke to on the phone asked me to come in and take a seat, as the nurse wanted to speak to me personally. Personally? I was a little concerned about this, but sat anyway.

That's when I saw it. After all, it could hardly be missed. On a blue board about alcohol abuse, where most posters were white and featuring individual drinks, there was a "featured" one in the centre. This most prominent poster was black, showing a woman and stated, "1 in 3 reported rapes happens when the victim has been drinking. Know Your Limits."

I felt sick. After all the campaigning, after everything that is being done, council-run centres are still displaying posters like this. Not that they should be anywhere, but the EVB Campaign was founded here in Nottinghamshire and that, somehow, made it worse. Then, of course, there was the fact that an establishment like this, that would be judging me, had these archaic views. I might as well pack my bags...

I surreptitiously took a photo, and managed to sit down just before the nurse came to collect me and talk me through the process. It left me with more answers than questions (seeing as everyone seems to be contradicting each other), but my mind was elsewhere. That poster.

A few hours later, I tweeted the photo. In the days since, it has been retweeted 53 times, and @manderlay1940's retweet with additional comment was tweeted 74 times. And various other modifications have also done the rounds.

I was taken aback by the interest shown. I knew the poster was awful, but I had initially thought that I was being oversensitive. I never thought that so many people would be outraged. A lovely lady on Twitter asked to phone and interview me for her blog, and she has recently told me that a petition to get these posters removed has begun.

I found out today that this petition has over 5000 signatures, that the NUS has also waded in and commented on it and The Drum is also running an article. Part of it seems a little crazy, that this little "Yuck, look what I saw!" has taken off.

But then I'm really, really glad.

You see, even now, I don't have the courage to do anything myself. I'm happy to speak in public about violence against women and girls (like at Nine Worlds), I'm happy to teach about gender equality or sexual violence or even do very personal performances about it (like at the Silence the Violence event in Nottingham). But for me to ask them to remove this poster, that was making it too personal. That felt like I was trying to remove something that was uncomfortable for me, for my own personal gain rather than for the greater good, and I was scared of the impact that could have on my career. After all, occupational health hold my life in their hands right now.

This isn't about just my feelings, though. And it doesn't matter how old this poster is (apparently, it was released in 2006). By displaying that poster, which is endorsed by both the Home Office and the NHS, it effectively tells you that those organisations will look at your culpability first, as the victim, and also that the organisation displaying it will do the same. These are organisations in positions of power and trust, ones that are supposed to be supporting people.

If, on a pre-employment form, you declare that you have suffered anxiety attacks, flashbacks, depression or any other lasting effects of assault, the chances are you will be called in for an interview. Imagine sitting in that waiting room, as a woman who has experienced rape, and seeing that this establishment thinks it's your fault. Imagine what that does, on top of the nerves and worry that you already have.

So I'm glad that other women have taken this cause and run with it. I'm glad that so many people are outraged, because it shows how our outlook as a society is beginning to change, how people are willing to act for change and how we can stand in solidarity to support each other and say, "no, this isn't just you feeling this way." 

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I had been brave enough to do it myself. To step up and say, "this isn't right, we need to change it". But then, I know that the reassurance and support, and the knowledge that I'm not alone in this, is what I needed this time. That was my discovery to make.

For those wondering, I have been told that the county council received complaints, and that the poster has been removed. I will be checking this when I go in for my next appointment in a few weeks.

Support vs Pressure

Last year, I met a woman who was completely aghast at my openness. She asked me how I would feel if my headteacher knew about my past, about the fact I'd been raped, about my pregnancies and miscarriages. She obviously thought that I'd be terrified by the idea of anyone knowing, especially my headteacher. I wasn't, particularly. Though I wouldn't have gone out of my way to share this blog or my experience, I wasn't ashamed of it, much to this woman's surprise.

You see, this woman thought that being raped is something I should hide. She told me that by speaking openly about it, I'm bringing the organisations I work with into disrepute, that I was unfit to be working with young people. She told me that groups didn't need the stigma of people like me, that sort of woman, like it was my fault, like I had attracted trouble and I should feel guilty.

I don't blame this woman for her views, any more than I blame the organisation that she represents. She is, unfortunately, a victim herself - a victim of societal misconceptions about gender inequality and abuse. She has spent so long believing myths of culpability that violence has become something that her truth has become warped. Views like this need to be challenged, and I still feel a sense of disgust that it has taken me so long to address it, but they also need to be tackled in a way that is respectful of the framework and experiences that have shaped the viewpoint in the first place. We are trying to change minds, not destroy people.

But this post isn't about that incident or that woman, not directly. It's to do with what she said.

As I've said in a previous post, I'm lucky enough to be working in a school that I love, and I've been there since January. This half term, my induction reports from my first two terms finally arrived from my previous authority, and I was asked into the headteacher's office.

"But these are not at all reflective of what we've seen here," she commented on the reports, quoting choice sections that made me cringe. "What's changed? Why did you struggle so much?"

I don't quite know what made me be so honest, but I was. I sat there and told her that I should never have trained when I did, that I was fighting back against what happened to me, that I've had counselling since and started building up that relationship with myself again.

She asked questions - lots of questions - and I answered every one of them, fully and honestly. By the end of the meeting, I was broken and shaking, but she knew the whole situation. She thanked me for sharing and told me that it really helped her - it meant that she understood and she had enough context that she could support me and fight my corner if it was needed.

When I was interviewed for a proper contract (rather than the supply I'm currently doing), I was also open about what I do, that I blog about gender inequality, violence against women, that I have run workshops on the subject, that I write articles, go on marches and other bits. I never for a moment thought that I would be judged.

I have been discussing what we can do to support those who have experienced VAWG, both staff members and children. My experience, my past, it's all valued rather than dismissed or swept under the carpet. It's not something that comes up every day or something that is at the forefront, but it is acknowledged when appropriate. I'm free to be myself and not just a sanitised facade that threatens to crack over time.

If we accept the experiences of others and support them, we can lift them up and help them reach their full potential. By forcing them to hide their true selves or aspects of that, we are putting pressure on them and forcing them down until they break. 

Sadly, I know that I am in the minority, being in an environment that does support and embrace me for who I am. But we need to take this model and encourage it. Not so that every woman has to share their experience, but so no woman has to live in fear of it "coming out".

The Right School

"Wow, it's been four months since I first interviewed you... It's just flown by!" my boss (who isn't really my boss and it's complicated, but I still call him my boss because he's awesome) told me.

This was a staff night out on the last day of term. Quite sedate really, but the first staff night out I've been on since I lived in Dunstable (and those were merely after-school pub sessions or nights in the school hall), because I've never been counted as one of the staff before, no matter how long I've worked at a school.

In some ways, he's right. This term has flown by quickly, before I even realised it was happening. But, on the other hand, it feels like I've been at that school for years, like I'm as much part of the furniture as everyone else. I love it so much and it's been such an integral part of my healing process and personal journey.

Before starting at that place, I'd all but given up hope with teaching. I felt like I was useless, had nothing to offer, and like the detractors who blamed me for my experience of violence (and accused me of being unfit to work with young people) were probably right. I had no self-esteem, no confidence in my abilities.

Mr Boss Man once asked why I was so worried about a lesson observation, when I had been so chilled at interview... The truth was that I never expected to get a job. I couldn't for one second believe that anyone would actually want me, so I wasn't overly worried about rejection when I expected it anyway.

Being at this school has taught me so much. Firstly, that I do have the organisational skills to cope with this job, though it does take an awful lot more effort for me to keep on top of things than for some people! And that I'm not the messiest / most disorganised person in the school. It's a close run thing, but knowing that scatty people can get far in this profession keeps me sane!

It's taught me that I do have strengths in this job. I am good at languages and music (obviously), but my language work has given me a head start in teaching English. I've discovered that I adapt quickly, that I learn from training and work to meet my targets. I've also learnt where I can give extra to the school, in terms of clubs and things. I've found that I'm good at scaffolding and differentiation. It's not something I thought I was very good at, but it seems to come easily, as do pupil-led lessons.

I've learnt that I'm stronger than I think I am. With so many children from difficult backgrounds, I was bound to come into contact with stories similar to mine. I didn't think I'd cope with that, but I did, I am, I can. It's really empowering to know that my experience gives me perspective, strength and empathy, rather than the weakness and hindrance that I thought it would.

And, most importantly (possibly), is that I've found out how to love a job and commit to it - throw myself in entirely - without sacrificing myself and my emotions. Too often, in the past, the only time I would really work as hard as I could was to escape the pain and flashbacks. Now, I throw myself in because I want the children to learn and have fun, I want to do my best for them and for the school.

I've still got a long way to go. Observations seem to cause severe allergic reactions (well, nervous breakdowns) and I need to get the hang of this work-life balance thing... but I've discovered how much I can do with the support and input of the right school.

And, for the first time in forever, I feel truly happy.



This didn't really fit in anywhere above, but I wanted to say it anyway... the people I work with are amazing and supportive. The school is the wonderful, nurturing environment that it is because of the fantastic men and women working in there are so compassionate. I have wonderful TAs in my classroom, reassuring me constantly, a beautiful colleague in the other Year 3 class who has coped so well with a newbie, a brilliant senior leadership team and, just generally, the best colleagues a girl could ask for. The school wouldn't be what it is without them, and I wouldn't be who I am without them either!

Encounter

"Hello," the man greeted, as I trotted down the corridor. "Is there a big event on this weekend?"

I turned to face him and felt it. "It" was a strange combination of emotion and physical reaction that caught me completely off-guard; the stomach lurch, the sudden urge to vomit as my gag reflex kicked in, dizziness and itchy feet. I don't know if you've ever had real itchy feet (not just the metaphorical "it's time for a holiday" type) - the urge to run for the hills that is so overwhelming that you can't physically stand still...

It wasn't the first time I had seen him over the weekend. When I arrived last Friday night, he was on his way out of the gym. But it had been nice and easy that time - I kept my head down and scurried on by as he left. This was a little different.

Who was he? He was the man who raped me last year. I knew there was a chance that he would be around. Though it was a hotel, he was a gym member and it did make sense that he'd be around at some point. But I had rationalised that the probability of encountering him was low; I would have to be passing that same part of the corridor at the same moment. Unless I decided to chill out in the gym, it was highly unlikely. I didn't think I'd see him multiple times.

Part of me wanted to run as fast as I could. Perhaps I would have done, but I was wearing my crew badge on my lanyard, and I knew I was representing the company. So I forced myself to stop, take a breath and smiled back at him.

I'm kinda good at that now, the composing myself to look like I'm comfortable. Between meetings with male colleagues, kids' dads and other things, I'm fairly used to being alone with men (though still dislike it), and have developed a series of barriers that allow me to fake it - big smile, straight back, confident, professional attitude and an awareness of my potential escape route. And breathing. Breathing's quite important, as is holding my hands in front of me so no-one can see them shake. It's become so automatic, that I barely have to think about it on a day to day basis.

But I did last Saturday...

"Yes," I told him, my hands gripped tightly together. I told him the name of the company and explained, "It's a signing event."

He nodded. "I've heard of that one before. Are you staff or just here for fun?"

I explained that I was crew and answered his questions patiently and politely, whilst silently praying for him to leave me the hell alone.

Afterwards, it took me a while to verbalise what upset me about the encounter. "Of course you were upset - he raped you" doesn't actually cover the whole reaction and range of feelings. It was more than that. It was more than fear of him, or sorrow at what I went through, or anger at what he did or a sense of isolation....

It was absolute rage and indignation. Because not only did he turn my world upside down last summer, just when I thought I was finding my feet, but he had the gall to talk to me like I was just another person.  And that's when I realised that - to him - I was just another person.

He changed my life, had a great impact on it. But I had no impact on his. I was nothing more than a body to him and I never would be. He didn't feel any remorse or guilt or anything, because he couldn't remember me or my face, even though he spent all that time hurting me in the most vile, intimate and personal manner. He will never remember my face, but I will never forget his.

I am NOT a statistic

91% of rapes are committed by people known to the victim.

'Only' 9% of rapes are committed by strangers.

One of the weirdest concepts for me is that I am on both sides of this statistic that Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre tweets quite frequently. And, possibly odder than that, both make me bristle equally.

91%? Are we not outraged by this figure, that so many men in our lives are taking advantage and abusing us in the most horrific way imaginable? 91%, so my case is nothing unusual, nothing special, I'm just another woman, another number, another nameless, faceless victim?

I hate that 91% statistic, because it trivialises what I've experienced, what hundreds and thousands of women have experienced, and it reduces us all to a "one size fits all". Organisations like NRCC spend so much time and money trying to educate people that we are all different, that our reactions and stories are unique, that this universal statement feels like it's undermining that.

On the other hand is the 9% comment. Because it's aiming to dispel the myths that all rapes are committed by strangers, aiming to reassure those women who think "I must be over-reacting; it's just rough sex", but it does far more than that. It takes an already isolating situation, where a woman can feel like no-one could possibly understand, and reinforces that. Been raped by a stranger? Then you're a freak, you're alone.

There's also the "97% of callers to our helpline knew their attacker" tweet, which is even more uncomfortable than the previous one. I think I was so distressed that I laughed and jeered, "Well, aren't I ******* special, then?!" at my computer screen.

And despite this, I applaud NRCC's work to raise awareness of the truth behind rape. I love that they're breaking taboos, talking about difficult subjects and getting discussions going. I just wish there was a way to do it that didn't dehumanise the brave and passionate women that they work with.

Occasionally, I get a little embarrassed that these tweets elicit such an emotional reaction. After all, I'm quite capable of switching off, removing myself from attachment from the statistics, of working alongside people on difficult topics and advocating. 

Then I remember that my emotions are what make me human. Yes, they're all over the place, unpredictable and sometimes a little disproportional, but they're mine. MINE.

And where does that leave me? Because now I feel a little guilty about my feelings, and unable to raise the questions or challenge the wording, but then I'm pleased that I reacted because it's a reminder that I'm human (and proves that these tweets actually have an impact!) and still indignant that people are being swept under the carpet.

Actually, it leaves me silent. I've been watching this for several months now, not quite sure how to phrase my discomfort, until I saw a brave woman stand up and challenge today. And I'm grateful for it. Incredibly so.

I think what I'm trying to say is that rape makes me angry. It makes me absolutely furious. I don't care whether it's a stranger, husband, friend, someone I met in the pub... because it is a man who has committed a completely unforgivable act of sexual and psychological violence. 

Yes, we need to know the statistics and strong, emotional reactions to them mean that they are taking effect, but for every statistic, can we look at the human impact? For every number, can we have a reminder that every single woman is unique, important and loved? And can we please, please get rid of "only" and language that reduces us to some sort of caged animal, a curiosity in the corner?

Back To Nine

I still remember my first visit to Nottingham Women's Centre. I was surprised by how bright, warm and friendly the welcome area was, and how everyone else seemed...normal.

I sat down nervously on one of the sofas, not quite sure if I was supposed to make my own way up to the Rape Crisis Centre, or if someone would come down to fetch me. Or if people would make assumptions if I asked the way. I wasn't quite ready to acknowledge that out loud.

There was a blonde woman in the kitchen area, who looked up and asked if I needed help. Without any sort of judgement, she asked if I was going up to NRCC and told me to follow her. As we walked, she explained how she had been for counselling there, how it does get better, that life becomes bearable and how that place gets under your skin... you don't just walk away from the women's centre.

I didn't believe her back then. I couldn't see a way that I could live without the hurt, or that other things could be at the centre of my life out of choice and happiness rather than forcing them into the spotlight in order to hide from the horrors I was avoiding. I couldn't quite grasp how I could move on without forgetting, deal with what I remembered, be happy...

And if I didn't believe her then, I believed her even less as counselling continued. As we explored feelings and delved into the problems that I faced, everything seemed more hopeless than ever. How was I supposed to heal from something that was ripped open every time we spoke?

I began to go camping again, do the things that I loved. It gave me confidence that other things could take priority in my life, and that I was still the girl that I was before all this, even though I had changed a bit. I took opportunities and did things that pushed me, such as Roverway in Finland and the Stop The Violence seminar in Belgium. I began to learn that I had a voice. Not just any voice, but a powerful, authentic voice.

Progress isn't measured in perfection, but in the little victories. Camping in the wilderness of Evo, speaking at a feminist event, going back to the scene of the violence. It's measured in the nights without nightmares, going out without panicking, working every day with children the same age as my daughter would have been. Progress is a journey.

I was first raped on 26th February 2005. Every year, I avoid the world in any way possible on that date. Whether it is pretending to be ill or booking a day off work, I barely ever leave the house, choosing instead to curl up in a nest of cuddly toys and watch a film. The only real exception was in 2011, when I was forced to attend a first aid training day and did so whilst suffering panic attacks and flashbacks the whole time.

Last year, I was very aware of the date. I didn't work, but also never panicked or cried. I said at counselling that night that it felt like any other day. I'm not sure it did, to be honest. Not looking back on that now.

This Wednesday was the 26th February. I got up, headed to work, ate my porridge and did my preparations. I taught my first couple of sessions, got my morning hugs from the usual suspects in year three, made a few lewd jokes with my boss. I went for a meeting in his office - just me and him - to discuss a couple of issues, then headed back. And I wrote the date on the board...

"Oh..." I stopped and clutched my head, just for a second. I'd seen it and felt dizzy. Just for a second, because it had caught me completely unaware. The 26th February really was just like any other day, and all of a sudden it caught up with me; how I was stood in that place, teaching, meeting with male colleagues, acting like anyone else.

I suddenly realised exactly what that woman had meant. I hadn't forgotten what happened to me, I hadn't forgotten what day it happened on or anything else, but somehow it was manageable. Somehow, I was able to get up, go to work and just do my normal thing.

After that brief moment, I continued for the rest of the day. And when I got home, remembering the date, I put all my cuddly toys on my bed, and did my annual tradition of nesting with a Disney film. Not because I needed it, not because I was hiding, but because it's part of me - I love my Disney and I deserve it after a tough day.

My past is always going to be a part of me. In some ways, because of the writing that I do and the campaigns I'm involved in, it will be quite an integral part of me and something that I'm not necessarily willing to cast aside. But it's something that I work with, giving myself time to heal, grieve, celebrate and love, as I need it.

These days, I find that I'm the woman talking of experience and how we can heal. I'm the woman that praises the women's centre and NRCC and the amazing work they do with women of all backgrounds. I'm the one that's never really left, still doing things and feeling like the women at the centre are extended family. And I find myself thanking those women from that very first visit for welcoming into their community.

In This Place

In this place,
I feel the ghosts of my past
flickering in and out of existence.
I feel what was and what could have been
drowning out the present, colliding.

In this place,
I can  see my journey around me;
the panic ridden start and the call to action.
I see the women whose lives I touched
and the ones I never will.

In this place,
the emotions clamour to be heard;
wanting acknowledgement
and yet now - just as months ago -
I feel myself holding back the tide.

In this place,
I witness the growth;
the blossoming of awareness and my relationship with myself.
I witness the areas of need
and hold myself accountable to self-care.

In this place,
I promise myself truth -
just as I did back then.
I promise myself love and patience,
to allow myself to grieve.

This was written as part of Nottingham Women's Centre's "Writing For Healing" session, which I stumbled upon. It will be performed at their Silence The Violence event later in March.

New Year, New Job

So I've been quiet recently. Really quiet. It's been a difficult few months between the rollercoaster events of last summer, the decision to take a break from unit Guiding and many other things. I fully intended to blog more this new year, but every year brings fresh challenges and 2014's is in the shape of a new job.

I'm now the proud teacher of a Year 3 class. For those in the know, Year 3 is for children aged 7-8 and is the third year (obviously) of compulsory education here in the UK. It's a bit of a culture shock for me, being secondary trained. I have had primary experience before, but mainly with years 4-6, not year 3.

Not only have I already had to deal with planning for so many different subjects, get to know twenty four new people, but I've had to deal with an exclusion, several internal exclusions, interventions, provision maps and all sorts of weird and wonderful things that I've not had to sort before. I've written a scheme of work for gymnastics (yes, me!), set up a languages club that has got TWENTY TWO participants... and that's only from the lower school! It's an eye-opener.

My class is brilliant. I'd say that I've got a couple of characters, but they all are... in their own way. I have the little girl who never speaks (except to crack the most amazing sarcastic joke once a week!), the boy who strangles girls in the playground, the girl whose prized possession is a rock her uncle gave her as a gift... she's been told it's a dinosaur egg! I've got a boy who never speaks, smiles and often refuses to come into the classroom who came up to me this morning, sat down and asked me if he could do show and tell, and I've got a little boy who greets me every day with a hug, holds my hand and tells me that I belong to class one and they all love me.

Each and every child in my class is different, and I love getting to know them little by little. But I also love the little reflections of myself that I see in them and their behaviour. Not because they've picked it up from me (they've not had me long enough for that) but because their reactions challenge me and my own. 

Last week, I had one child really unsettled on the carpet. This particular child sits with his back to the door and is constantly glancing behind him at the door. Knowing my own discomfort at sitting with my back to a door, I moved him where he could see it, and now he sits there with absolutely no problem.

This morning, we did an activity where each person had a sheet of paper and it was passed round the circle so everyone could write something nice about them (they had to write something positive about themselves too!). Once people got their own paper back, we discussed how it made them feel to read the comments. Many of them said that they were happy or proud, some even said "relieved". One told us that he felt loved. But two girls said they were embarrassed and one boy said he was uncomfortable. We explored those feelings a little later, but it made me think about my paper too. I was quick to be dismissive and say that they only wrote because they had to... but that's not what the exercise was about!

Yesterday, I had an observation. It didn't go brilliantly, mainly due to the behaviour in my lower ability group. They were excited and engaged, but a little too excited and engaged (they wouldn't listen to me once they got going!). We did spend a lesson today going over behaviour and presentation, and there was a big improvement. Understandably, I was really upset by this yesterday. Whilst I was sobbing at lunch, my TA came over, gave me a hug and told me to stop being so hard on myself and that there were great things about the lesson. Of course, I wouldn't accept it. Actually, I wouldn't even accept the praise from the head, who insisted that there was no way that observation was going to meet the criteria, really...

But the thing that made it funny was the reaction of a little girl in my class. She's a superstar and one of our gifted and talented children. But if she gets anything wrong (or not exactly perfect!), she bursts into tears. I've chatted to her about high expectations and believing in herself and all these other things... Yesterday, she looked at me and solemnly said, "Miss H, you're as bad as I am. You set yourself expectations that you can never live up to. No-one can." Out of the mouths of babes...!

I love working at this school. It's supportive, fun, challenging. The staff are all welcoming and wonderful. The head is constantly providing advice, reading material, backing me up on various decisions. I have colleagues who make me cups of tea, check I'm eating, text me in the evening and at weekends to say thanks for a great day or just to say they're thinking of me after a rough one. It's nurturing and wonderful.

And whilst noting the nurturing environment and challenging myself, the changes I'm seeing in myself are incredible too. Yes, I was terrified yesterday, but I never had a panic attack. I'm alone in the office with the (male) head on a daily basis - tonight we were the only two left in the building. I get hugs and cuddles and hand-holding constantly, whether it's from my colleagues or from my children. I still don't like it if someone gets me from behind (my TA learnt this the hard way!) but I'm taking the physical contact without panicking or even flinching.

Now we just have to get that work-life balance stuff sorted!

Girls In Action: Discussing VAWG Issues With Young People

This posts answers questions I was asked today. It does discuss violence, personal experience (though not in detail) and other things. I try to be professional and sensitive throughout!

I'm not going to go through the whole process of facilitating a workshop for young people here. Most people reading this will be friends who already have access to brilliant resources and proper training teams. Those who want to know the WAGGGS guidelines or want to ask questions are free to do so and I'll try and help if I can!

So instead, I wanted to share some of the questions that I've been asked today by friends, parents and people at the women's centre about what I do and how I approach it. I must note that most of these questions deal with the rape and sexual violence aspect, and that is because of the people who have asked me, and the nature of the questions and activities.

Because of the nature of our volunteer day, our "action" for Girls In Action was finding out about services available, particularly Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre and Women's Aid Integrated Services which are based in the women's centre. This meant that we did look in detail at sexual assault and domestic violence, but many of our activities involved more positive aspects, thinking about healthy relationships and ideal partners!

Q: How do you prepare for a volunteer day / VAWG project?

A: After the girls suggest the project (it is always their decision, not me who initiates), I discuss with parents what I intend to do. They get a copy of the syllabus (if we are working towards a badge) and full details of any other work that we're doing. I welcome discussion from the parents about anything that they are unsure of or concerned about. So far, I've not had any concerns come back and parents have even suggested that I go into more detail rather than less!

Once I've discussed things with parents, I start chatting in more detail to the members who are participating. What do they want to learn? What sort of activities do they like? I show them the pack and they can select. Is there anything missing that they want to do?

At this point, I go back to the parents and show them the final draft of activities, as well as give them access to support networks / helplines they might want available for themselves or their daughters, and show them discussion notes so that they are prepared for any questions that the girls might ask them following the sessions. Girls In Action is a great project to do, as most of this information is included either in the members' resource pack, or the guidance notes.

In terms of preparing myself, I try and connect with my own support networks in advance. One of these is the Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre and I just give the helpline a ring to chat about what I'm doing, concerns I have and my feelings about it. It's not that I'm out of control or panicking, it's just a useful way of me to get aware of my own comfort levels.

Q: Are your girls aware of your personal experience?

A: Not that I'm aware. I won't say a definitive "no" because this blog is obviously public. However, if they are aware, they haven't said anything. I think the more important question is whether I have chosen to discuss this directly with the girls or not, and the answer is absolutely not. 

I am in no way ashamed of what happened to me. I'm not proud of it, and I'm very upset and sorry that it did happen, but it is not something that I feel that I should keep hidden or guilty about. 

Having said that, there is a difference between my professional and personal life. In a professional context, and I do consider Guiding to be a professional role, there are many things that I don't discuss or don't feel are appropriate to that arena. I don't discuss my love life with pupils, Guides (or Rangers!) or even with colleagues, for the most part. When my ex-girlfriend came to camp with us last year, she was just a Leader from Leeds, and that is all that was discussed. Likewise, I don't discuss my rape(s) with the girls or pupils, because that is not something they need to know about me, and I don't think it benefits them or affects the relationship I have with them to know that.

If they found out, however, I would not be unduly worried. I see it, in many ways, like them seeing me with a girlfriend in town. It is not information I would volunteer, but if it did end up in the public arena, I would discuss with my commissioners (or senior management in a school), as well as with parents about how best to tackle the situation. It may be decided that we ignore it, or decided that we open a discussion about it, with neutral support / mediators. 

I don't know how I would respond to a girl who asked me directly. I hate avoiding questions, but am aware that these discussions need to be conducted in safe space with full parental knowledge and consent. My gut professional reaction tells me to challenge the question gently, with one in return; turn it back on the girl. So, instead of answering the question, ask if that would affect how they saw a leader? Does that matter? Why do they want to know? Is it better to wait for information to be volunteered or should we ask for disclosure? How do we respond around survivors? Choose a question (not bombard) and try to open a general and non-specific discussion. 

Q: If discussing VAWG issues affects you emotionally, why do you do it?

I think most people are affected by these discussions on some level. Most of the time, I just feel tired and drained once the adrenaline of the day wears off, and I just need to curl up with a cup of tea. I know I'm not alone - the other leader who joined me in July also felt drained afterwards, so we debriefed with a good cocktail!

The real difference is how we acknowledge that and handle self-care following the event. Many will just say that they are tired / exhausted, but my work with D has shown me that my exhaustion stems from emotions that I need to identify and process. This may be the case for a lot of people. My acknowledgement of this fact is not a weakness, but actually a sign of a strong relationship with myself and awareness of my emotional needs. 

Why do I tackle VAWG issues despite my personal connection? Well, at first, it was because my members were so passionate about it. My role as a Leader is to facilitate the experiences that they want and have chosen, and to do it in a responsible way that cares for their well-being. In tackling sensitive issues, I have ensured that I seek support and the help I need to work safely and effectively with my members, and continue to do so now.

I did say "at first", though. I never thought I would be strong enough to do this work and did explore and consider outside providers to work with the girls. I also didn't think that I would ever be passionate about the topic, because it was too close to home. But the fact that it is close to home fuels me. When I think of the statistics (one in four women experiences rape or attempted rape), and I see that 1/4 of the young women I work with will be forced to endure what I have, I realise that I will do anything in my power to change this future, and anything I can to make sure they are equipped to support and speak out for themselves and for others.

Q: But if it's affecting you, shouldn't someone else deliver?

A: As I said, I have considered outside providers, but I am fully capable of delivering these sessions and have attended appropriate trainings. As mentioned, I make sure that I am fully prepared and that I explore my own feelings, but when I talk about being affected, I'm not necessarily talking about an extreme negative impact, rather an emotional response that can be processed.

When initially discussing the project with the girls, I do speak of peer educators and other options. Realistically, I need to ensure that the best facilitator for my members is the one delivering, and I know that I am not the only one suitably trained to facilitate this. According to NSPCC research by Christine Barter, young people much prefer peers to adults. However, my members have so far opted to work with me, on the grounds that they "know and trust" me.

Q: Have the girls ever seen you affected by activities?

A: Other than a long sigh at the end of a day, no. During the day, I tend to be running on adrenaline and don't have the time to be overly affected. But thorough preparation means that I'm better able to work with these issues and activities and facilitate their exploration. Actually, if anything, I've been questioned about why I seem so "unemotional" about the subject matter!

Since engaging with the counselling process, I've found that working with my emotions has been far easier, and they don't tend to "burst out" at inappropriate moments as they used to do. Occasionally, when attending Guides straight after a session, I have done washing up or paperwork to remove myself from the girls "in case", but I'm very aware of my limits.

Q: How do you ensure you can deliver safely?

A: As mentioned above, I make sure that I prepare fully, both in terms of activities and by looking after my emotional needs. Adults need the same safe space provision as young people; we need the chance to leave a room if the session becomes too intense, we need listeners for support, and we need to reflect and emotionally evaluate the activities. Having more than one adult present is essential for this; it allows you to take five minutes, have a tea break, just have a breather. When planning, it's also vital you have plenty of short breaks and time to just chat and escape that mindset for a little time. It's much healthier to take five minutes and do some washing up elsewhere than it is to let emotions fester and potentially let the girls see discomfort.

With the volunteer days, the painting itself is a great space. It gives our young people chance to process what they've been talking about, or to escape it for a bit. By breaking up the day around the painting, it makes sure they have time to do something else and offers plenty of space for them to go and do other jobs "alone" if they need space.

Q: You give the girls the opportunity to ask questions of a survivor of sexual assault. Why is this done through writing rather than face to face?

A: It is mainly to alleviate any discomfort and embarrassment for either party. The girls are able to ask questions, knowing that they don't have to say the words out loud, and they don't have to share the questions with other girls if they don't want to. In some cases, faced with a survivor of rape, they may become uncomfortable about how they are supposed to act or what they are supposed to say.

Similarly, for the survivor, a written question means that the response can be measured, thought through for whether it is age-appropriate for the members, and it gives chance to process any emotions that arise without an audience.

Because I have experienced sexual assault, I tend to write these answers myself, and it's useful to keep the anonymity. As  the questions are for personal experience / opinion, it's something I can do, but I try to ensure another adult reads them for content to check they are appropriate. In some cases, I will get another survivor I know, or a counsellor to answer the questions, as they are better equipped to do so. But in all cases, it is made completely clear that the answer is personal experience and opinion, and try to ensure there is a positive challenge or discussion point for the girls.

Parents are, like with everything else, made aware of this activity, and many parents have chosen to discuss potential questions with their daughters in advance. Usually, my members choose to take their responses home with them, so that they can keep and discuss them later. Both parents and girls have said this is a valuable part of the day, as it is a true, personal interaction rather than secondary source learning.

----------------------------

I hope that this gives a little insight into how I prepare for these sorts of projects, and how vital self-care and parental contact are in the process. I know some people may find areas of this confusing or worrying, particularly the conversation with the survivor of sexual assault, but given the age range of The Senior Section and the supportive environment in which it is conducted, it is an incredibly positive experience for our members.

My main wish, though, is that it will inspire people out there to consider VAWG projects. It may be discussing gender roles and stereotypes with younger girls (you don't need to discuss rape and domestic violence!), or it may have made you consider using peer educators or providers like Rape Crisis to help you in delivery.

New Beginnings

I've been waiting for a while to blog, because I wanted everything in life to be tied up neatly in a little bow. I wanted life to be like a story, with a happy ending, or a solid chapter break.

But life doesn't work like that, and one event bleeds into the next, with ties and things linking into your past, present and future. I like it that way, with themes and connections, keeping you anchored.

I have now finished my face to face counselling at Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre. I feel positive about that, in a strange way, like it's time to have an adventure on my own, or something. I'm sort of curious about how I'm going to cope. I still have support networks, but it's different. I have to get used to life without D.

Our last session was great. I gave her a Girlguiding Thanks badge, to acknowledge her impact on Guiding, along with a card signed by the unit and many others in the organisation. She was incredibly moved by it. I introduced her to my camp blanket and showed her all the wonderful memories and bits that make up me. Then we made badges for it, mine showing the tree I made for her early on in our relationship, and hers showing a jigsaw piece. This was both a gentle dig and a reminder - just after I made the tree, she tried to get me to complete a jigsaw of all the feelings that made up me. I never finished. So this badge represents that, and the fact that D is now a part of me forever. It also had a symbol for "hug" on there... It was brilliant. I gave her the gift that I made over summer, and she gave me a beautiful doll that she had made just for me, that she called Henrietta. I was completely blown away and it is probably the single most touching thing anyone's done for me.

But it's not a neat ending. There are things still happening, and part of our journey that still needs closure. I don't know whether I will have that in days, weeks or months, but it's not quite over yet. There is one more thing to slot into place, the same thing that I've been waiting to share here, and still can't.

I have a feeling it will never completely be over, though. Two weeks ago, we bumped into each other in her town, when I was on a date. This week, we ran into each other in the supermarket car park... Intuition tells me that fate will throw us together when we need that little reminder.

And just like life, this post doesn't really have a neat ending or a happily ever after. It is what it is; a short update to tell you about the not-quite-ending and not-quite-beginning. And, for anyone wondering, I did finally renew my Promise and promise to be true to myself! I did it in my way, with my person, in my time.

Being True To Myself

I fell in love with the new Promise for Girlguiding the minute that I heard (or rather, read) it. Personal, inclusive, it was everything that I had hoped for; a commitment that both my friends and I could make on equal footing.

Except I haven't yet.

It may seem odd to some that such a vocal supporter of the new wording has yet to renew her Promise, but the simple fact is that I'm not sure I'm ready.

I fully intended to renew on Cardiff Bay at midnight, the moment it came into effect. It would have combined my Showmasters family with my Guiding family, at a significant place and time. It would have been quite perfect. But my friends were drunk and I was unwell, so it fell through.

The next plan was to sit with my counsellor and renew it in session, because some of the wording rang true with our journey and our discussions. And it just so happened that she started to talk about being true to oneself, making me smile and we talked about what it meant to each of us.

So far in Guiding, I've heard people talk about being true to oneself as being about integrity and standing up for one's beliefs, but to me it's more than that. It's so much more personal, and somehow harder than promising to love my God (though, really, the latter does encompass the former).

Being true to myself involves knowledge of who I am, it means understanding myself as a person. Not just in terms of my moral compass and my framework for life, or my spiritual life, but it means understanding my emotions, my feelings, caring for and connecting with myself.

It's something that I have struggled with a lot throughout my journey with D. I much prefer to bury emotional responses, to assign a logical reason for everything, and I have to constantly remind myself that it's okay not to be perfect, and it's fine to feel. I'm at a place now where I do challenge myself about how I feel, I am more aware of what I want, what I fear and it's all part of building and maintaining a relationship with myself.

Those relationships are so important for our young members to develop, given that it's something that society almost encourages us to bury. Constant reminders to "grow up", "stop being a baby" or "grow a pair" constrain us and hinder our journey with ourselves.

It's the aspect of the Promise that is (and will probably remain) the most poignant for me, and I desperately want to be able to make it. But after sitting for an hour, struggling to vocalise my current predicament, trying to be "strong" and "independent", I realised that it's not a commitment I was quite ready to make at that point, that I would feel hypocritical promising to be true to myself when I was doing everything in my power not to be.

But, of course, that's where the other essential part of our Promise comes into effect. Because I'm not meant to be perfect, I'm not meant to be superwoman. I am just me - a girl with a lot of baggage - and our Promise reflects that too. Because I'm not promising to "be true to myself" at all, I'm promising "to do my best to be true to myself", and that is a very different thing indeed.

Despite the arguments I've heard, it makes perfect sense that being true to oneself exists within the framework of the Promise and Law. We put so much emphasis on looking outward in Guiding - we develop our beliefs, serve our community and help others - but we have to remember to care for and retain a sense of self throughout that. Without understanding our needs, our desires, our feelings and our own sense of right and wrong, we can't go out into the world and make the change that we want to see.

I hope that in the coming weeks, I will feel able to renew my Promise. I hope that I will find the right place, time, context and that I will be comfortable making that commitment to continue that relationship with myself as well as with my God.

Campaign 4 Consent

Yesterday, I was asked to write about why I support "Campaign 4 Consent", this was my rather long and comprehensive response...

Eight years ago, I was raped.

It took me, perhaps surprisingly, quite a while to realise what had happened to me. And even then, I seemed to try giving him excuses – it was my fault because of how I was dressed, it was my fault because I went to his house alone, it was my fault because I should have known better.

The police were just as bad, they reinforced this view and added to it that I was English and everyone knows English girls are asking for it. My mother laughed and told me that I should be grateful that anyone showed any interest in me, because I’m hardly good looking.

This emphasis on physical attraction is harmful to everybody. It often leaves those who have experienced sexual assault doubting their experience (“it couldn’t have been rape – I’m not pretty enough”) and it reduces men to a violent stereotype who have no control over their own bodies. This just isn’t true. Rape is all about control, not attraction, and it is about a minority of men who knowingly exert that control.

The myths surrounding rape are widespread and lead to a culture of victim-blaming and dangerous misunderstanding. If we are going to end this disgusting abuse of power, we need to start by educating young people about the reality of sexual assault.

Despite my experience, or perhaps because of it, two years later I achieved my life’s ambition of becoming a teacher. I was fortunate on my course, as I specialised in counselling and pastoral care, getting a lot of input on how to support pupils in disclosure and their personal needs. But only 1/8^th of the cohort did this course and there was absolutely no training on how to deliver sex and relationship education.

In my experience, this lack of training leads to a lack of confidence amongst teachers. Lessons on STIs become an embarrassing joke in the staffroom, as do those on breast cancer, prostate cancer and other such topics. We are increasingly asked to take on extra responsibilities, many of which we don’t understand and often ones where there is no textbook to read up on the night before.

We need access to training, whether that be in school CPD time, or external courses. Training on how to deliver this education in a safe, supportive environment, training on how to deal with awkward questions. We live in fear of disciplinary procedures due to one conversation gone wrong – we need the support of our unions and our headteachers in providing an honest and open classroom where pupils can ask their questions.

As teachers, we currently have the option to refuse delivery of sex education – the only teachers required to impart this area of the curriculum by law are biology teachers. Given that 1 in 4 women are said to experience sexual assault in their lifetime, I strongly believe that it is essential to retain this “option”, though all teachers should have access to adequate training and be encouraged to take it. I remember that in my first few years of teaching, every mention of rape, assault, even sex, could reduce me to tears or a panic attack. That didn’t make me any less of a teacher, it just meant that I needed to care for my needs too. Insisting that every teacher MUST undergo this training and must deliver consent education is harmful to the emotional and psychological wellbeing of the professionals involved and would also undermine the basic principle of consent, safety and development that we are trying to instill.

Every year, I head pupils joking about rape, discussing articles in the media, boys saying, “I would have raped her” or girls telling each other, “it was her fault for dressing like a slut”… but the tides are changing and I’m hearing increasing numbers of young people shouting out about the injustice, or at the very least, questioning their own understanding.

It’s time to change, time to support that questioning and challenge our young people to engage with these issues. We need to teach them the reality of consent, that it is an enthusiastic yes rather than the absence of a no, that rape is about control not attraction, that it is ALWAYS the fault of the perpetrator. We need to show them the options available to them, how to go about reporting, what counselling services are available and we need to liaise better with local and national bodies who can support us in our endeavour.

And if you want proof of the power of knowledge and a healthy relationship with yourself and those around you, I will leave you with one more thought. I was raped a second time, two weeks ago. This time, I know where to go, I am not blaming anyone but him and I am still standing strong and speaking out. A little knowledge can change lives.

Strength

One of the amazing things about this blog is the reactions and comments that I get. Largely, it's not done in public, but via Twitter or by email to this account. Women who say that they're grateful that they're not alone, that they thought they were strange for feeling like this, or those who are glad there is someone talking about the reality of sexual assault and its impact.

This two weeks have been strange. It feels like so many of the emotions are familiar, and others are completely new as well. The journey I'm on with Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre means that there is more indignation and anger at my situation, and a determination to speak out and share, but then the same journey results in a feeling of shame, that I haven't made enough progress and am reverting back to the "old" me. 

At the same time, the fact that I am still feeling this is powerful. It shows that everyone reacts, that sexual assault is a traumatic experience that affects even the strongest people. It's an experience worth sharing.

My first week was really overpowered by a feeling of numbness, a lasting shock that resulted in crying and physically shaking with no discernible emotions attached. Towards the end of that period, things started to sink in a little more. Like the fact that I never got round to taking emergency contraception, like the fact that I was actually quite sad and lonely and hurt.

I was quite pleased with the way I seemed to be handling things, exploring emotions through art and music, being aware of how I felt and not blaming myself for that. I seemed so calm and in control, and I genuinely felt like that too. Yes, I was upset, but that was okay. I could deal with that. I think I would have been more worried if I hadn't been!

Then something clicked. It was Tuesday night, after the session and it all started unravelling like a ball of wool. First of all was the prospect of pregnancy. How did I feel about that whole can of worms? I mean, the fact that I miscarried in 2005 has played a huge part in my feelings towards that first assault. After struggling to come to terms with the pregnancy and an almost slapstick story of my attempt to have an abortion, I finally decided to have the baby, only to lose her. So this time, I don't know. If I'm not pregnant, will that leave me upset after my previous experience, because last time it was the "one positive"? If I am pregnant, then I face the challenge of either termination or telling those around me what happened - because everyone knows that I'm not interested in men.

I started to worry about how I was going to get through Wednesday, worried about my increasing anger and irritability (I was - and am - snapping at everyone!) and whether people around me will notice that. What am I supposed to say to my family and friends?

And then, on Wednesday, the worst bits came.

A friend offered me drugs. The sort of drugs I used to take, the first time it all happened. I used to take them in conjunction with alcohol to heighten the effect. It would completely wipe my memory, I'd be knocked out and not remember or feel a thing. It was amazing. It got me through that first year or so.

There was a pineapple downstairs in the kitchen. I'm severely allergic, it could kill me. All it would take would be a small bite of sweet, fresh fruit and I'd be dead in minutes. It almost seemed worth it.

And the alcohol. Endless amounts of alcohol in the cupboard. So easy just to numb the pain, even if it were just for a little while. Screw D and her insistence that it's "just another form of self-harm".

I didn't do any of those things. I stayed away from all three. But the strength it took to do all that was immense. I used to think that staying alive was the weaker option, that it took more bravery to actually end it and change the status quo. That's how it felt last time. But this time, it's the complete opposite. I know myself, I know why I want those things and I'm trying to stay away.

The truth is, I wasn't quite as strong as I wanted to be. I found another way to cause damage. I tried to reach out and get the help I know I need, but I don't think she realised that's what I was trying to do. So I'm trying to be strong until Tuesday, but it's not easy. I don't think it's ever easy.

But it does get easier. I know it does because I've been here before. Yes, there are temptations and struggles, but you get so used to carrying on that it's not a battle anymore, you don't see it as being "strong". There are still struggles, other challenges, but bit by bit, you conquer each of those things and - when you do - you give yourself a secret knowing smile each time. No-one is going to beat me, not even myself.

I don't think it ever stops being painful. If it does, then I've not got there yet - I'll let you know when I do. I see it like a fizzy drink. The pain is the liquid. When you first open the bottle, especially if it's been under pressure, then it fizzes everywhere and is volatile. In time, it goes flat. It's still there, but it it has changed, somehow. I guess, over a lot of time, it would evaporate and it would really change. The molecules still exist but in a very different form - but left in the bottle would be the syrup, that fundamental part of the pain. So it will always be there, somehow, somewhere.

It does get more manageable, though. I keep having to tell myself this, and remind myself. 

I don't like admitting that I'm less than perfect to anyone, not when it comes to this stuff. But then, it is important to show that I'm not, and that these struggles are a real part of everyday life. The spiteful, irritable little part of me that wants to snap at other people to grow up and shut up. The scared bit that starts to panic at the thought of being left alone in the house with workmen. The part that's still in shock and starts shaking. The sorrowful part that knows in a few short weeks, I'll be on my own again and have to deal with this without the support I currently have. The angry part that hates this man for stripping me of all the strength and dignity I had accumulated through my journey - or perhaps for showing that I didn't have any of it in the first place.

The emotions are dizzying and conflicting, but somehow reassuring. As long as I'm still feeling, I know I'm still alive, still getting through somehow.

Seven Days Ago

Seven days ago, I was raped. Again.

Never thought I'd be saying those words, especially not the "again" part. I bet you didn't see it coming either, did you?

Earlier this week, I wrote a raw blog post that described the whole ordeal in detail, but quickly removed it. As much as I wanted to speak out, that wasn't the way. It was a good release for me, to write it all out and helped me process, but it isn't something the world needs to see.

That processing thing is damned hard, though. I often speak -both here and in workshops - about how different every woman's experience of sexual assault is. What I never really considered was that my own experience would be so different from my first.

The basic facts are different, for a start. This time, I was in a sauna at a hotel (I was speaking on behalf of Girlguiding* at a convention) and it was a complete stranger. Not that I knew Peter well when he raped me, but I knew who he was, knew that he was a friend of a colleague at work. I never imagined that I would be attacked again, especially not by a stranger - like many women, I am very much aware that the vast majority of sexual assaults are committed by men known to the victim.

My reaction in the event was different too. I wasn't panicking or upset, I was completely detached from what was happening to me. In fact, the overwhelming thought crossing my mind was, "Ok, so this is happening. How do we move forward from this? Am I going to report it? Where am I going to get help? Do I tell D about it?"

And since? Well, straight after the fact, I just referred to it as "being seriously groped" in a text. I didn't want to use the word rape, because it didn't really seem identifiable or comparable with my previous experience. I wasn't injured, and although there was penetration, he was interrupted very quickly. It doesn't negate the rest of it, and what he did to me before that penetration, but in some ways, it feels like "attempted rape" fits better. But I'm not going to allow myself down that path of denial.

I've been physically shaking at several points during the week, and I keep bursting into tears but there's no real sadness connected. I think, in a lot of ways, I'm still in shock. Or maybe I'm just coping with this better than last time and I'm stronger than I think I am. I've been phoning the helpline for support, even if it's just because I don't quite feel like myself, and I've actually been allowing myself the time and space to feel - a far cry from my usual approach of, "don't be silly". The fact that I'm largely just numb, it's not burying the emotions, it's just that they haven't formed properly yet. But I'm prepared to address them when they do.

In a weird way, this week has shown me just how far I've come in the last couple of years. Ok, so I wasn't able to use the word 'rape' on Tuesday with D, but I told her what happened. I kept talking, I stayed with her, I didn't switch off or panic or anything else. When we first started, I would sit in the room saying nothing for whole sessions! And I've not tried to bury myself in work, in craft, I've not tried to hide, not had nightmares or flashbacks... I'm just letting me be me. I'm not giving in to the reckless urges either, which is definitely a positive - I have a tendency to go into self-destruct mode when things like this happen.

I wanted to share this at the beginning of the week. To stand up and say, "look, this has happened and it hasn't broken me!". To say, "this has happened and it's completely different to last time". To show, in a very real and personal way, that actually, different reactions are completely fine and that there is no "normal" way to behave. I wanted to stick my middle finger up at this idiot and say, "screw you. I'm still living my life."

* It has been brought to my attention that this could be seen as detrimental to Girlguiding and to the event. This is not the intention. I was speaking at the event on behalf of Girlguiding, but this attack was after "business hours" and was whilst I was relaxing, in my own time. It is not the fault of Girlguiding, nor the fault of the organisers, any more than it is my fault. It is solely the responsibility of the man who raped me, and both the event team and Girlguiding have been wonderful in offering their support.

Endings

"I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason,
Bringing something we must learn and we are led
To those who help us most to grow if we let them
And we help them in return.
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true,
But I know I'm who I am today because I knew you."

"It well may be that we will never meet again in this lifetime.
So let me say before we part, so much of me
Is made of what I learnt from you; you'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end,
I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend."

Endings have been playing on my mind for a little while now. I blame D, my wonderful volunteer counsellor. It is, apparently, important that I get used to the idea. I can see the logic, but it's still painful. I know she feels it too - I'm not the only one who gets tearful every time it's mentioned!

I've never liked saying goodbye to people. Not just as an adult, but as a child too. I've always felt like it's yet another person disappearing on me, that I've finally grown to trust someone and then suddenly they're no longer around either. It's only really since coming back to Guiding in Nottinghamshire that I've realised there are people not going anywhere and I'm stuck with them! It's kind of reassuring after being surrounded by people who are on the move or constantly moving around myself.

Goodbyes are part of the package, really, for someone like me. The four years I've been back here in Nottingham is the longest period of time I've spent in one place as an adult. I went to university in Southampton, but was jokingly referred to as a flight-risk, due to my worrying tendency to jump on the nearest plane / coach / ferry and find myself somewhere in Europe. My summers were spent working in France and third year in Germany. I did my PGCE in Gosport, Portsmouth and Salisbury, taught in Salisbury whilst commuting up to Durham at weekends, then moved to Luton, moved to Nottingham and commuted up to Manchester every weekend.... I'm not a person to stay in one place for long. But it also means that relationships don't last either.

I often joke that my habit of getting attached to people is a real hindrance to my job as a supply teacher. I hate leaving the staff and pupils and never fail to get teary at the end of a post. My last head of department very kindly told me, "it's a bad quality in a supply teacher, but a great quality in a human being." As a result, I tend to avoid goodbyes and just disappear quietly on people. They'll just not see me again. Easier for everyone.

But then, is it? We need room to express that sadness. By running away, I'm robbing myself of that opportunity and not allowing the other party to express that either.

There is a big part of me excited for this ending. On its most superficial level, it does mean that I can get back to my Guide unit full-time. I was never supposed to leave Guides - I specifically waited for a Monday night slot at the centre! But it's more than that, because it marks a different phase in my journey and a shift in my relationship with Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre. I will still be around there and doing things, but I will be doing them as a volunteer with Senior Section, as a sort of liaison point. I will still be around, but as an outside party, making change rather than being changed. Or perhaps an element of both rather than just one. I'm no longer crushed by my experience but empowered by it, it's something that I can use to benefit and challenge others.

And part of me just wants to curl up and cry. It's not fear. It was fear at first, but I'm pretty sure I'm strong enough to cope (at least with the help of various support networks around me). It's not even a sense of abandonment or loneliness. I'm just really, really going to miss D. 

Since working together, we've seen
every month of the calendar. Most
of them twice over!

When we first started working together, I couldn't for a second believe that I'd open up to her or be able to work with her. Everything she said and did grated on me. She was still a trainee back then and she was very.... textbook. I pulled her up on it, she pulled me up on things that I did and really challenged me. When she told me she was pregnant, I had just started to open up and I was distraught, especially given where I was personally. I resented her for allowing me to open up, knowing my background and knowing she was going to leave. But we stuck through, and her maternity leave coincided with last summer's Finnish and Essex adventures. Since September, we changed nights meaning I had to miss Guides, but it's been worth it in so many ways. She's supported me through the advocacy work I've been doing, she's managed to (somehow!) find the right balance of caring for me and giving me a swift kick when I need it.

I'm going to miss her. Going to miss the jokes, the tears, the Tuesday night hugs. I'm going to miss having that person who doesn't think I'm useless or that it's my fault, who is supportive of the work I'm doing and believes that I have the strength and ability to do it and to make a difference to other people. I'm going to miss the smiles, the teasing and someone I feel comfortable enough around that I don't flinch when she reaches out to touch me.

The thing that scares me most about all this ending rubbish is not the end of the sessions, but the fact that I won't see D again. She's been such an important part of my life over this last couple of years and we've come so far together that the thought of her not being there... it just isn't right.

Desk calendar in its
undecorated display stand

So I'm dealing with all this in the only way I know how. Well, apart from floods of tears (I'm sure my laptop didn't ask for a bath!). I'm creating, making, having fun. Doing something I love for someone I love. 

There's a fine line between destruction and creation and I love to dance along that line, pulling together different threads and experiences along the way. This time, it's all because D commented on my creativity and it got me thinking.

You see, way back when, in our very first session, D asked me to draw a tree to represent me. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it. In my head, I was going through all the things that she would read into a tree that I drew (size, position, colours etc) and it stopped me. I also couldn't get my head round everything I wanted to do with it.  So she asked if I would do it at home. My answer was to construct a huge, 60cm papier maché tree. The bark was made up of words; people, places, hobbies, adjectives, everything that made me ME. There were beautiful coloured leaves and, hanging amongst the branches were items; my second engagement ring, the necklace and one of the earrings I wore the night I was raped, a gift from one of my first pupils, a Doctor Who figure. She didn't know what to make of this tree, and we used it as a starting point for discussions for some time.

The tree still lives on my 

bookshelf & is the first thing

 I see in the morning

Trees have been significant in this journey. Right from that first task, but also because of my own fear of trees and woodland, the dizzying panic that a canopy causes me. There's something significant about trees, wood, woodland; it signifies life, a journey, endless possibilities. And I wanted this creation to be made from wood and reflect that.

Whilst thinking of journeys and endings, one of my favourite songs came to mind. I've quoted two verses at the top, but it seems somehow appropriate. In the musical Wicked, Elphaba and Glinda first meet and hate each other. They are forced to work together, even though they can't imagine ever having anything in common. Everything they say and do grates on each other, but they become so incredibly close over their journey and this is their last song, saying goodbye to each other. They talk about the mutual impact of their relationship and how that will carry into the future, and both characters sing about woodland as a metaphor for how they themselves have been changed. It seemed fitting.

In addition to an extension,
my blanket is getting some
special new badges!

So I started a project in wood this week. The medium itself signifying a change in the tree's life, a different future, but also the decorative theme being one of contrast between nature and glitter, a melting of two worlds impacting each other. The item - a desk calendar - is a gentle joke, given that she managed to forget a couple of appointments due to not having a calendar by her diary on her desk. It's also pretty. I just hope she likes it!

The ending itself is still a few weeks away yet. We've planned to make camp blanket badges and sew them onto my blanket as a lasting reminder of the journey. I know it's going to be difficult, given that I'm already feeling this way now, but endings are there so we can move onto the next part of the journey. Or the next journey.

Memory Games

Inferno. I read it the other week, after my mother pestered me to do so. There were a lot of things that bothered me with the novel, mostly to do with the writing style itself and Brown's condescending attitude towards women through his male characters. The two main female characters are defined by appearance, sexual assault and childlessness.

I will admit that I have grieved the fact that I lost my daughter, and I will make no argument against rape or attempted rape being a terrifying and life-changing ordeal. And though it may feel like we are defined by those events as we go through the process of recovery, to reduce us to them fulfills all our fears, and to reduce characters to them reinforces the myths and sense of failure that many women feel.

Brown's writing isn't empathetic or even sympathetic. We don't feel anything for Sienna, it seems rather more than a "logical" piece of the puzzle. But human reactions are rarely "logical" or "measured", and everything about Sienna's experience feels contrived, and a male trivialisation of a very real issue.

However, I didn't intend to write a detailed analysis of gender inequality in the novels of Dan Brown. It really isn't worth my time or attention. What I wanted to write about was an idea that I found even more disturbing than what I've already described. The idea of memory manipulation.

Brown suggests in his novel that benzodiazepines are being used experimentally to induce short term memory loss as a treatment for patients of sexual assault. I sincerely hope that this is fictional. For a start, one of the most well-known benzodiazepines is rohypnol, more often used as a facilitator of sexual assault rather than treatment.

My first issue with this suggestion is the statement that sexual assault is "permanently debilitating", which yet again dis-empowers those women who have experienced rape or other serious sexual crimes. Yes, the trauma seriously affects daily life, but with the correct support, we have the power to carry on. Not even "carry on", which holds the same negative connotations as "struggle" and "survive", but to live our lives fully and with vigour. It isn't a quick-fix solution, and there will be bad days as well as the good, but although there are some things that are still a challenge for me and it's taken eight years to get to this point, there is nothing I can't do that I could do before. It has not taken any ability away from me, permanently or otherwise. And to suggest that it does yet again reinforces the message of power for the perpetrator and is extremely disrespectful and belittling to the hundreds of thousands of women who continue and the wonderful volunteers and support workers who assist them in their journey.

And breathe.

The next problem with the suggestion is the memory itself. In the first few days, in the first few years, in fact, my two biggest wishes were that I could either turn back time so that it had never happened, or that I could wipe the memories from my head forever. Because it's not just the memory that sits there in the back of your mind where you have to actively recall it, somewhat like thinking about your seventh birthday party, or what you did last weekend. No, it is on constant replay, triggered by textures, sights, sounds and smells. It's not just a memory but something you actively relive, feeling the pain like you did the first time. Even recalling it now is making the back of my head throb where it was smashed on the pavement, and my throat feel like I'm being strangled again. It's manageable, I've learnt to cope. But those mechanisms and defences take time to develop.

The truth is, though, that the things I can't recall are the most terrifying. I don't know exact times, but there must be at least half an hour that's unaccounted for. All I know is that in that time, he left me on the pavement after strangling me, presumably thinking I was dead. Did he rape me again? Did he do something else to me? I have no idea because I have no memories or recollections to go with that time period. Even silly things, like not remembering the name of the work colleague that introduced us, or not remembering where I had my dance class the day before, send shivers down my spine.

It comes back to trust. And control. Most of these things come back to trust and control at the end of the day. Because, in these situations, you realise that you can't trust anyone outside yourself... and suddenly, you can't even trust yourself or your own memories. And the one thing that you still had some control over - your own mind - is not your own either.

So, ethically speaking, how would you go about erasing someone's memories? Would you erase them straight off and not even tell them what had happened? Would you erase that from their minds completely? And what would you tell them? What sort of detrimental effect would that have on the patient and how would you deal with any resulting health issues without letting them know? And if you were to allow them to know the facts, then how would that impact them emotionally? Would they deny their feelings or dismiss them as ridiculous because their memory loss meant they felt undeserving of such reactions? Especially if the choice to have the memories removed was their own.

And time frames make this even more delicate as an issue. For the drugs to affect short term memory, they need to be administered in the first 48 hours, when the patient is likely still in shock. How do you assess whether something is "permanently debilitating" in that time scale? 

On a related (or rather, inverted) note, has anyone read this article in the Guardian? Apparently, a false memory has been implanted in a mouse's brain, and the researchers plan to use this to warn legal experts about the unreliability of human memory. The article actually cites sexual abuse claims as an example of false memories, which yet again undermines the reality of the situation and implies widespread prevalence of an issue that is comparatively rare in relation to false reports of other crime.

In both cases, understanding of how our brains work is essential for future treatment. So often, emotional and psychological wellbeing is dismissed due to lack of medical and scientific understanding, and the fact that it (and its results) can't be seen in the same way as physical health. But we need to consider carefully the impact that this research has and how it is used. In both cases, sexual assault has been cited as possible use (even if one case is in a novel!), yet the authors seem to completely misunderstand the basic truths of the experience.