#breaking the silence

The First @ReclaimYourVoice Event || Planning the event was easy enough. I booked a room through the Toronto Public Library system and promoted it on Facebook. Most of the people I was connected to knew me only as a photographer so I’m sure they were surprised to see me promoting an event for people who’d been abused, but the response was incredible. 76 people not only confirmed their attendance but also left comments on the event page, applauding this initiative and saying how excited they were to attend. Their enthusiasm gave me another boost of confidence and I couldn’t wait for this to happen.⁣
⁣
When the big day came, my friends and I set up the space, laid out an abundance of refreshments, opened the doors and waited…and waited…and waited. But none of those 76 people showed up. Painful. I felt deflated. For so many people to have promised their support and to have none of them keep their word really hurt. I delayed the start of the event as long as I could, thinking that perhaps those 76 people were just having trouble finding the place, but after 45 minutes went by it became clear that they weren’t coming. Despite the crushing disappointment I felt, I had to put on a brave face and start the event. ⁣
⁣
I went to the front of the room to welcome the 20 people who were there, all friends of mine and the other speakers, when suddenly my lifelong, paralyzing fear of public speaking resurfaced with a vengeance. 

I hadn’t addressed a room since making presentations in high school and several years had passed since then so I simply assumed that I didn’t have stage fright anymore. I was completely wrong. Simply standing up to greet the small group filled me with absolute terror. After I welcomed everyone, I took my seat and one by one the other speakers shared their stories beautifully and gracefully while I sat waiting with my heart pounding, overcome with nerves. When it was my turn to tell my story, I went shakily to the front of the room and began to read from the speech I had prepared. When I got to the part about LO abusing his animals I started to cry and my whole body trembled. I paused to take a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain my composure but it didn’t help. As I fought my way through the torturous 15 minute speech, I repeatedly paused to breathe deeply hoping desperately that it would help calm me down, but it was of no use―I just had to power through. Interestingly, it was when I arrived at the part of my story where I finished speaking about the abuse itself and began talking about my healing that I finally calmed down. I stopped trembling and the tears ceased as well.⁣
⁣
To be completely honest, I didn’t feel good when the event was done. I felt low and gloomy, partially due to all the uncomfortable feelings that had arisen when I spoke (which I later learned is common after revisiting and releasing painful memories and not necessarily a bad sign) but also because of all the people who said they would show up but didn’t. I felt that maybe hosting this event had been a mistake. But my friend Cher, who had also shared her story that day, gushed to me about how amazing it had been. She once again caught me off guard with her positive view of this event and showed me that despite the heaviness I was feeling, something powerful had happened that day.⁣

Before I get to the question, there’s something I want to touch on that I hope can become a common practice: getting people’s *consent* before opening up to them about our pain. Trauma can complicate things and there may be times when we can’t stop the words from coming out, but for those times when we are able to, it’s important to check in with someone before having discussions with them about serious subject matter. We never know what someone might be going through in their lives, or how our story might trigger them, or how they simply may not be in the right place that day to listen and hold space. Not only does this help us to not negatively impact their wellbeing, but it’s a safety measure for ourselves as well; opening up and talking about our trauma requires making ourselves vulnerable and if we don’t receive the support we need and deserve through that process, it can be retraumatizing. It’s a good practice to ask someone, “Are you in the right mental space to hear this right now?” and to be clear about the type of support you are hoping to receive before talking about your experiences.

Regarding the question posted here, what happened when you first told someone your story? Why did you decide to talk about it? Who did you tell? How did they respond and how did you feel? Please comment below if you are comfortable contributing to the conversation.