Nursing, a Cautionary Tale of Burnout: Part 1 The Bullies

I'm going to preface this entire blog by saying that I'm at a very good place in my career.  I enjoy what I do, like my coworkers, feel generally well supported by our immediate supervisors, and am well compensated for my time.  It was a long road to this place, and there were a lot of pitfalls along the way.  I guess, in sharing this, I'm hoping that the takeaway is this: Do not stay in a toxic environment, and there is life after burnout.

I've been reflecting on my nursing career recently.  10 years ago, I started my Associate's Degree program.  10 years later, in the present day, I'm starting my Psych NP clinicals.  I've traveled a lot of ground in this last decade, personally, professionally, and academically, so here goes....

Let's start with my first job.  This part of my cautionary tale applies to the brand new baby nurses.  I started my career in critical care.  What should have been a great learning experience occurred in one of the most toxic environments I have ever survived...anywhere.  My first preceptor, as a new grad.  Constantly rolled her eyes at me, talked down to me, reprimanded me in front of patients and their families, and made me feel stupid for asking questions.  One day, she mentioned that she had a headache from "too much wine" the night before.  That same day, she hid out, nursing her hangover, and decided to tell my charge nurse that I wasn't a good fit for her.  This left me, as a brand new nurse, on a unit where I knew almost no one, without a mentor.  It also put a target on my back, because this was an environment where this nasty woman had a lot of clout.  If I was on the outs with her, I was on the outs with almost everyone.

Fortunately, there were some really good people who I worked with that circled the wagons, and agreed to help me out.  I learned a lot from these ladies, and really owe the foundation of my skills to them and them alone.  My previous preceptor? Let's just call her, #1.  She did everything she could to make sure that the doctors, other nurses, respiratory therapists, nurses aides, radiology techs...pretty much everyone who would listen, think of me as the village idiot.  What happens when you're made to feel like a walking piece of shit?  Well, you certainly don't learn very easily...and you don't flourish.

My first day off of my preceptorship.  Literally my very first day on my own, I had a patient with an order for a PCA pump (that's patient controlled analgesia).  This is not a common occurrence in critical care because most of our patients were too incapacitated to control their own pain medication dosing.  Due to the nature of this type of pump, and the risks involved with giving too much IV narcotic medication, setting up this pump required 2 nurses to look at the settings and sign off on it.  I asked for help, and no one really knew how to do the initial set up.  Our educator happened to be on the unit, so the charge nurse had her help me set it up and act as my co-sign on the dosing.  The educator really struggled with helping me set up this pump, and my being new (and the village idiot) I didn't really feel comfortable speaking out.  The charge nurse sent 1's BFF...we'll call her #2...into the room to double-check the dosing.  I'm glad she did, because the educator had set it up wrong!  2 came back, told me that it was set up wrong, we corrected it and that was the last I heard of it, until it was time for my annual review.

At my review, I was told that I would only be getting a 2% raise, because I had a med error on my record.  A med error?  I had never been told about a med error!  My charge nurse brought up the error in the set up of the PCA.  I objected, stating that the educator (let's call her 3) had helped me set it up.  My charge nurse responded, "We asked 3 about it, and she denied setting anything up with you."  When I objected to her obvious lie, the charge nurse just shrugged and said that she knew...and that there was nothing she could do about it.  So, 2 had written me up and just didn't say anything.  The charge nurse that day didn't say anything...and 6 months later I first hear about it, as the excuse for giving me a shitty raise.  Between the paltry raise and the increase in my benefit cost that year, I was making less than I did the year prior.  The money was so shitty, that with the cost of living in Orange County, I had to have a part time per diem gig as a surgical nurse.  Most of the nurses I worked with had part time jobs, which is insane if you actually think about how intense it is to be a full time critical care nurse.  I started looking for other jobs...

Now, the abuse suffered at the hands of 1 and 2 was ongoing.  I overheard them conspiring to stay away from helping me with anything right after morning report one day. They were talking about how they were going to leave me out to dry and laughing about it.  I knew that they wanted me to hear this.  In the ICU, it really needs to be a team environment.  One nurse can't change a soiled patient, or reposition them every 2 hours so they don't get bed sores, or run a code by themselves.  I started scheduling myself whenever they weren't working whenever possible.  Here's how it worked with healthy co-workers: we would have "turning parties" where we would all team up to help reposition one another's patients.  We would discuss the patients that were high risk for coding, so that we all sort of kept one eye on that patient for monitor changes.  We would laugh together, offer to break one another.  This is how it worked when 1 and 2 weren't on the same schedule as I was.  This is how it should have worked all the time.  I didn't sleep the nights before I had to work with the unholy duo.  I cried on my way to work on those days. 

The final straw wasn't the shitty pay, or the bullies, it was a back injury.  I had a confused patient trying to get out of bed.  I ran into his room, verbally redirected him, and casually picked up his legs to help him lay back down in bed. That's when I felt the pop in my lower back, and searing hot pain shot through my entire left leg just before it went numb.  I told my charge nurse, who asked 1 to take my patients from me so I could go to the ER.  1 was working rapid response that day, which the ICU nurses liked doing because you got called to the rapid responses on the other units and didn't have to have a patient assignment.  The RRT nurses sometimes got pulled into the unit if there were more admits than nurses, or, as was in this case, if one of the nurses had to leave.  1 just disappeared after she was asked to take over my patients.  She disappeared for 45 minutes, while I struggled to take care of my patients in the worst pain I've ever experienced.  The charge nurse asked why I was still there almost an hour after my injury.  I told her because 1 was nowhere to be found.  She tracked 1 down, and 1 heaved sighs, interrupted me, and rolled her eyes through my giving her report.  I still have residual pain from this injury, 7 years later.

Right around this time, I was offered another position at a different hospital.  It was almost twice my salary at my first job.  **Pause for a second here...same job, twice the pay.  Both healthcare systems are very successful, both COULD afford to pay their nurses what the second job offered, only the first hospital system simple chooses not to, because they consider the "pride" in working there to be part of your benefits package.**

I was scared to leave, because I was not confident in my skills at all (clearly I was capable, having been offered a job where it is actually really hard to get hired), and I had a few friends that I loved working with.  I heard 1 and 2 conspiring to leave me hanging on the day I was either going to put in my 2 weeks notice, or let the new hospital know I was declining the offer.  That cemented my decision, and I put in my 2 weeks notice that day.  On my very last day, one of the nurses that I had really come to love was charge nurse.  She put me on the telemetry desk, since one of the tele techs was out sick.  It was a nice gesture, and guaranteed a relaxed day.  2 looked at the other tele tech and said to him, "If you need any help, let me know," she looked right at me and back at him and said, "because you're going to need it."  I fired off an email to the department director, and explained the bullying I had experienced at the hands of 1 and 2, and that this was the real reason for my leaving.  She showed up, within minutes of my email, and pulled 2 aside.  I have no idea what she said to her, but she wouldn't even look at me for the rest of my shift.

I moved on to much better things in my career.  The lesson in this story is this: If you're in a toxic environment, leave.  End of story.  Find something else and leave.  If you have your RN license, and you have a least a year of experience, you're marketable almost anywhere.  Too many people stay in a toxic environment because they are afraid of change.  I was so burned out in my first job, that I looked at the gardners outside and considered making a career change to landscaping.  "They work outside...get good exercise..." I can hear myself day dreaming.

I moved on from this job into different hospital systems, different units and different specialties.  ALL of those jobs had more positives than negatives.  The moves that I made after leaving my first job were calculated decisions that I made to advance my career in various ways.  None of those moves were to escape an unbearable situation.  Writing this was cathartic for me, because I have carried this trauma and embarrassment with me for years.  It feels good to get it out there.

I've become confident and capable through wonderful managers and coworkers who helped me to be the best nurse I could possibly be.  I owe all the wonderful things in my career to those people on the way (as well as the nurses who did try to shield me from the bullies in my first job).  We need good nurses and can't afford to bully out our new grads or new hires.  Those of you who know me are probably surprised that I was so vulnerable to bullies.  I was in a position where I was just starting my career, after spending years trying to get to that starting point.  I was so terrified of failure that my defenses were down.  I had devoted my life to becoming a registered nurse, and literally had no back up plan if something went wrong.

Thanks for listening...hopefully this blog will inspire you to move away from a toxic unit, or know that you aren't alone if you've been a victim of bullying.  For any new nurses reading this, know that you deserve better than to be eaten alive.  It's not like that everywhere, I promise! 

Let's talk about mental illness for a minute....

Two years ago, I had these grand plans to write a blog about my emerging from postpartum depression like a phoenix rising from the ashes.  What I hadn't bargained on was that, 2 years later, the struggle would still be ongoing and there would be no grandiose rise from the depths of my darkness. While I feel stronger for my battle, the war is nowhere near won.

I thought I had found the miracle drug last fall, and then it gave me super high blood pressure, so I started over from scratch. I just sent an email to my psychiatrist asking to try a different medication because I'm just not there yet. It's so frustrating. I was lamenting my struggle in the shower this morning, wondering why I couldn't just have it easy...just once. 

Truth be told, none of us truly have it easy.  We are the editors to our life story on Facebook and Instagram.  Our homes are always clean and our faces always smiling. We are SO in love, SUCH good parents, living our BEST life in some exotic locale. We all know that isn't the case, yet we are profoundly affected by the lives we see others living on social media.

You want the truth? Those pumpkin patch pictures, for instance...I was on day two of a horrific sinus headache, and spending the afternoon at a dusty and windy farm was just about the worst idea I've ever had. The Little Lord of the Manor hadn't napped, and he was a nightmare by the time we got to dinner. The pictures don't show me popping Sudafed and Advil like a crackhead, just trying to get through the day. They don't show me picking my toddler up off the floor of California Pizza Kitchen over and over and over and over and over again....then picking up his crayons off the floor so someone doesn't slip on them over and over and over and over again....rinse and fucking repeat. 

So, let's cut the shit. Life is messy, and it's not even remotely perfect. Dealing with depression and anxiety can make you feel isolated, like every other fucking person is #Blessed and you're just some asshole who can't appreciate the good life you've been given. It makes you feel like a failure in all areas of life. Why can't I have more patience for my child? Why am I so tired all of the time? What exactly is my purpose in life if I can't be good at at least one of the things that I'm juggling?

Fortunately, my darkest days led me to my current career path, and for that I'm eternally grateful. That was the conclusion of my ruminations in the shower this morning. This too shall pass. Maybe the next med change will actually work, the most recent change definitely got me closer to level than I've been in a while. With the most recent med change, I noticed something I had never really seen before.  I noticed that the carpet in Ethan's room was worn in front of his changing station, and I smiled, thinking of all the time we spent there when he was a newborn...all the diaper changes...and bedtime routines. Then I wondered, how long have I been trapped inside of my head? How am I just noticing this?

I'm putting this out there, because a lot of people struggle with mental illness, and as a sexual assault survivor the last several weeks have not helped. Not at all. I want those who are out there in the shadows to know that you're not alone. It's OK to get help, talk to someone, and even take meds. There is strength in reaching out, and asking for help is not a sign of weakness.

Take a deep breath, and this too shall pass.   

20 year-old secrets

**Before reading this, take a look at this.  This was the first time I shared my story. Having just re-read it for the first time in a few years, I wouldn't change a thing.  I'm not going to rehash the details again.** 

Let me begin by saying that I'm in an immense period of personal growth.  I told my husband that I feel like I've finished the sculpture of my psyche and am now just sanding down the rough edges.  My therapy appointments revolve around graduate school, and money stress while I'm in the final three semesters of my program.  I discuss my anxiety over raising a child, and my guilt over not having a lot of time for my son right now.  We talk about how I can better communicate with my spouse, because parenting is really hard, and marriage is hard, and careers are hard...and all of those things mixed up together can be a powder keg. At least that's what we were talking about, until this hit the news. The last part of my most recent therapy session rehashed the superficial details of my sexual assault, and how triggering this particular story was for me. 

Since this has hit the news, I've seen so much victim blaming, and people taking the innocent until proven guilty stance.  Why didn't she come forward 35 years ago?  Why is she just now talking about this, now that he's nominated for the Supreme Court?  Well, lemme tell you...I'm going to break this down from my perspective, and why I did not speak out until adulthood, why I have never named my assailant outright, and why I would speak out if he ended up in the political arena.   

First, as mentioned in my prior blog, it was advised by my guidance counselor, that I just try to heal on my own.  She advised that I shouldn't tell anyone, because I would be dragged through the court of public opinion. Why was I drinking? Why was I even there? What was I wearing? What was my prior sexual history? As a 17 year-old, that seemed an insurmountable obstacle.  As a 38 year-old, I would hold my head up and fight through it.  There's a big difference between the confidence that comes with adulthood, and the insecurities of a teenager.  Honestly, now I would be able to survive it, and at 17, I'm not sure I would have.

Second, there's always going to be that part of me that blames myself.  I was dressed seductively.  I was drinking (it was the first time I had ever been drunk, go big or go home, I guess).  I was not a virgin.  Up to that point, I had engaged in consensual sex with a boyfriend.  I was not the irrational virginal image of purity that is expected of young women. If only I hadn't been so bold....so independent.....the only girl disinterested in my assailant, which ultimately made me the perfect target. I was the perfect mark, with just enough of a history to have my story believably re-written by someone else into a slutty party girl.  I spoke with him only once after the event, via telephone, and he asked, "So that was consensual, right?" What a weird question.  "Yeah. Yeah."  I brushed it off, afraid of revealing that I was not in control of my actions that night.  Afraid of judgment, and gossip, and seeming crazy.  All of the things that are important to a teenager, fixated on their social status. We both knew the real answer to that question. That question, and my response, have haunted me for over 20 years.   

Third, I really didn't want to tell my parents!  I was doing all of the things that a teenager isn't supposed to be doing.  Taking the city by storm with a couple of girlfriends, accepting the invitation to a party at a boy's house when his parents were out of town, and drinking!!  In my 17 year-old brain, there would be consequences for my actions, even if the outcome of that night had been a consequence in and of itself.  What kid is going to tell their mom, "So I went to this party, when you thought I was just at a sleepover, got blackout...unconscious...shit myself drunk, and a boy had sex with me while I was passed out."  Seriously.  Chew on that for a while. 

Now, why would I raise Hell if this guy were to pop into the mainstream somewhere? He does not deserve control over other women, or laws that regulate women's choices.  Period.  This is not a party-affiliation thing.  I would have done exactly what Dr. Ford did.  I would attempt to remain anonymous, lawyer up, and pray that I could stay below the radar for as long as possible before the firestorm. Her story is especially triggering, because the age and surrounding circumstances were so similar to my own. 

My initial attempt at exerting some control over my past was inviting my younger sister to parties at my house, where we were drinking.  I wanted her to know what it felt like to be drunk in a space where she was watched over, so that she could understand her limits and avoid being taken advantage of.  It was my naive way of feeling like I couldn't save myself, so I would save her.  Age and perspective has allowed me to use my past as footholds, while I learned to work in a profession where I could truly help people.  I can walk beside those who are hurting, or healing, or at any of the stages in between. I control my future, my past is only the road that was traveled.

My way of exerting control in the present time, is to candidly share the single most painful, damaging, life-changing, experience of my life.  Maybe someone will read this, and have a better understanding of why women don't come forward.  Maybe someone who was recently victimized will feel empowered to take control.  Maybe someone who has been hiding their story all of these years feels less alone.  I want to normalize this conversation, because that is ownership.  I was raped. I survived.  I came out on top.  People who have lived through the emotional forest fire of sexual assault are survivors, not victims. I am in control of my narrative.  Period. 
    

Pat my bump, and tell me all of your pregnancy horror stories

In January we thought I may have been pregnant...by accident...I wasn't, or possibly had been and it simply didn't implant (I had all of the early signs of pregnancy along with a very late period, but no positive pregnancy tests).  Our disappointment, after the initial shock, was what made us change our minds about eventually starting a family.  For as long as E and I have dated we had both made it clear we weren't interesting in having children.  My experience in January made me genuinely concerned that I may not be able to get pregnant, were I to actively try. 

We decided to start trying during a week-long trip to New Jersey for a wedding.  Two weeks, and a positive pregnancy test later, I was genuinely shocked that my old ovaries didn't shoot out a dud on the first round.  We had our first OB appointment, saw the baby (who looked like a seahorse with a hummingbird heartbeat), and started to get excited.  Five days after that appointment, I hemorrhaged.  Discovering that I was bleeding was one of the worst moments of my entire life.  After a terrifying trip to the ER, we were informed that Little Buddy (which is what we had started calling the baby from about week 6) was still in there, and that I was just going to have to wait out the bleeding.   

I bled, on and off, from week 7 until week 14.  I was put on bed rest for a week, then had activity restrictions from week 8 until week 15.  It would stop for a few days, and then return...usually in the middle of the night, leaving me to lie awake and wonder if this pregnancy was going to make it.  I became depressed and withdrawn.  I was afraid to register for baby items, because I had zero confidence in my ability to carry this pregnancy full term.  Just looking at the few baby items we had been gifted brought tears to my eyes.  I fought through going to work, and completing assignments for school, and had almost nothing left by the end of the day.  E watched me stumble through my emotional ground zero, while doing whatever he could to pull me outside of my dark thoughts.    

Once the bleeding stopped, I developed horrific migraines.  Not just typical migraines, but migraines that came with the loss of an entire field of vision.  When it first happened, I thought I was having a stroke.  Now I have migraines and borderline high blood pressure, making me very high risk for preeclampsia.  I worked out a good treatment plan with my neurologist, and started seeing an acupuncturist.  The migraines are starting to back off in frequency and severity, and I'm beginning to feel cautiously optimistic.

While I may be an old, decrepit vessel, the baby is growing and healthy.  All tests have come back normal, and he's a little on the big side for his gestational age.  I'm so happy to be carrying a healthy baby, that I'm down for whatever strange and random things people want to share with me.  I have read a number of blogs about women who hate having people touch their bump, or turn their noses up at unwanted advice and pregnancy horror stories. I have grown to appreciate Kim Kardashian's pregnancy nightmares, because her oversharing makes me feel less alone in white-knuckling my way through pregnancy. 

Unsolicited pregnancy advice is to me, a reminder that I'm still pregnant, and that my bleeding never manifested into a worst-case scenario.  This week was the first week where I look pregnant in my scrubs.  At work, this has resulted in squeals, comments, and requests to touch my newly visible baby bump.  Again, some view this as an invasion of privacy, where I see it as a reminder that Little Buddy is that much closer to viability if something else were to go wrong.

I have four months (if my pregnancy remains uncomplicated) for people to make unsolicited comments, to invade my privacy, and to share horrific pregnancy/labor/breastfeeding/sleepless night stories with me.  To which I say, bring it on.  Those horror stories remind me that you can have a nightmare pregnancy, and end up with a healthy baby.  Go ahead and ask me if the baby was planned, if I'll be breast feeding, and how I plan to continue grad school and full-time work while caring for an infant.  Ask me if you can touch my bump, or just go ahead and grab it totally uninvited.  Tell me that I look like I'm having twins! While I may experience a moment of shock at some of the unsolicited comments, or at a surprise belly rub, underneath my startled look will be a feeling of gratitude that Little Buddy is in there doing his thing after a time of such great uncertainty.


**An unanticipated benefit of having multiple urgent OB visits, was receiving a whole series of ultrasound pics.  Little Buddy is more photographed than a Kardashian.

Addendum to my previous post

When I published my previous blog, telling my story was like looking back on a different life.  My intention was to help people understand that victims of sexual assault might be the girl next door, and that the perpetrators of these crimes are not always an obvious threat. 

One element of my previous blog, which has sparked some discussion was the use of the term "rape culture."  Many people have outright said that we do not live in a society that accepts rape as a part of our social norm, and that most people are disgusted by it.  Here are some examples of our rape culture at work:

1.  Woody Allen

• Scarlett Johansson actively engages in victim blaming, and casts doubt on the victim's credibility, even when his questionable behavior was well documented.
• Diane Keaton defended Woody Allen simply because he is her friend...and obviously, if you're a friend of Diane Keaton's, then there is absolutely no way you could possibly be a child molester.   Note to self: Hang out with Diane Keaton's friends, because apparently they are all infallible. 

When will we stop accepting rape as a part of our culture?

This has been bubbling up in me for some time now.  I feel the need to share, now more than ever, because rape is still readily accepted in our society.  Feel free to click on the links I've inserted throughout this blog, as they contain stories that hit close to home.  To many of you, this story will be shocking, as I have not openly shared my experience outside of my inner circle of friends.   Some of you will recognize who I'm referring to, and some of you will continue to believe that I was a willing participant, despite all the evidence to the contrary. 

Evil lurks in the most unlikely places.  Who knew that a tiny little seed of talent would grow a monster rather than a star?  Who would have guessed that the cocky boy, sitting at the piano in the high school choir room, was more dangerous to me than a stranger on a dark street?

I remember the events leading up to that night, as if it were yesterday.  I was wearing a white fitted tank top, faux suede brown pants (I loved those pants), and strappy sandals with a chunky high heel.  I was your typical invincible 17 year old.  I had gone to downtown Madison with a couple of girlfriends, where we ran into some guys from high school.  One of the guys was having a party, because his mom was out of town.  He had just graduated (this was the summer before my senior year) and he asked us to join them.  We had nothing better to do, so why not?  

We arrived at the party, the only three girls there.  I remember taking a couple of shots…I vaguely remember kissing the boy whose house we had gone to…and then, nothing.  Complete blackness until the next day….I had never been drunk before.  I had no idea that losing over 12 hours of memory was not a normal part of drinking.

.   

The following morning, my friend sat me down, and filled in the gaps.  She said she wanted me to hear it from her, rather than through gossip.  Apparently I had gone to this boy’s bedroom, and had sex with him.  Do I remember it?  No.  Was I a willing participant?  In that condition, absolutely not.  Was I even conscious?  I have no idea.  After being in his bedroom for a while, he came out to tell my friends that I had vomited blood, was unconscious, and he was unable to get me dressed.  The friend who was telling me this story was the one who put my clothes on, and the boys at the party tossed me into the backseat of my car, shutting the door on my leg a few times before successfully shoving all of my parts inside. 

While my friend was driving, I had a seizure, and as a result of the seizure, shit myself.  Not pretty, but an unfortunate part of this unfortunate story.  My friend took me home, unsure of what to do with me.  She got me cleaned up, and poked at me for the rest of the night…she poked at me each time I stopped breathing. This friend, saved my life.

As the gossip spread, my entire world shattered.  In the version of the story that circulated through my small town, I was a slutty girl who got drunk and had sex with a guy who had a girlfriend.  According to rumor, I was a willing participant.  In reality, he told his friends before we arrived, “I’m going to get Emily Miller drunk and fuck her.”  I found out later, that he had never had sex before, and wanted to figure out how to do it, because he didn’t want to have sex with his girlfriend as a “virgin.” His actions were completely premeditated.

Rather than try to correct the story that was going around, I descended into darkness.  I started making myself throw up, trying to purge the self-loathing within.  I went from the honor roll, to truancy and barely finishing high school.  I told my guidance counselor about the assault.  She advised me to keep quiet, seek therapy, and not press charges.  This was in the late 90’s, and courts ripped young women to shreds if alcohol was involved in a rape allegation.  She was concerned that I would be victimized all over again.  At the time, I agreed with her.  As I've grown into this experience, and the clarity that goes along with that process, she robbed me of my closure.  I have had 2 different mental health professionals tell me that this was actually illegal, because she was a mandatory reporter.  As a health care provider, yeah, I would have acted in advocacy of the victim rather than perpetuating the fear of victim-blaming. 

I had been accepted into the University of Minnesota, as a pre-med student.  By the time I left home I was so damaged emotionally, that there was no way I would be academically successful.  I lasted two trimesters at the U of M, and moved back to Madison to piece my life back together.  I was throwing up 5 times a day, and knowing that I was profoundly ill, saw a therapist twice a week.  I had the presence of mind to see my therapist through this entire process, because I knew I had to fight, or let my demons kill me. I often wondered why I survived that night, considering the medical events that occurred, and I clung to the belief that there was a reason I survived. 

During the years that followed, I partied, drank too much, and behaved erratically.  I burned bridges, and scorched personal relationships.  I knew I was out of control.  I was hurting the people I loved, but couldn’t help myself.  I looked at other women who had been assaulted under violent and dangerous circumstances.  I told myself, “At least I don’t remember.  It’s not like I was raped at gunpoint, or molested by a relative."  I told myself that I was lucky, all things considered, and I would not allow myself to be a victim.  

It wasn’t until I was 21, almost 4 years later, when the darkness started to lift.  For the first time since the incident, I felt like the person I used to be.  I loved life.  I laughed freely.  Adventures outside of Wisconsin presented themselves to me, and my whole world changed.  I started to take classes at the local community college, and the idea of becoming a nurse took hold.

Eventually, I moved to California, where I finished  nursing school.  Recently, I completed my bachelor’s degree and am on track to start a nurse practitioner program in January.  I married my best friend, and together we are in the process of building a life that I never would have dreamed was possible as I navigated my darkest days.  In the last few years, I have learned to forgive the person who did this to me.  Without him, many of the beautiful things in my life would not exist.  How would things be different if I had never gone to that party?  Who knows?  Does it matter?  No.  What evil was he battling that made him think his behavior was justified?  His road is far longer and darker than mine…                    

My suffering led me to help others, to be compassionate and loving during a time of need.  I survived to give back, and I'm grateful for each day of this spectacular life. 

I’m sharing this, 17 years later, because my experience is alarmingly commonplace.  Every week there’s a new story about a teenager who was at a party, raped, and left for dead.  I thank God that my assault happened before the era of social media.  Small town gossip eventually dies down, but the internet is forever.  If pictures of my assault had been shared all over Facebook and Instagram, I don’t know how my story would have ended.  Evil lurks in places where good parents and a happy childhood offer no protection.

I want to send a message to the new generation of sexual assault survivors.  You will get through this.  The road to healing is long and dark, and this time will reveal who your true friends are.  Love yourself.  You are worth so much more than you know.  One day you’ll wake up, years later, and marvel at what your life has become.  I can’t say that the process of healing is easy, but I can say that it’s worth it in the end.  I want to hug you, cry with you, and tell you it will all be okay.  When you come out on the other side of this, use your strength to help others, and know that you are a survivor and not a victim.