When I began Our Stories Untold I didn’t know what direction this website would take. I knew I wanted to create a comfortable space for women (and men) to share their stories of sexual abuse and violence. I particularly wanted to open that space up to women (and men) in the Mennonite community, as I saw this as a community that lacked an ability to discuss these painful, yet universal topics.
I also wanted this to be a space that provoked general conversation about taboo topics. I saw an extreme deficiency in people’s ability to communicate about sexual intimacy, whether that be healthy sex or rape. I believe that creating an open, sex-positive community is vital if the Mennonite church wants to tackle the issue of sexualized abuse and violence.
What I didn’t foresee were the challenges I would face in posting people’s stories; how I myself would shy away from uncomfortable topics, question why people choose to remain silent, or remain silent myself.
Over the past 6 weeks since I launched Our Stories Untold I’ve received a handful of personal stories from women and a few men. Almost all of these stories have only been told between the survivor and myself. I’ve asked if people are willing to share their stories, yet many remain unsure if they want their story to go public, even anonymously.
The truth is I don’t remember my story in its entirety, and I’m embarrassed to even admit that. My fear of people’s doubt continues to keep me silent. The last thing I want to hear from anyone is: “If you can’t remember it then how do you even know it happened?” Those words would crush me, destroy me, and make me doubt myself. I can’t handle that.
A part of not remembering is that I was around three when it happened. Do you have any single, complete memory from when you were three-years-old? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Another part of not remembering is that I don’t want to. I remember enough to know it happened. I remember the beginning of the story and I remember the end. The in-between is what’s hazy. I’ve carried the memory with me for 21 years. Just because it’s an incomplete memory does not mean that it didn’t happen. It happened.
My therapist and I spoke a lot about this whole memory thing, and how I felt like my story wasn’t legitimate enough because I was unwilling to even tell the little snippets of memory I do have. Through the therapeutic process though she helped me understand that knowing my story in its entirety might not be what I need to heal. In fact, I will most likely never recover the whole story, especially if I’m unwilling to delve into it.
Instead, maybe it’s just the process of understanding how the story has affected my later life–the life I do remember–that is important. It’s acknowledging that the abuse made me into the person I am today. It led me down a series of paths, both positive and negative, that have created a raw, passionate, and empathetic human. A human who can collect stories, whether that means they’re shared with a greater public, or just shared with myself alone.
There are many reasons why we all remain silent–why we don’t want to talk about sexual abuse, whether it’s our own or other people’s.
My perpetrator is now in prison for later abusing other young women. If I had said something when I was three-years-old, could I have stopped him abusing later in life? I don’t know. This is a concern that has been sent to me by survivors over and over again: “By being silent, did I allow the perpetrator to abuse more people?” It’s a serious guilt that many survivors deal with. It’s a hard guilt, a lot of weight on one person’s shoulders, and a guilt that continues to create silence in some people’s lives.
Embarrassment is another reason survivors continue remaining silent. I’ve had quite a few people mention to me that they don’t want to embarrass their family, their significant others, or themselves.
Self-doubt is another unfortunate, yet frequent, silencer. “Did I do something to provoke my abuse?” “The school told me that because I was drinking, it was my fault this happened.” “At first I was flattered that he was paying attention to me. I must have encouraged him somehow.” These statements and others have been sent to me for why people continue to remain silent.
And I myself am guilty of silencing others. Once the stories started pouring in I began doubting my own ability to display them. First of all, how should I display them? Will I offend people? Can I really post this graphic of material… and if yes, then how should I go about doing it? What will people say? What will people think? Do I really deserve to be the carrier of these sad tales?
I started reading people’s stories and being surprised by their endings. I would think, “Why wouldn’t this person want to turn the perpetrator in?” Or “How can they still look at the perpetrator in the face everyday and not go crazy?!” My own judgement started seeping into my desire to eradicate the silence.
It’s pretty incredible how we can sabotage ourselves and others in just a few quick, spiraling thoughts. Too often I let my mind spin out of control until my apprehension immobilizes myself from the passionate action that originally sparked my thoughts. Unfortunately, because we are human, this will always happen. 
The most important thing though is to focus on the goal and the purpose of this site. We aren’t here to find out who the perpetrators are. We’re not here to be nosy or curious of other people’s stories. We are instead here to eradicate silence. We are here to talk about tough subjects. We are here to listen, share, and support. We’re here to create a community. We’re here to believe our own daughters and sons when they tell us they’ve been abused. We’re here to learn how to make space for stories to be told not only in the virtual world, but in our own everyday worlds of church, school, and family.
Our Stories Untold is going to post the first full-story from a survivor tomorrow. The content is graphic and uncomfortable. It’s challenging to read, and it provokes challenging thoughts. I encourage you to read it with an open-mind though, and to remind yourself of why we’re here, and where we want to go from here.
Walk with me. Send in your stories and contributions. Help end the silence.