There are some stories you want to tell.
They are testament that good things do happen, even if they
happen on the other side of a messy, uncomfortable ride. They will - probably -
make at least one person feel less alone. They are hope and wisdom and hopefully
some funny anecdotes, and people falling over thrown in for good measure.
Then there are stories you wish you never had to tell again.
This one is both. And I’ll tell you right now, it’s not
going to come out all that pretty. Maybe it’s too close to the bone, or maybe
it’s just the kind of story I wouldn’t believe, if it hadn’t happened to me. It
starts, more or less, in June, 2014. It’s strange, the details you remember: it
starts at a bathroom sink.
Specifically a bathroom sink in Uganda, at the guesthouse where
I’d been staying for just over a month. I was going to church that day, because
going to church is something lots of people in Uganda do. I had my nice dress
on and was brushing my teeth, and out of nowhere, I was hit with the desire to
cause brutal and violent harm to one particular person, so much so that I had
to stop and go sit down on the bedroom floor.
I knew this fantasy. I’d had it before. In it, I, an
unequivocal pacifist, pull the kind of stunts that would rival Uma Thurman in
Kill Bill. There is lots of pain and bone-crunching on the part of the
recipient. I’m okay with this. I believe we have to honour our darkest
thoughts, and that there’s a difference between imagining something and acting
on it, which probably has a lot to do with what fuels Quentin Tarantino’s films
in the first place, and… where was I?
Oh yeah. Going to church.
As anyone with a smartphone would, I decided to distract
myself from my imagined martial arts maneuvers. I opened my inbox, and saw an
email from someone whose name I didn’t recognize. Then I saw the subject line.
It read:
“I believe we were drugged in Greece by the same man”.
The same man who, seconds earlier, had been the subject of
my make-believe black belt skills.
I stayed on the bedroom floor.
This is the part of the story I never want to tell again.
Not because it shouldn’t be told, but because – well, I guess it’s obvious. So, briefly, here we go: in 2005, I was
backpacking in Greece and met a man in the street. He told me he was a pilot,
and offered to take me on a walking tour of the area around the Acropolis. It
was broad daylight, not that that makes a difference. But I agreed. He bought
me a spinach pie which was laced with sleeping pills. I woke up in my hostel
room with enough of a memory of what happened to know what happened. I still
think about harming this man, at random and unrandom moments, like standing at
a bathroom sink in Uganda.
The woman who wrote the email is Erin. Hours before, she had
been googling a string of key words, hoping she’d find clues towards unanswered
questions about her own story, which happened in 2004. It is, to the letter,
almost exactly the same as mine, except that Erin woke up in a hotel room,
alone, a few hours before her flight to America. She didn’t have support in
Athens that I had, or the time to file the paperwork and go on record, like I
did. But she never forgot. Of course. Oh, and just in case that’s not enough: I
realized later that the day I receive her email was exactly one year since the
day the rapist was imprisoned.
We began emailing daily – me from my bunk bed in rural
Uganda, her from her home in Little Rock, while her toddler slept. Aside from
our shared story, other similarities pop up. She is divorced. She’s struggled
with infertility. And, she’s a writer.
The friendship formed without a second thought. We’ve still
never met, aside from over Skype, but Erin has become someone I trust
implicitly, admire outrageously, and confide in unquestioningly. Having someone
who shares my story, even though I wish it never existed, is one of the most
precious gifts I’ve ever been given. But having such a wonderful person as a
friend is the true treasure in all this.
Wait… there’s more.
Erin is one half of an independent publishing company, and when
we met, was in the midst of compiling an anthology. Did I want to contribute a
piece, she asked?
Duh.
The anthology, fittingly, is about scars. Physical ones, not
because those are more worthy than emotional ones, but inspired by Erin’s own,
incredible story about the loss of one her twins, and the near loss of his
sister, who was born 4 months premature at just 23 weeks gestation.
My contribution to the anthology is not this story.
Actually, it may sound strange, but it took more guts to tell than this story.
Probably because it’s about my own mother, and our very difficult relationship.
I wrote it for to make people who have been through abuse feel less alone. If I
could tell only one story in my life, it would be that one. If I could tell
two, I’d probably throw in this one, about Erin and me.
Imagine if scars, physical and emotional both, weren’t
something we tried to hide with makeup or plastic surgery or stiff upper lips
and vodka. Imagine if we wore them proudly. My scars, visible and invisible,
are memories of what I have lost, but also of what I have learned, and who I have
loved. They hurt like hell when they happened, and now are badges of honour, as
I’m sure are yours.
I’m really proud to be part of this book. And I’m not
ashamed to use this story as part of an unabashed sales pitch. I earned it. We
both did!
Finally: none of the writers who contributed to Scars were compensated financially, so
if you buy the book through me, I get to keep, like, a whole bunch of the
profits. Which is pretty amazing. They will go towards writing new things,
including a book, which includes the detailed story about how Erin and I met,
and also tales from Uganda/Indonesia/Australia/New Zealand, some of which are
almost as wacky as that one. So if you want to support a brand new, independent
publishing company, one writer in particular (me,) and even start your holiday shopping early (Told you! Unabashed! Ho
ho ho!,) get in touch and I’ll sort you out.
You can read more about Scars
and Et Alia Press here.
Without cover-up, but with love and gratitude,
Natalie