That's What She Didn't Say

Once I had a lot of secrets. I'd long contemplated putting them out into the world in some sort of book, but these were not the kind of words you spoke out loud.

And then one day, my improv teacher told me I should check out this free "one person show" class, and thank goodness, I listened.

It was easy to think I didn't belong, but that never crossed my mind. I did, however, feel incredibly uncomfortable. For five months I cried in the parking lot most weeks. I mean, I cried more in the parking lot after this class than I did before, during, and after therapy, which I also took on in the same season.

No matter what prompt my teacher gave us, there was a trend. I had a lot of stories to tell, but this is what happens to writers. A lot of people know that sometimes you have to turn on the faucet to get the murky water out, but sometimes you find something different. If you have blue, glittery water running, you don't fix it. You don't ignore it. You write it. You use it.

My classmates were wonderful, and they used our anecdotal writing class to tell a myriad of C+ level disclosure stories. Nothing wrong with that- and let me say, these were some really good stories, but I wasn't exactly blending in.

But that was okay. It was a safe space. I was thrilled to have this safe space to say things I'd never even considered saying outloud. Things I desperately wanted to say.

And then my teacher announced one day that we'd be showcasing our solo pieces- up to eight minutes each. I had a piece I was working on.

It was...personal. It was one thing to share it in my class of 12 people, but for an audience? Yikes.

Finally, it's the day of the show. Okay. Well, at least it'll be female dominated- it's theatre- it's a solo-show showcase - it's gonna be a bunch of women...

I watch as the 60 seats get padded by no less than 25 men, especially in the front rows. Someone from class had invited his men's group, and a handful of men I know end up being in the audience as well. And they're going to think I'm weird and awkward and they're going to feel bad for me. They're going to pity me and they're going to wonder why I'd choose to tell this story. And everyone is going to clap, I tell myself, trying to stay calm. Because they're adult- they'll be polite, but they'll be like, "yikes, overshare. Why would you tell this story."

I run my blue, glittery water energy in my mind, I go over my words, and I wait. My piece is the last one, so I'm waiting for a long time.

And then I perform. I'm honest, maybe more than ever in my life up to that moment. My disclosure is at a define A- but I'm not sure anyone has signed up for this- it's not a contest. I'm not trying to win for who can share the most awkward intimate details, but this blue glittery water that's running-- I haven't been honest about it. It's more like red, and it's hot. It's too hot coming out and all I can hope is that if I keep running the water I can stop feeling like a burning building on the verge of collapse.

So I embrace this moment and share as honestly as I can, with enough humor infused that I can get away with talking about sexual abuse in a theatre setting amidst ten other brief pieces that are mostly comedic. And when I finish, everyone applauds.

Now, of course they applaud. That's not a surprise. These are adults in a theatre, after all. I mean, you have to be incredibly bad or obscene to fail to get applause and besides there were like ten other people in the show.

And after a brief thank you from our director and a group bow, the shows over. I can feel the building-on-fire feeling as I look around the room awkwardly- I wonder if I should thank my teacher or say goodbye to my classmates. But before I can do anything, someone approaches me, followed by someone else, and then someone else.

I am approached by a dozen people- probably as many men as women. No one is awkward. People want to tell me they've had similar experiences. They thank me for sharing.

I feel seen. I feel the water cooling. Maybe everything can be salvaged. Maybe I'm not a building slowly burning from the inside.

We repeat this process every three months or so for a year and a half- within a few months I realize it's all building toward a complete one woman show. The water still runs in colors- sometimes blue, sometimes red, but whatever color it is, it has to be said and it has to be said now.

So I fundraise this show and people are happy to buy tickets. Apparently the first time you do a one person show, people think it's pretty cool. I sell out my entire three night run in a 60 seat venue, even using the extra seats most nights... but I still wonder what will happen.

This show is a lot of information. I want to tell every piece of this story, but I don't know if I can take the weight of holding it up. Will it deflect off everyone and fall back on my shoulders twice as heavy? I just don't know, but I definitely have some scary self-talk about it.

It's the boys I'm worried about. Just like that first showcase, for some reason, the boys all want to show up. The men. Can this be shared with men? And part of me is also thrilled for that. Because I want them to hear this, maybe more than anyone.

But I'm also afraid they're going to be afraid to hug me- they're going to hear what I've been through and they're never going to touch me again- worried I'm some fragile broken thing, worried that it was my fault what happened to me and that I'm too sensitive.. I don't know what I think, other than that I do not trust the world to rise up to hear the 70 words I'm about to speak and sing. But I do it anyways.

And I could not have been more wrong. The audience receives the show with glowing reviews. The men say the best things. The men hug me the tightest. I'm okay with that- I need that. Men who I didn't know would have a strong reaction are emotional and supportive. This is a complete and necessary paradigm shift that catapults me on my journey to go deeper into talking about trauma than I ever thought I could. Seeing how the men show up, shows me that I can to.

This is more than three years before #MeToo and it's a big deal to be engaging people in these conversations- and though I'm proud, I'm still scared. But I do it anyways. It's not perfect. It's messy. But the burning red water burns less. It's bearable.

Every now and then I feel that deep burning feeling and I know I am still a building on fire, but now I know it's a good thing, and for years I let pieces go. I let old stories disintegrate and stop taking up space, and I continue to write. The color of water that's running changes, but not until I have written all of it.

In spite of a successful run of my show, "That's What She Didn't Say" which chronicles my history of trauma and how it colored my life, another show emerges, and another after that. I am forever refining this story and how I can tell it in a way to reach people. I fight the voice that tells me I'm not brave enough, that there are actresses better than me--- but I also know my story is unique in some unfortunate ways.

Though survivors are not rare, the experience of being accused of slander the first time I spoke up, of remembering earlier abuse, and so many other things give me water running that must be bottled into some sort of art. So I collect these bottles and build, telling my story all across LA, and even in NYC.

And finally, after so much writing, the water runs clear, giving me room to write other things. I needed the break. But the feeling never goes- the feeling of having a story to tell. The feeling of knowing how many people refuse to turn on their faucet at all because they don't know if it's safe.

After a long break, I go back and face the fact that although I can see other things and although I have more room to live the other stories of my life, I still see the reds and blues in the water flow, and I am still here to honor this story by telling it.

And I'm still here to help others find a safe place to step away from the fire.

Maybe it's a gift.

I always find it so odd when people talk about not having anything to say. It has literally never happened to me. So whatever parts I sometimes wish do not belong to me, at least these beautiful colors keep me from being boring.