"MY OWN PERSONAL WAR"

It was the summer of, 2016, and I was passionately pursuing my musical dreams that lead three of my band members, and I, out to Nashville, Tennessee for a 3 day music conference.

The road getting to Nashville had been a rocky one; which resulted in a financial struggle that ended up setting me back thousands of dollars, in debt, covering all the travel expenses for my band members and I. However, I truly believed that the investment would all be worth it, down the road, if I received the opportunity to share my story and music with inner city youth broken by the impact of childhood sexual abuse and other forms of trauma. This was my objective for attending this music conference that also had a summer music tour for reaching out to inner city youth. An out reach tour very much in line with my mission and vision, as an independent artist, with a small multi-media production company called, In The Closet Productions "A voice for the voiceless".

Arriving in Nashville with smiles on our faces, ready to play our second American gig, I remember how excited I felt to be performing with my band of seasoned musicians in the songwriting capital of America. It was a dream come true for me. A great opportunity to make some great business connections in the music industry and to bond more with my band members.

On the day of our live music showcase, I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel bathroom, slowly applying my makeup, fixing my hair, and making peace with the outfit I had chosen to wear on stage. It was a long sleeve, thigh length, dark blue, sweater with dark blue leggings with black, pleather, patches across my thighs. A modest outfit, I thought, reflecting my quirky personality and complimenting my figure at the same time. A comfortable outfit, that I never thought would inspire a cause for humiliation and so many false accusations on stage.

Outside the large venue, where the 3 day conference was taking place, my band members and I run through our short set list, over and over again. The pressure to perform our very best is almost overwhelming but with my three male band members, accompanying me on stage, I manage to keep it together and give my all on stage. Desperately hoping that my songs, my voice, and my musician's instrumental skills would be enough to make a positive connection with the panel of four male judges, deciding our summer touring fate.

What happened next, was not what I had imagined happening at all, that day. One moment, I was passionately singing my songs on stage with my band in Nashville, Tennessee. The next moment, I was being persecuted on stage in a room full of people... and the worst part was, I never even saw it coming.

It all started after I had finished performing my original songs, "Long After Your Gone," "I work for love, not hate" along with sharing my reason for doing music, in front of a panel full of judges. It was then, immediately after that, the sudden attacks on my character and creative choices began to fly from all four judges.

Standing, silently, beside my white, male, band members on stage, I never felt more alone as a black woman, listening to all four men turn me into a temptress with a serious lack of modesty on stage. I was completely shocked, especially since I had chosen to wear my long sleeve, dark blue, thigh length, sweater with a pair of blue and black pleather tights, unaware that my sweater would become see through, under the bright, glaring, stage lights.

The whole situation was a nightmare that only got worse with them accusing me of doing it on purpose to stand out. I was absolutely flabbergasted.

Then, they decided to turn it up a notch by attempting to change my band name, on stage, from Ingrid D. Johnson & The Funky Fresh Crew to just my name alone, Ingrid D.Johnson. It was so bizarre and infuriating.

They had no right to change my band name. They had no right to bully me but they seemed to enjoy doing that instead of honestly critiquing my voice and my performance with my band.

Stunned by the whole, unexpected, experience I felt my soul, suddenly, drop into a silent place filled with darkness and despair. A place I had almost forgotten about, after existing there for so many years, when my memories of being sexually abused, as a child, came flooding back in sixth grade.

It was a place I had thought I had left far behind me, when I found my voice writing and publishing my very first poetry book in 2005 but somehow those four men had managed to send me right back into that hopeless place.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream. My voice seemed like it was completely gone. All I could do was just stand there, frozen in time, until they were done hurling their hurtful words at me, like sharp daggers, straight into my heart.

When the persecution was finally over and my legs regained their function, that had seemed to cease when they were speaking their minds, I quickly walked off that stage, straight out of that room, and outside of that building, away from everyone. I needed to be someplace safe where I could break down and let out the avalanche of tears I had been holding back the entire time. The kind of gut wrenching tears a distraught mother cries when her child goes missing or suddenly dies. Inconsolable tears that only a broken spirit can cry. End of the world, kind of tears. The kind of tears that come from a soul wounded by so many traumas in life.

Alone, sitting on the concrete parking lot floor, uncontrollably sobbing and glaring across the street at the building housing those heartless people inside, who had crushed my spirit and left me wanting to die, I thought about how easy it would be to go and leave everything behind at forty. How easy it would be to throw in the towel. After all, I was tired, so tired. Tired of being shamed, misunderstood, and abused by bullies that seemed to rule everything in the world. I was tired of being ignored and broken down by people who did not care about the impact of childhood sexual abuse on a person's life. I was so tired of the struggle. The struggle to be heard. The struggle to share. The struggle to create. The struggle to be recognized as someone with something valuable to offer. The struggle to earn. I was tired of it all. Most of all, I was beyond tired of drowning in debt because I had dared to follow my dreams to Nashville, Tennessee, in hopes of joining an organization that claimed to reach out to inner city youth, using an artist's original music, and their personal story of learning to overcome adversity. I was tired. Tired of all the disappointments and the soul crushing failures. I was done.

Sucker punched, down for the count, and broken in spirit all because I had made the wrong wardrobe choice that day, leaving me vulnerable in a room full of monsters , I could not see a way to overcome what had happened to me that day, in order to get myself up off the ground and start moving forward. I felt so broken down and stuck in the ground.

Choosing to ignore my cellphone, ringing off the hook, so I could continue my debate with God about ending my life in that parking lot, I thought about all the stress I went through to get to Nashville. All the planning and preparation I had to do to have my trip end up like it did. It all seemed so crazy, like a very bad joke that someone was playing on me that was far from being funny.

What could anyone possibly want from me now, I thought, as my phone kept on ringing, over and over again, intruding on my very dark thoughts.

They had taken everything from me and I had no more left to give to whoever it was that was frantically calling me, I thought to myself. I felt so empty and like there was nothing that could ever fill me up, again. Then, I started to think about the accusations they made against me and suddenly I felt very angry.

I wanted to speak to those judges and confront them. I wanted to confront them about their lack of compassion they showed towards me when I was standing on that stage. I wanted to ask them why they didn't try to cover up my shame, when I was at my most vulnerable. I wanted to ask them why they had decided to expose me further and accuse me of being a temptress with a lack of modesty, in a room filled with peers. Fellow artists who would only know me, all weekend long, as the woman with the see through sweater, who was humiliated by the panel of judges on stage.

After all they were suppose to be an organization that cared about people, especially those most vulnerable in life, yet, they had failed to demonstrate that to me when it truly mattered. When I stood exposed and vulnerable in front of them, telling them I was using my music to share my story about the life long impact childhood sexual abuse has had on my life.

They were people that had not done right by me, and instead of thinking the best of me, they just assumed that I had plotted to expose myself in order to gain some kind of advantage.

They had done what society often does. They had chosen to make a show out of my mistake by greatly humiliating me, on that stage.

They had acted like a group of bullies and after reflecting on the whole incident, I realized that I had to confront them and boldly speak my mind.I had to stand up for myself and show them that I was not going to be their victim and lay down and die. I needed to hold them accountable for their words that had wounded me deeply. I wanted them to acknowledge how much their behaviour had crushed my spirit and turned my beautiful dream into a living nightmare, so I picked up my phone that was still ringing in my purse to begin the painful process.

Its kind of funny how some people react when you confront them. That organization, which shall remain nameless, and those men on that panel, reacted very well, at first, when I confronted them. Profusely apologizing for their bad behaviour and showering me with love, whenever I would walk into any room during the rest of the conference. Until, I made the mistake of asking for my money back that I had paid for the promotion of my music at their conference. That is when they quickly turned on me, again, proving that there was always a lack of sincerity in their apology, and that money mattered more to them than making up for the pain and humiliation that they had caused me. This confirmed to me that they were really just, "wolves in sheep's clothing". People willing to attack and devour anyone who threatened them or challenged them in any kind of way. People I had met before in my life, and who I did not want to meet again, so I severed all ties with them after that conference. Feeling very grateful that I had won my own personal war on that parking lot floor, by not giving up and confronting them when I found the strength and I felt safe enough to do so.

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*To learn more about me ( Ingrid D. Johnson ) please visit my website www.intheclosetproductions.com