I Choose the Bear, Part 1 – Surviving Silence, Finding My Voice

Not kidding… It’s 3:33 AM as I begin to write this. I found myself telling this story over and over, so I figured why not put the pen to paper and clear my mind? Then maybe sweet slumber will meet me in the space between my ears instead of these words.

This story has a happy ending. I feel guided to lead with that before I walk us through this dark, thorny part of the path I traversed to get to where I am today.

I was young and sweet, only 17, having the time of my life. I attended a house party with my close friends at that time. The guy I was dating invited me, but we met there. It was in the basement of a house that was under a 10-minute drive from my parents’ house. Music, laughter, the kind of night you don’t think twice about… until you do. Until years later, your bones remember what your mind could not.

Of course, there was booze, lots of it, and of course, I drank lots of it. I remember I wore a white dress. It almost looked like a nurse’s costume with the buttons that ran from the neckline down the length of the dress. I also remember pineapple juice. Whatever alcohol I drank was mixed with pineapple juice.

We were dancing, having a good time.

Then, it was morning.

I woke up on my friend’s couch. I was hungover, and my body was sore.

I went to the bathroom… There was blood on my underwear.

I assumed I’d had sex with the guy I was dating.

I don’t remember if it was the day after, or in the days or weeks to follow, that I learned the party we went to was a bachelor’s party… and that I was offered to the groom-to-be by the guy I was dating.

Looking back now, I believe the shame, guilt, and disgust that I felt towards myself numbed the anger, betrayal, and disgust that I should have felt towards them.

I branded myself with the scarlet letter. On a very subconscious level, I loathed myself. I felt dirty, unworthy, unlovable.

That was the programming that was running in the background. And to operate from such a place of little-to-no self-love is a recipe for self-destruction.

But I am a survivor. And because I had survived, without the tools to process what had happened, I began to destroy the very things that brought me joy. Fleeting moments. Beautiful connections. I pushed them away, not because I didn’t want them…but because some part of me believed I didn’t deserve to keep them. I destroyed everything, but not to the point of death.

I kept myself alive. Smiling on the outside…while on the inside, I felt the opposite.

I buried those feelings deep, deep inside my bones.

Out of sight, out of mind.

I don’t like the word sabotage.

It feels too conscious, too cruel.

But in hindsight, I can see how I would end things before they could end me. I pushed love away before it could prove me right about being unlovable.

Fast forward maybe four or five years. It was around the time Sports Authority was closing down their brick-and-mortar locations. I drove to the one closest to my house to take advantage of their sales. I wanted a pair of rollerblades.

I had a pair on and I was rolling down the aisles, giving them a test roll…

When I saw my abuser walking around with his daughter and his mistress, might I add.

I knew it was his mistress because, at that time, I didn’t understand why, but I had grown obsessed with him and my ex, so I would creep on their Facebook pages. Like, I had to know what they were doing. Hence why I knew that was his mistress.

We locked eyes.

My chest turned to cement.

Heat crawled up my neck.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t move.

The shelves became my anchor as I dragged myself out of sight.

I had never experienced anything like that before in my life.

I remember feeling embarrassed. Like I was the one who fucked up. Because in that moment, I still believed I was at fault…for getting so drunk, for not knowing what my limit was, and for blacking out. For doing that to myself.

I mean, for fuck’s sake—a friend of mine, she was actually our DD (designated driver) that night…she tried to pull me out of the bedroom. And she was kicked out of the party.

And yet, I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.

I thought that was the last time he would enter my life. I was wrong. He returned years later — not in person, but in headlines and hashtags.

Fast forward to the #MeToo movement. I remember reading the stories of all the brave women who came forward, and I remember saying to myself:

”Wait… that’s what happened to me. That sounds like my story!”

It wasn’t until then that I realized I had been graped. That I was a victim of sexual assault. That I had been taken advantage of when I was vulnerable.

Fuck.

So now, a whole slew of new, or maybe not new, but deeply repressed emotions began to bubble up into my chest. The sad part was that I couldn’t even fathom the thought of being a victim of SA. It almost felt worse. Because at least before, it was MY doing. It was MY choice. I overgave.

This realization meant that I had been silenced.

That MY choice was ignored and completely disregarded.

That they took. They overtook.

And somehow, that was worse.

So I buried that realization and the emotions it stirred up deeper into my bones. I locked the door and threw away the key.

And life went on…

I thought silence was safety.

I was wrong.

Part 2 is the moment I chose the bear.

⸻

If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please know: You do not have to stay silent. You are not alone. Your voice matters. Your healing matters.

There are resources available to support you:

📞 National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN)

1-800-656-HOPE (4673)

Free. Confidential. 24/7.

https://rainn.org

This is deeply sensitive material, and if you’ve read all the way through, thank you for holding space. Thank you for witnessing this piece of my story. Thank you for honoring yours..

Originally posted on my Substack on 21 July 2025