Ask Me About…
The time I was walking the “walk of shame” down a cold, dark alley.
With fear, anxiety, overwhelm, and pain.
The smells are still so intense … and sickening. The vision of the trees, the street so clear...
Falling into the street, crying. Wondering what just happened.
The time I had to gather myself and move on. Forget this happened and accept the fact that this was “my fault.”
Accept the fact that the man who raped me won. Accept the fact that I was damaged goods...forever.
The time I realized I had pelvic floor dysfunction from this. The sickening, deafening embarrassment, shame, guilt, and fear.
Constant covering up the leakage of urine or the “faking it” during sex, it was terrible, ripping pain. I thought this defined me.
The time I drowned this memory with alcohol. Experimentation. Attempts of “ending it all…”
With the small voice in my head stating, “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.” But drowning it out again.
The realization I had when the addictive personalities hit BIG and looking in the mirror was someone I’ve never known before and did not want to know.
Now, ask me about…
The time I packed up everything, followed my dreams, moved out of state, and overcame it all.
With the glimmer of hope I could become someone….just anyone that wasn’t who I was.
Learning who I was, I’ve never done that before. My morals, my values, my capabilities.
The time I took charge of my health and became proactive in eliminating my symptoms.
Took charge of my mental well being, my emotions, and my ability to love others.
Became aware of the habits I had formulated that weren’t serving me.
The time I became obsessed with healing, empowering, and advocating for women around the world who have suffered.
Who have been silent sufferers and masked every single feeling and emotion they’ve ever had while they consistently felt it was their fault, they are undeserving, or they are not enough.
Ask me about my vagina.