“No matter how awful and long your journey, I can promise you the turn. One day it will lift.” - Chanel Miller
Words can be healing and empowering. They can bring clarity and comfort, express rage and resolve. Stories shared with courage can make us feel less alone.
Content warning: sexual violence, alcohol abuse, loss of memory, description of therapy sessions, the #MeToo movement
2016-2017: I’d had a relatively ‘normal’ year or so. I was living on my own in a lovely little flat, I was making theatre, I was busy at work, I was only blacking out or behaving like a monster from booze every now and then (so the daily drinking was not ‘a problem’), and I felt lucky to be on the other side of some very dark mental health times. But without me really noticing, something else crept in and took root pretty quickly:
Sweating
Shaking
Nausea.
Nightmares.
Zoning out.
Crying, a lot. Big, snotty shower cries.
My gums started bleeding.
I would eat three takeaways in 24 hours, then nothing for days.
And of course, I was drinking more (again).
I was barely still. Work, projects, diary-filling, constant and nerve-jangling.
I would take my laptop into the bathroom so I didn’t have to shower in silence.
I couldn’t be touched unless I’d had a drink.
Blindsided and convinced I was broken.
I didn’t understand what had triggered it, until I tracked back to when it started, and when it got worse.
Doom scrolling and news flashes, constant streams of voices and hashtags on social media. I could feel words clawing their way up my throat. I couldn’t spit them out, but couldn’t swallow them back down. That was it:
Trump was grabbing pussy and the news was screaming Weinstein, and I was whispering: “me too”.
“This is not the ultimate truth, but it is mine, told to the best of my ability.” - Chanel Miller
I had not long turned 16 when I lost my virginity. It was also the first time I'd passed out from - and experienced a blackout due to - drinking. These things overlapped and I emerged from the latter part way through the former. Which wasn’t how that was supposed to go.
There followed a year later: a holiday where I was told - not for the last time - by someone older that I was ‘so much more mature than other girls my age’ (*red flag emoji*), fell for it, and ended up in a situation I didn’t want to be in.
There followed a year later: a relationship in which I said no and was ignored.
I was 19 and broken, absolutely convinced this was all my fault, and trying to quieten the screaming embarrassment and shame by drinking and creating a cocoon of constant chaos.
Tentatively, and only drunkenly, I tried to talk about any-all-or-some of this, but here’s the thing… to me and all around, I was drunk (twice), in a relationship (once), absolutely fine (thrice). I spoke to a friend once and was dismissed as being a bit silly, dramatic, misinterpreting situations. So I shut up. I created a version of me that could face the world. I laughed along when jokes were made about what a shambles I was. I choked it down and buried it in a deep, dark place until about twenty years later. Sadly, over those years, there were countless other instances of feeling pressured, manipulated, grabbed, ignored. Sadder still, when I spoke to close friends in recent years, read blog posts, and heard voices growing louder, I realised just how common this all is; how enraged we should be about this world that hurts and then shames us.
Jump to:
2018-2019: In a generic and blue NHS therapy room, I let words pour out. I was heard. It was the first time I'd heard myself soberly give voice to my experiences, and I started to unpick the knot inside. I spoke with a face red hot with humiliation, but there was no judgement in those sessions, only support and warmth. This was the experience that led to me starting my journey in training to be a counsellor, so shout out to Judith, the amazing woman who sat across from me and held space, heard, didn’t judge and knew to have the biggest box of tissues to hand: thank you.
I have not had an alcoholic drink since 13 November 2019. As that year drew to a close, I was actively working at Not Drinking every single day. The sober days were adding up and my self-esteem was picking itself up off the floor. I was reading a lot of memoirs - mainly ‘quit lit’ addiction memoirs - and found they brought me a lot of comfort and strength. The Not Drinking also came with a lot of Big Feelings. Lots of memories and feelings that had been drowned with booze started bobbing into view like Ben Gardner’s head in Jaws. (Despite that metaphor, I also literally immersed myself in outdoor swimming. Glorious).
“This is an attempt to transform the hurt inside myself, to confront a past, and find a way to live with and incorporate these memories. I want to leave them behind so I can move forward.” - Chanel Miller
Even though Chanel Miller’s book Know My Name had been out for a few months when I picked it up, I’m sad to say I did not yet know her name. I knew Bro*k Turner’s name. I knew about his swimming career, and I knew that his parents said some pretty abhorrent things during the trial. Miller - who is also a brilliant artist - is a remarkable writer. Her book is at once heartbreaking, powerful and hopeful. She details her experience with an openness that took my breath away. She talks not just about her assault, but about societal expectations, and speaking her truth to her family, lawyers, and the people who didn’t know her but felt they could judge her.
Of course, Miller’s brilliant writing should have been able to find a different outlet. It should not be expected of survivors to share; we shouldn’t need a detailed account of someone’s trauma in order to believe it for what it is. But I am so grateful for it. Know My Name gave me a huge amount of respect and admiration for Chanel Miller, and an almost immeasurable sense of gratitude that she had shared her story. Her words are detailed and subjective, they are human in the face of a legal system that dehumanises and anonymises survivors. They address the assumptions about her being an intoxicated woman, one who couldn’t fill in the memory gaps. It is a truly incredible book by a smart, funny and complex woman. I read her words and felt less alone.
Shame is a great silencer so when someone speaks out, shame loses some of its power.
A few months after finishing the book, I hosted a sober support session and spoke publicly about some of my experiences for the first time. Afterwards, I received some messages from women in the group - messages of support, and of gratitude for a space where it was safe to speak and be heard, to reflect on similar experiences, and to feel less alone.
When Miller’s (then, still anonymous) victim impact statement went viral in 2016, she concluded it:
“And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. As the author Anne Lamott once wrote, "Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining." Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.”
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