One thing that’s definitely a bad idea if you want to fit in, is writing a sexual trauma memoir, and then publishing it. As a book.
Everyone can read that, you know. I mean, everyone. Including your grandmother.
Which, by the way, my grandmother did read my memoir. On the first day. As soon as it published. And then! at family dinner she said, “Oh, we don’t need to know how Rachael’s doing. She told us everything in her book.”
Then you’re driving Lyft (because you have no money because you’re a writer) and the backseat passenger asks you, “So, what else do you do?” and you stumble and you say, “I’m a wr-wr-wr-writer.”
And they go, “Ooooh. Niiice. What kind of writing do you do?”
And you say, “Uhhhhh,” [it’s 2016 and the #metoo movement hasn’t exploded yet…] “Uhhhhh. I write about t-t-t-trauama.”
“Oh! What kind of trauma? Like, military trauma?”
“Uhhhh… S-s-s-sexual trauma.”
They pause, looking at your 28-year-old wrinkle-free skin, wondering what qualifies you to explore such a sensitive thing. And then they probe, “So, do you have your PhD?”
“No.” You go on to try to defend how some of the most leading edge education around trauma happens outside of traditional institutions. You live in DC, so this is confusing to people. They try to change the subject in an attempt to judge you less.
“Ohhh, interesting. Well... What’s your book called?”
“Secret Bad Girl,” you respond, this time staring them straight in the eyes through the rear view mirror, tired of accommodating their questioning.
They slink back into their seat, mumble about checking it out. You turn up the music and just keep driving.
Then you meet a hot guy at a bar who seems interested and flirty. He asks what you do, and you tell him you just published your first book. He seems impressed. Maybe even aroused. “Oh yeah? That’s hot. What’s it called?” And you stumble thinking, should I apologize before I tell him or after?
You say the words Secret Bad Girl, and watch his eyebrows go up in delight.
You say, “No no… it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s a memoir.”
His head starts to cock wondering if he should be excited or scared, and you answer for him. “A sexual trauma memoir.”
He nods quietly, and it’s a coin toss if he’s about to turn around and walk away, or open the floodgates on all of the horrible stories from his childhood that he’s never told a soul.
So no. If you want to fit in, do not write a sexual trauma memoir. Or anything else that reveals the dirty hidden truths of your life, or our world, for that matter.
But — if you’re tired of wearing false politeness on your face, and you want to meet your most beloved kin, write everything. I mean, everything. Your horror stories. Your unpopular opinions. Your salvation songs. Your wildest racy dreams. Write seductive invitations to people you aren’t yet sure exist. Write a coming out manifesto and publish it far and wide. Write the truth that makes your insides tremble, knowing some will love you for it, and some will absolutely not.
The day I sent my final draft of Secret Bad Girl to my publisher, my body broke out into red hot hives. I convulsed in the fetal position and cried through the entire length of brunch. I knew with those stories in the world, my life would never be the same.
Months after Secret Bad Girl published, my childhood friend reached out. The one who had been with me the night I lost my virginity to statutory anal rape at a dinky motel. The one I wrote about in Chapter 1. (You know, changing details so as to keep her anonymous, of course.)
The whole time I spilled that book out, I kept a photo of this long-lost friend pulled up on my phone for inspiration. Thick black eyeliner. A tiny pink tank top. Skin too bronze from the tanning bed that makes your skin smell like burnt hair. Whitened teeth and a very sad trying smile. I wrote the book for her, but I had no idea she’d actually read it.
Her text read,
Hi, Rachael. I just finished your book. That must have taken tremendous courage to write. I’m so sorry for the part I played. I hope you can forgive me. And thank you. Your story of healing gives me hope that one day, I might heal, too.
I told her she had nothing to be forgiven for, and I sent her all my love and protection as she traversed the underworld of healing.
Telling the whole dirty truth is a bad idea if you want to keep yourself and others comfortable.
But if comfort is beginning to feel like a big ass puff jacket in the middle of summer, like an encumbering layer of protection that’s torturing you to wear, I dare you to get bare. Strip down to the raw flesh of your truest story. The discomfort of nudity doesn’t last forever. Soon enough, a first follower catches on and strips down, too. And there you both are, in the mess of your flabby magical truth, shaky but free. Less concerned with the comfort of the ones who never dare to bare themselves open in the sunlight, vulnerable and alive. More connected to the kin who sing the praises of truth louder than the praises of acceptability.
Big love & brazen trust.
xox,
Rachael
PS — I’ve got a whole lotta stories to write that fit inside the question, “What if the bad decision is actually the best decision?” Stories from the past. Stories from the present. Stories that feel like a bad idea to tell. But stories that I know will set fire to the tiny-minded liar who taught us perfect was the path to belonging.
Highlights & quotes will be on Instagram. But the whole wild truth will be right here. Click click, open them emails. <3