Let Me Be Clear

My story isn’t for you.

In an environment that thrives on page views, clicks, and traffic, we are accustomed to writing for an audience. We pander to those whom we think will give us the sweet, sweet statistics, the likes, the retweets, the follows. We want to write the most dramatic headline or tell the most enthralling story, and that’s the nature of the beast.

But I didn’t write my story to pitch to Vice or try and win the affections of Internet strangers. I wrote it because it was bottled up inside me begging to come out and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I needed to share it with other people. I needed to connect with people who could understand.

The outpouring of love since I published the story last night has been unbelievable. People have opened up to me in ways that I never imagined. Individuals have shared their own accounts of similar things that have happened to them or others. We have connected, we have healed together. Mission fucking accomplished.

My story isn’t for you and it isn’t here to entertain you. Frankly, if you’re looking at a survivor’s story and expecting anything from the survivor, you are a part of the problem. If my story doesn’t make sense to you or affect you in any way, I am sure there are thousands of other people out there who have ones that can.

Listen. Be present. There is someone out there trying to reach you, and you might be missing it because of your own ego.