Bye-Bye Summer, Hello New Semester

This summer has been a whirlwind; it's included a wedding, working two jobs, finishing BYU independent study classes, new friends, rodeos, and many, many laughs and good times. There's also been a healthy dose of reflection and personal growth. 

After all that transpired last fall, when the 2014-2015 school year ended, I was literally counting down the days until I could return home. I was both physically and emotionally tired, and I wanted to come home. Home to my mother, who would cook for me and take care of me, home to the friends I had grown up with, and where all the painful things that had happened would become distant memories. 

Being home has been great, but ready or not, it's time to go back to school. 

I have mixed feelings about returning to BYU; I know it's where I belong and I have a lot of goals I want to accomplish now that I'm in a better place emotionally, but there's still a degree of anxiety and apprehension. 

At the end of the day, I consider myself very lucky because I won't be alone; I'll have these guys to fall back on when things get hard:

This band of hooligans is my tribe, my second family, and together, we have some of the best good times anyone in their early 20's could hope for. I thank God for putting these punks in my life. 

With that, it's on to classes, late nights, papers, stress, BYU Ballroom Dance drama, tears, good times, exams, and whatever this coming semester has in store for me. 

The R Word

This post has taken me weeks to write. While most posts I can write in a matter of minutes, this one required me to wrestle with my own demons and is about a topic I could say so much about. The topic I'm referring to is rape. As a social science major, I've always been aware of the rape culture that exists in our society, however, I never truly understood what that meant until I was raped.

Last fall, I moved back to school early so I could get settled into my new apartment, where I would be living alone, and get settled into my new job. I was in a toxic relationship, and most of my friends from the previous year had either graduated and moved on, or had not yet moved back for the new school year. I was very lonely, especially since my then fiancé had a particular talent for making me feel alone in a crowd. One day, a guy came in to my work who looked, dressed, acted, and talked like he was gay. I waited on him and he was the funniest, most complimentary person I had met in a long time. He came in again a few days later because he, "had to see Miss Lana Del Rey's doppelgänger again!" The third time he came in, he asked me if he could have my number so we could have a lunch date sometime. Being foolish, naïve, and unsuspecting, I gave it to him. We went out to lunch a few times, and each time was very enjoyable; I thought I had a new friend! One night, I was upset with my fiancé and I was texting my new gay best friend about it, venting about how insensitive I thought he was. "You know what you need, darling?" he asked, "You need some girl time. I'll come over and we'll watch a movie or something and get your mind off that stupid boy. Just text me your address….”

I remember opening the door to him, "Hi, Gorgeous," he exclaimed as he waltzed right in like this was the hundredth time he had been over, setting a plastic bag down on the coffee table. "I brought some snacks and drinks with me; what should we watch?!" We turned on Netflix and he ended up convincing me I needed to start watching, "Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23," (I haven't been able to watch that show again since that night) and about 20 minutes into the first episode, I was feeling better about my situation. We were laughing, he was giving an obnoxiously hilarious commentary on the show, we were both snacking, I was sipping on a coke...and I'll never be able to define the moment I was drugged and my consciousness slipped. I remember him trying to kiss me and my attempts to shove him away, but not being able to move my arms; after that it's mostly a bunch of flashes. Occasionally, when I dream about that night, I'll remember something new. Those are the nights that I wake up shaking and wanting to cry, feeling like I'm about to lose my mind because I can't be certain if I'm truly remembering something that my subconscious is finally allowing me to see, or if it's something my mind just fabricated.

The next morning when I awoke, he was gone. I laid there on the floor offering a fervent prayer that my heart would simply stop beating. I couldn't cry, though I wanted to, all I could do was lay there feeling the numbness that overcame me so strongly it had its own level of pain attached to it. After an unknown length of time, I crawled on my hands and knees into the bathroom, turned the shower on, and sat in the tub with the water washing over me. Eventually I stood and scrubbed my skin with a ferocity that hurt before collapsing on the bottom of the tub once again. It was then I realized that no matter how long I stayed in the shower, the water would not be sufficient for me to feel clean.

With a trembling body, I turned off the water, dried off, donned some loose fitting clothes, and walked into the living room to survey the damage. The first thing I did was throw everything out. The snacks and drinks he brought went straight into a trash bag. I then vigorously cleaned the kitchen and living room and took the trash out because I couldn't stand to have one single remnant of him in my apartment. Then I sat down. To be completely honest, I don't remember what I thought, or what I did for the next few hours, all I remember was at some point going back into the bathroom and deciding that it "didn't happen," it was all just a bad dream, and I needed to get dressed up and go out and forget about everything and have fun. I text my fiancé and made plans for a date with him that night, and spent a copious amount of time trying to make myself look perfect, but what I couldn't change was the look in my eyes....

My fiancé didn't notice anything that night. I let him stay over later than normal, but eventually felt an overwhelming urge to be alone and kicked him out. I didn't sleep that night. My eyes refused to close. I got a lot of reading done that night, watched "How I Met Your Mother," and just tried to process that numb feeling I couldn't shake. The next morning I stopped and grabbed a Monster on my way to work. By the time I got off work and ate, I was ready for bed. I wasn't used to pulling all-nighters and was exhausted. I laid down in my bed and soon drifted off to sleep, only to wake up screaming minutes later. As soon as I began to drift off, it was like he was right there on top of me again. It literally felt like I could feel, smell, and hear him all over again. I sat there and cried, then got up and watched more Netflix. After a couple hours I began to doze off on the couch, and was again greeted with a flashback. This time I wasn't going to risk seeing that again.

That following week, I attempted to live life normally; I attended classes even though it was intensely difficult to focus in my sleep-deprived state, I went to work, and would go home and do anything I could to stay busy (I watched a lot of Netflix last fall). After awhile, when all I wanted was a good night's sleep, I did what I knew people with PTSD often do to cope: I turned to alcohol. I discovered that if I took enough shots, I would pass out into a dreamless sleep, and if I did dream, I didn't remember it the next morning.  Thus began the vicious cycle and habit I would wrestle with for the next several months. After awhile, my behavior became quite self-destructive, to the point that my friends and even my fiancé began to notice. I'm fairly certain most people chalked up the changes in my demeanor to the unhappiness in my relationship and my lack of readiness to be married. While that definitely played a role and inhibited my healing process, that alone would not have been enough to put me in the deep end like I was. 

Then one night, everything changed. After fervent prayers, I was finally able to summon the strength to call off my wedding and felt a peace that everything was finally going to be all right. Later on, I was sitting, talking to my new boyfriend, the rugby player. He had been a good friend to me during the previous months, often expressing concern for my wild child behavior, and offering to help in any way he could. That night he made a comment, reminding me of something stupid I had done a few months prior. I looked at him, and said, "Look, I need you to understand, this person I've been these last few months, this isn't me. I hate the person I'm becoming, I don't want to be this way, I'm just really struggling with something that happened...." I took a deep breath, and for the next hour, he held me while I sobbed and told him the story of that night. When I was finished, he kissed my forehead and told me he suspected something like that had happened based on a few comments I had made, but he had no clue that it was so recent; he promised me he would help me find help and would support me every step of the way. A few days later, he helped me get into counseling with an amazing counselor who made all the difference in the world. I stopped drinking completely, I started not only going back to church, but had a genuine desire to attend, I began to tell my close friends what had happened, and started to piece my life back together. 

Everyone wants to know why I never reported the monster that hurt me. While the answer isn’t terribly simple, it all boils down to two factors: I was in denial, and I was scared. According to RAINN (Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network), roughly 68% of sexual crimes go unreported and only 2 out of 100 rapists will ever serve time. Prior to being raped, I always assumed I would go after the person and make him pay, but I didn’t. From what I’ve come to know from my personal experience and from talking to other victims of rape, silence is not an uncommon thing in the aftermath of sexual abuse, and because of it, victims are often dismissed when they do come forward. Which brings me to the reasons I’m sharing my experience:

1)   To hopefully put my own demons to rest; it’s been awhile since this event took place and I would like to finally be completely at ease with my experience, and writing is often cathartic.

2)   I recently learned that a friend went through something very similar and around the same time, only she wasn’t so lucky; her friends and family were not nearly as supportive as mine, and she said she found comfort in hearing me talk about what happened to me, so she knew she wasn’t alone. My hope is that maybe some girls who have been raped might stumble upon my blog and realize they, too, are not alone, and what they’re experiencing is normal.

3)   I want to issue a plea to whoever reads this: if you know a girl who says she’s been raped, please do not doubt her like my friend’s family and friends did, especially if you can point to unusual behaviors that could be explained by a traumatic event like rape.

4)   Lastly, when I began to act out and push people away, a lot of people turned their backs on me or allowed me to walk away, not that I blame them. If you know someone who appears to become reckless and self destructive overnight, don’t be afraid to ask them if something happened, or to check up on them at odd times. There are three people who would either send me texts or show up on my doorstep at random times without whom, I’m not sure I would be here today…

I still struggle with what happened to me on almost a daily basis, but at the end of the day I SURVIVED. I survived because of the people God surrounded me with to hold me up when I was too weak to stand, even though they had no idea what had happened to me. For as long as I’m on this earth, I vow to be that person for anyone else who needs help, and a voice for those who are too scared to talk about what happened.

22 Until None

There is an organization that is very dear to my heart: it's called 22 Until None. According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, approximately 109 Americans commit suicide each day, and out of that 109, 22 of those suicides are committed by veterans. While every life is valuable and each suicide a tragedy, when you realize that out of the entire U.S population, 87 civilians are committing suicide a day, and though the veteran demographic is much smaller, we are losing 22 of them, each day; that number is very alarming. That's where 22 Until None comes in. They are a nonprofit organization that provides 24 hour support to veterans in need. 

Most service members believe that it's a sign of weakness to admit that they're struggling, and are unlikely to call the National Suicide Hotline; they're afraid they'll be judged as feeble. However, they're trained to take care of and rely on their brothers and sisters (other service members), so if they're going to make a cry for help, it will most likely be to an organization like 22 Until None that is completely staffed by veterans. 

How can you help this organization? Like their Facebook page: 22 Until None  

Follow their instagram: @22untilnone

Or order a T-shirt:  22 Until None Shop

Here's a picture I posted on my insta of me repping one of their shirts and added the hashtag  #IStand4the22

Check them out, let our veterans know we care, and that they are not alone. 

How I Found My Calling

I believe that in everyone's life there will be at least one person who will have the greatest impact on their development and who they will become, for better or for worse. In some cases, that impact will be mild, like the smallest of pebbles tossed into a pond, barely even creating a splash. In my case, one person caused a tsunami. For the sake of this blog, we are going to call him Leo.

Several summers ago I was cute, innocent 16 year old Sammy. I had never been kissed, the epitome of innocent and naive. Enter Leo. He was handsome and 20, from the same small town as me, knew all the same people, and he was also in the Marine Corps, stationed at Camp Lejeune. He came home on pre-deployment leave that fall and we began dating. It was the sweetest, most adorable relationship anyone we knew had ever seen; two small town kids, the farm boy and the privileged girl, in love, and oh, did I love that boy, as much as any 16 year old ever loved anyone. Just weeks shy of my 17th birthday, I thought I had it all figured out: Leo would deploy, come home, we'd get engaged after awhile, married after I turned 18, and live happily ever after. College could wait, because the love we had was a once in a lifetime thing, not something to be taken lightly or put on hold. I couldn't wait for our happily ever after to start. Then he deployed to Afghanistan....

After he had been in Afghanistan a month,  one of his good friends stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) explosion and died in his arms. In wake of this tragic, PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) inducing event, Leo turned to pornography to cope. That is, after all, what he was encouraged to do. Back in the states, I had no idea this was gong on; it was made perfectly clear before they deployed that pornography was illegal in Islamic countries and was not allowed to be brought in or sent. Nevertheless, it was pervasive, at least amongst the Marines. With the deadly combination of porn and PTSD, he began to change.

I'll never forget the phone call when he told me about this friend dying, or the hollow tone in his voice. I knew it was time to learn about PTSD. I spent the next 6 months reading every book on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I could get my hands on. By the time homecoming rolled around, I was pretty confident I knew what to expect and how to help. I did, but I could never have anticipated how much he had changed. My sweet country boy was gone and my heart was broken. Mine wasn't the only one; the wives and girlfriends of the Marines he deployed with were also struggling with their men and they would vent and ask me what I thought they should do because through all our conversations over those seven months, they knew I had done my research. I told them this was just the readjustment phase and things would get better, just be patient (and for some of them, I was exactly right). What I hadn't factored in were the effects of pornography.


A month after homecoming, while I was trying to be patient and understanding during what I believed to be the readjustment phase, Leo and I got engaged. I thought my dream was coming true! The months that followed were some of the hardest of my life. He was different, and my Leo wasn't coming back. It was during this time that I learned he was addicted to pornography. PTSD and pornography turned him into a completely different person, and not a better one. Our relationship became toxic and abusive; we put the wedding on hold, but I tried to keep fighting. I didn't want to give up on him. Ten months after homecoming, I went through another deployment with him, this one much longer than the first, and once again, he returned to me a worse man than when he left. I spent years waiting for him to do something to get better, I made suggestions, but things only got worse with time, until I could no longer stay. I finally realized one day that this new mean, condescending, verbally (sometimes physically) abusive person was who he was. The man I fell in love with was gone for good; combat and pornography had destroyed him.

During the years with Leo, there were definitely good times and memories (though few and far between), and there were a lot of truly awful times, but at the end of the day, I thank God for all of them. Had I never met him, I would never have became acquainted with so many amazing spouses in the Marine Corps, many of whom I am still in contact with today. More importantly, I would never have figured out that I want to be a marriage and family therapist with an emphasis in PTSD. After his first deployment, talking and giving advice to the other ladies, I realized that while there are a few programs for veterans to help them cope with PTSD (because, let's face it, even those programs are lacking), there really isn't anything out there for the significant others. I believe this is a problem because, if the loved ones of the service member were better prepared with what to expect when their veteran returned and how to react, the service member would have a more loving, less stressful environment in which to heal. I learned with Leo that returning to a stress free environment at the end of the day is very crucial if any sort of healing is to take place. 

Everything happens for a reason, and while Leo and I didn't get our happy ending, I will never regret him. He was an important chapter in this Princess's tale. My experiences with him are what started me on the path that showed me there is a need in our society that is not being met, as well as to become the person that God sent me here to be.

Love is a Choice

Love. Such a beautiful and complicated four letter word. Like most girls, I want to find my Prince Charming and live happily ever after, and on my quest for that elusive fairytale ending, I’ve learned some valuable lessons about love. 

At the start of the year I was at a crossroads: I found myself being the recipient of two mens affection. Every girl’s dream, right? Wrong. I had to make a choice between the two and they could not have been more opposite. One was the charismatic Marine, a true “bad boy” who, while being a ton of fun, brought out the worst in me. The other was the sweet, respectable college rugby player at a Christian school who encouraged me to grow and improve, and who I knew would be good for me. While I was more physically attracted to the Marine, I liked how the rugby player treated me and gentle way he spoke to me, and in the end, that was one of the deciding factors for why I chose him. I knew I deserved to be treated like I was special, and not just the flavor of the week like the Marine treated me (in all fairness to him, he was a very good, dare I even say sweet, guy at his core, but was dealing with his own emotional issues because of a previous bad relationship that had taken more than just his heart from him). That was a crucial decision in my life because not only did I choose to date someone who encouraged me to grow, versus someone who required no personal growth, but in a society that endorses the notion of love at first sight, and romanticizes falling in love as if the person has no say at all, I learned that love is a choice.

My relationship with the rugby player didn’t last because we both wanted different things out of life, but I will always be grateful for that decision I made and the time I had with him because it was a time of tremendous growth for me. 

This summer has also been about growth. A week ago I celebrated being single for two months. Why was that a celebration? Because this is the longest I’ve been single since I was 16 years old. I’ve decided to give my heart a break this summer, work on my talents, and get to know myself better.

I’ve taken myself out to eat many times, hoarded that popcorn like a boss, and I’m not going to a museum with a date, so why the heck would I go by myself? haha. But in all seriousness, I’m taking this time for myself until I meet the man I can see myself marrying and building my own little kingdom with; then I will, once again, chose to love him. It’s an empowering feeling, to be in control of ones heart, and now that I’ve discovered that control, I don’t plan to relinquish it.