statistics *potentially triggering material*

I haven't told many people;
partly because, it took me a long time to believe it myself. I denied that what he did was wrong; that I was being dramatic or that I didn't know what it really was.
I left Northern Arizona University my freshman year for several reasons:
I was homesick
I didn't like the cold
literally anything
I left NAU because I was sexually assaulted fall 2011.
He was part of the new group of "friends" that I had met within the first few weeks of class. We'd wander the small mountain town with a bottle of whisky and soak up the gorgeous night sky full of the brightest constellations we'd ever seen, thanks to the lack of light pollution.
We'd flirt.
He'd pay the most attention to me whenever we'd all get together, he told me I was
special.
And then he sexually assaulted me.
At a gathering at one of the other guy's house, off campus, deep in the woods.
I arrived with my roommate and our new friends down the hall- the 4 of us were inseparable for those short months of fall semester.
We drank, we conversed, the party continued late into the night.
K and H left to go back to the dorms, but my roommate wanted to stay- as per the buddy system, I stayed too.
Before I realized, it was just him and I, then we were in a bedroom, the door was locked.
He were kissing, it was consensual.
and then it wasn't.
he was much bigger than me, playing football in High School required it. My brain was fuzzy and slow from the liquor, but I knew I didn't want it.
My attempts to leave the room were interrupted by his large hands blocking the door and unzipping my jacket, pants, until there was nothing left.
The night lasted forever, after he was done with me, I laid under the fan, shivering and sick to my stomach.
I'm not sure what was worse, the sinking feeling that led me to drive the 3 hours back to Phoenix immediately the next morning or the following week when he refused to make eye contact with me as we crossed paths going to class.

I am a statistic.

I never reported my assault, I never told my mom until recently. I left school and completely changed my life.
He won. 
And I'd bet money that he wouldn't even remember that night if asked- and he'd be even more in denial that he'd done anything wrong.

I think we're even facebook "friends"- Does that make the assault any less invasive or wrong or emotionally damaging?
no.
This is rape culture- this is the major problem Universities and Colleges around the country are having.
This is the first time I've ever written about the assault. And the idea of sending it out into cyberspace terrifies me- I feel vulnerable, embarrassed and uneasy about this being out and available for anyone's eyes,
But it's important; this story is important. Survivors sharing their experiences is crucial and necessary to combat rape culture and misogyny.
I don't think about him or what happened often, but I do think about it- how things could have been different. 
As for now, it's been 5 years, my life is completely different.

But I cannot and will not forget the night that I became a statistic.
And it may be too late for me to speak up, but I'm speaking now.

To All Of The Survivors,
We Survive And Thrive.

namaste,
the 20-something old soul

Good to Be Back

It's nice to be back from my 6 month hiatus.
And what a whirlwind it has been. Lot's of changes, including moving back to Salt Lake City, (I just can't seem to stay away from the top notch smoggy air and ridiculous liquor laws), moving into an apartment downtown with my partner and our 4 fur children, accepting a job offer with a marketing company, (I legit get to hang out in Home Depot all day playing with garden tools.. and I get a sick candy apple red F-150, so pretty legit) as well as accepting my offer to graduate school for a Master's in Community Leadership program at Westminster College.
I need to cool it on the font color.
So yeah, A lot has changed.
But here is what has inspired me to open up my laptop and type word vomit for all of your (I'm guessing 6 of you, hi mom) reading pleasure.
There was a wedding yesterday.
This wedding involved my boyfriend's family, his brother to be specific. Josh was THEE best man< see I'm still punny<, and looked damn hot in his suit and tie might I add, but as I stared at him standing next to Ryan up at that alter, I experienced what I had only previously heard about from movies.
Seeing the man I love with my whole heart standing next to the preacher with his cute dimpled chin and clean hair cut, I pictured him and I up there, exchanging rings, vows and our hearts.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

I shivered with a wave of goose bumps despite the late May summer evening sun, and I felt the stinging in my nose that only means water works.
I cried. 
I became a wedding crier. Cliche.
But authentic all the same. I gazed at the rest of his family, all sitting around me, his nieces and nephews that prematurely call me their aunt, his sister who gives me advice and bear hugs like a big sister would, his father, such a gentle, sweet and accepting man, telling me he loves me and thanking me for loving his son the way that I do and his mother, his sweet angel mother looking over the entire gathering from the floral arrangement and framed photo to honor her physical absence on this planet.

It was right then, that I realized, this is the family I was privileged to choose. These are the people I want at each celebration, birth, loss, the tough stuff, good, bad, ugly and everything in between.
I've caught the bug. I've loved Josh for the entire 18 months we've shared, but yesterday I fell head over heels for this family and this future.
And it's a damn good feeling.
Here's to Wedding Season and the Criers in every pew.

My heart is full,
The 20-something Old Soul

What do ya say to taking chances?

So it's been a week,
One week since I flew from PHX to PDX for the first time to start a new job, in a strange new city where I promptly took an Instagram of my feet on the PDX airport carpet.
To rent a space in a stranger's home and somehow learn my way to work.

It's been fucking insane.

I've cried a lot, I've considered heading straight to the airport more times than I can count, I've sobbed on the phone to my father desperately seeking a pep talk or the green light to give up.
But I've made it a week.
On Monday I got so lost using the public transit that I exited the bus after learning I was in fact going the completely opposite direction. The minute my boot hit the sidewalk, it started hailing. 
I met my boss after stumbling into my now office, 40 minutes late, breathless and damp from the expected rain from the Portland forecast.
My boss is a conservative gentleman in his late 50's, he listens to Rush Limbaugh talk radio consecutively throughout our work day and quizzically asked me what I ate for Thanksgiving as a vegan.
Anyone who knows me would be shocked that I did not promptly exit the way I entered after 10 minutes of my first day.
But my boss reminds me to get lunch everyday so that I don't get hangry.
He gives me the honest truth regarding the neighborhood's I find available rooms in via Craigslist.
We share a sarcastic sense of  humor. 
He appoints me the job of decorating his family Christmas e-vite with "Christmas shit" included.
I say good morning to Erin and Faye everyday.
Paul and Patti share their coffee with me.
I have yet to encounter an unfriendly or less than chipper attitude here in Portland. 
The bus lady was happy to tell me to take bus #44 next time, not #4.
The lady at New Seasons grocery store happily let me cut in front of her when I was nervous of missing my bus on my second day.
My air bnb hosts offered to let me move in month to month starting January while I continue to search for a long term renting situation.
So although I've cried, doubted and cursed, I swear there has been some divine energy urging me to stay, bringing people into my brand new "life" in Portland, to encourage, support and love me in a way.
During my brief exploration of downtown Portland, I wandered through one of the biggest book stores and iconic landmarks in Portland, Powell's Books. I settled on two, despite my normal 3 + books whenever I allow myself to browse the intoxicating aisle of a book store or library.
One of my choices was titled "The Opposite of Loneliness" by Marina Keegan. Marina was a 2014 Yale graduate who tragically died 5 days after graduation. This book is a compilation of her short stories, poems, plays, essays and thoughts.

"What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change our minds. We can start over. The notion that it's too late to do anything is comical. It's hilarious. We can't, we must not lost this sense of possibility,
because in the end it's all we have." 


 

Bodies

I don't usually go into much detail regarding my relationship with my body.
Because it's just a body, right?
Wrong.
My body is my home
the vessel of my soul that allows me to live on this planet
 to eat donuts
 to make love
 to run, and skip
 to fall down and scrape my knee
 to make a decision and completely change my mind
 to create another life,
 or to not.
Our bodies allow us to climb mountains and travel the world and take us where we want to go. 
My body and I have had a rocky relationship to say the least.
From a young age, I told myself that my body was not good enough.
I wasn't even sure what my idea of a "good" was, just that it must be the opposite of mine.
I was an unusually short child, but my belly made up for the lack of height, in width.
I was a swimmer for about twelve years of my life. I wasn't awesome but I didn't suck.
I was a floater (pun intended)
Something I remember recognizing early on in my swimming experience was that I looked very different than my fellow female teammates. I didn't have the tall, lean body. I wore a size 28 swimsuit whilst they were rocking the 26-24. I had the infamous speed bumps...
*Speed Bumps (noun)- The fatty tissue that collects on one's hips creating a "speed bump" when moving one's hands down the sides starting from the ribcage. synonym: "muffin tops"
So wearing a tight, nylon, fastspeed speedo swimsuit was horrifying.
However, feeling like an orca whale trapped in a tiny fishing net, I pushed through the 5:15 am practices for years.

But it wasn't until my sophomore year of college when I took my insecurity and hatred of my body to a new level of self destruction.
I moved to a new state, was starting a new school, I wanted to be a new me.
Brooke 2.0
I would finally have the thigh gap and the collarbone
size 0 would be a normal part of my shopping trips
Although I did not mentally decide "I think I'll starve myself starting today"
I started this mental and physical game with myself with food and working out.
The staples of my diet included:
frozen bags of corn
sweet potatoes
whole wheat waffles
oatmeal
coffee
I signed up for a crossfit class and was doing high intensity work outs and supplementing my "off" days with 45 minutes, at least, on the stair climber.
I made it, I weighed 108 at my skinniest, wore a size 0 in shorts, finally liked my smile because it wasn't ruined by my persistent and stubborn baby fat cheeks.
I also still hated myself.
I was diagnosed with PTSD and chronic depression, thought seriously about dropping out of school and checking myself into a facility and attempted to deal with my first heartbreak in the tiny Greek community on campus.
But I was 108 pounds, I had a thigh gap and size 26 jeans.
Fast Forward to today. November 17th, 2015
Age 22
Weight (I'd guess aronund 130? Haven't weighed myself in months, EDA rule #1)
Size 26/27 jeans
Depression and Anxiety is managed through yoga, medication etc.
My heart is full and I'm 100% in love with my adventure buddy and best friend.
I'm a college graduate moving to Portland, Oregon in less than 2 weeks for a job with a non-profit (a job I've dreamed about for forever!)
And the really interesting part?
-is how warped the perception I had of myself. Looking at childhood photos today, I didn't look that much different. Sure I had baby fat and I was shorter than most, but I was not nearly the size I thought and felt that I was.
This is a testament to how gentle we need to be with ourselves and how our self talk truly makes a difference in our lived experience.  So what's my point, telling this dramahhhhtic story about my mental/physical health during my college years?
Well, frankly I don't know what my point is. The fact that I'm publicizing my body struggles and current guestimation of my weight (What the actual fuck..) is a huge step for me.
It's this place I'm coming to in my womanhood, to come clean almost about who I am and where I've been and how god damn hard it is to get to this place.
And to admit that ED recovery is an everyday battle. There are days when I wake up feeling like a badass, curvy, sexy woman and live in a way that demands my curves to be honored.
And there are days like today, like everyday this past week, that I remember the conversations I had in my head during my disordered eating/lifestyle. I remember exactly what I did to get as skinny as I was and for maybe a minute or two, I contemplate going back to my old ways.
I'm writing this to show that I'm human, that some days I'm proud of my thick thighs, my breasts and my  booty; I'm proud of the woman I've become and the body I inhabit.
But just as often, I yearn for my brief 19 year old body. But with it, came the decline of my mental health and self worth.

It's a process, it's baby steps, it takes time. I'm still learning.

The 20-something old soul

Take it Easy

I feel that the real desire to avoid any type of creation, artwork, writing etc. that I have been experiencing is an even bigger sign for me to do just that.
I have avoided my personal journal for months because I attempt to rationalize the idea that I just don't know what to say.
Any one who knows me in person is probably laughing at that idea; I always have something to say, and then some.
But today I woke up and felt different.
Maybe it was the slight change in barometric pressure in the atmosphere followed by the storm clouds rolling into the valley on the horizon.
I may feel a little bit more connected to my universe, inner goddess and soul from my very sweaty and much needed yoga practice.
It might be the little bit of herbal encouragement sparking new neuron connections in my brain. 
So here I sit, at my seafoam green desk, with three candles and a frankinsence burning, the windows blowing in some fresh "autumn" air, the light is muted and cloudy.
I find myself very sensitive and in tuned with the changing seasons; time of year. There is a shift in energy and I feel it radiating off of every human I come into contact with.
It's a feeling deep in my bones, chakras and mindseye.
Change is coming.
And it has never felt more important to be gentle with my empath self.

These are the days I live for. 

Growing up in Arizona would be few and far between rainy days. And when those days did grace my hometown, it was as if a new beginning was around every corner.
I can only speak for myself, but each monsoon or drizzly day brought a new hope to my consciousness; the world outside almost felt magical with the dewy grass, my favorite smell of wet concrete and dirt, the clean air to breathe and snail"hunting" or in my case, saving from the busy roads.
But for some reason, I've been lacking a desire to create. To write, to paint, to sketch, to draw, to sing.
My person has been encouraging me for months to sing with him; claiming I have a good voice (lolz love you baby)
Only in the solitude of my crazy, beautiful mess of a brain, will I admit how there is nothing more that I want than to create with him.
As the calm, moaning voice of Jessica Lea Mayfield plays on repeat from my speakers, I may just pick up the long neglected paintbrush from the box labeled "art stuff" under my bed.

always breathe deeply.
the 20-something old soul

Hair Cuts and Life Decisions

It's amazing when you finally gain the courage to speak your truth.
And to see the domino affect of the Universe displaying all the connections and scenarios that so very clearly show you that it was all meant to be.

"Sometimes you need to step outside, get some air and remind yourself of who you are and who you want to be." 

Traveling around Europe for 2 1/2 weeks, being in foreign places, eating bizarre foods, sleeping in strange beds, missing my dog, feeling the ache and longing for my person even more, being thousands of miles away,
Was just what I needed to come face to face with the big fat elephant in my life.
The "Oh you must be so excited for this next adventure" that was making me feel badass whilst simultaneously sick to my stomach with anxiety and paralyzed with fear.
The attempt to be this wanderlust, adventure girl who can take off to uncharted territory for a year+ and feel completely content with all of the unknowns, question marks and spontaneity that Costa Rica would provide.

It is still difficult for me to say it out loud, to force myself to justify checking "no" on a once in a lifetime adventure.
Even more so, I find myself overly concerned with "what will people think?" when they hear that I opted out of my first post grad job in a tropical paradise, and basically, that I bailed; I wasn't adventurous enough, this facade of being light hearted and aching for wanderlust, is merely just an attempt to be something that I'm so obviously

NOT.

hmph.
It still stings. I follow instagram after instagram of these badass, wild, in love with life twenty-somethings and I so very badly want to be them. Be one of them. Buy a plane ticket to wherever and live life as a vagabond and gypsy, getting lost in town after town, meet people from all walks of life in every corner of the world.
Even as I write this, the longing creeps up again and the self doubt that seems to surface at the perfect time makes it's way to my consciousness.

But the truth is,

I'm a homebody. I love my bed and my library of books that hold so much meaning to me, and my dog's snores in the middle of the night, and the simplicity of home.
Traveling in Europe for 2 weeks was magical and exciting and moving, but wrapping it all up in a hot shower, crawling in between my sky blue sheets and under my dreamcatcher was almost sweeter.
I realized, I am longing to nest. To establish My home. As an adult, as Brooke Nicole, post college graduate, twenty-something, old soul.
So,
I finally spoke the words that kept me up late at night, tossing and turning, wondering and fretting;
 I will not be moving to Costa Rica in January to teach English abroad.
PHEW.
In the meantime, I will be living back at the nest with my loving and understanding mother whilst I work at a coffeeshop ( dream finally coming true! just call me barista Brooke) save money, study and get excited about my newest adventure that is Grad School and a home of my own.

I also chopped 6 inches off my forever long and messy, curly hair; ChChChChanges are good peeps <3

Always speak your truth,
the 20-somthing old soul

C*** and Bookstores with Bars

Today I find myself in a favorite local Phoenix spot called Changing Hands bookstore which includes a bar called the First Draft in which serves alcohol as well as specialty coffee and drinks. I'm sitting at a bar surrounded by fellow Phoenicians either nose-deep in a book or click clacking away on their laptops. Some with a steaming mug of the house brewed coffee and others with a 6 oz (not a Utah 4oz!) pour of red wine.
These are my kind of peeps. It's not even noon.
After perusing the bookshelves and reading, which seemed like every single book sleeve description,
I settled on two:
Cunt by Inga Muscio
&
The Mindfulness Coloring Book:Anti-Stress Art Therapy for Busy People (which is basically a coloring book for adults; my excitement for this one is a little ridiculous.)
I'm fully prepared for the puzzled stares that I will receive in the airport on Monday with my 400 page book titled with a taboo term for the female genitalia on the cover page sitting next to my precious coloring book.
BRING ON THE JUDGEMENTAL STARES FOLKS.
No but in all honesty, the book Cunt has been on my book wish list, which is constantly being added to on a daily basis, since my declaration of my Gender Studies major. 
By just reading the introduction, I can feel the goosebumps spread up my arms and my brain start to tick in anticipation of the brilliance that these pages contain.
The  foreword includes comments made by Betty Dodson, author of Sex for One and a well known Ph.D within the women's studies community.
I'm the first to admit that I too cringe the slightest bit when I hear the word cunt thrown around so casually; most likely due to the negative connotation and the reputation of being politically incorrect. But as I further invest myself within the world of social activism, I'm coming across many nouns that hold such power and hurt. It is in this book, that challenges us/feminists/womyn/ allies etc, to reclaim the word Cunt as our own and as a powerful representation of the female pleasure point.

It's these independent, proud, brave, sexually confident, feminist womyn like Inga Muscio, Eve Ensler, Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and all of the magnificent and challenging feminist theorists that shove me out of my comfort zone, demand to be heard and inspire me that much more to follow my dreams of Graduate School; recently with plans of studying Public Health with an emphasis on womyn's and LGBTQ issues.
I dream of becoming an educator of comprehensive sex education and body positivity.
I highly encourage you to put down the tablet, the iphone, the video game; get lost in a world of ink and paper; use your imagination, learn something new, challenge your beliefs and thoughts, learn about Feminism and politics.
Read a Damn Book. 

If you need me, I'll be sipping something strong and burying my nose in a book.

namaste,
the 20-something old soul