Freedom is who I am and what born to express. Freedom is both my raging darkness and ever present light, and learning how to embody both and still live. Authentically, vulnerably, and wildly. My name is Skyler Mechelle, I am an author + advocate, and this is my story. My hidden truth, my raging darkness, and how I am learning to share it with the world.--I wish I could love the abuse away….but I can’t possibly describe to you the pain I am about to with pretty words. I wish I could tell you that all the deep, powerful, amazing, life changing work I have committed to has somehow lessened or tempered the horrors I experienced as a child and teen and young adult. I wish I could somehow re-believe the lies I told myself this past year, as I took a much needed break from accepting the weight of my story. (Valid as fuck break.)I wish I could tell you that one day I will wake up and it won't exist inside me anymore. I wish I could. But, with an honest and intentional note, below are some of the most brutally honest, absolutely terrifying, and deeply traumatic descriptions of my abuse I have ever put on the internet.—Tonight at the dinner table I was penetrated by my father. Not because he was there, at that dinner table tonight, but because the memory of him still lives in my skin. And as I lay here in bed, I still feel it…and I cannot possibly explain to you how badly it hurts. I remember looking up at my beloved friend, and uttering the words “I haven’t felt the penetration in so long” before laying my head in my hands and breaking open. Uncomfortable, feverish, dizzying heat covered my body, as every muscle I had tightened. Tears streaming down my face, my chest tightening and constricting. The world slowly faded into the background. Nothing existed but that pain, nothing existed but the sensation. Nothing. She grasped my wrist. Reminding me that I am safe, allowing me to let go and feel.FUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK. My body screams. Stop. Get out. Go away. You do not belong here. Please….Please. Please!!!!Shaking with the trauma, the realisation, the acceptance. The truth sinking deep into my consciousness. It has only been five years to the eighteen. Five. Skyler, five. No matter how deeply I have healed…this is still just as real as my freedom. I have a raging darkness within me, but I normally only share the light. After a few minutes, I looked up at the world, and it felt like I had to force my eyes to see clearly. And, as I laid my hands on my thighs, it felt like a stranger was touching me. It still does. Even now, as I type, as my fingers brush the next hand…I jump at the contact. It burns. It hurts. It is painful. I am so sensitive. “God, bodies are incredible” I utter, as my preciousness 11 year old beauty leans against me, unaware of what I am walking through, but cognisant of the tears and pain I am experiencing. Children are incredible.“My body remembers so well what I try so desperately to forget. To heal. To work through.” I make myself a hot chocolate to calm my nerves, and prepare for the pain of removing my diva cup. Which currently felt like a metal rod electrocuting me from the inside. Great. Walking upstairs, I grab the clothes that feel most nourishing, and then head to the toilet. I undress and cry as I open my legs and slowly remove the diva cup from inside me. The pain…like hot ice, stinging me. The rose like softness of my skin feeling like an open wound. It is almost worse than the memory. I manage to remove it and place my clothes on. Opting for a pad instead, because there is no fucking way anything will touch me besides my own hands. My entire body feels like a low grade sensation of when your foot wakes up from “falling asleep”. Everything tingles, but not in a good way. It takes me several hours to calm down, and now I sit here with my vagina on fire and my whole body incredibly sensitive to any touch, writing this horrific thing out. Because I need to…for me. The incest with my father began at 2, growing from play to rape by 5 years old, and then morphing from 3-5 times a week of consistent molestation and rape to trafficking by 13. But that wasn’t all. He wasn’t the only monster. That, all of that, was not all I endured. Oh no, there is so much more. And, this. THIS IS THE RESULT. From being molested by my mother, and being told I have no idea what ‘he’ my father does to her. To being drugged and beaten and manipulated and controlled. To the nearly dying in a hospital several times. To the years of running and facing. To all of choices I made. To being harassed for two years by family who treated ME like the bad guy for reporting. To hearing children I knew sob on the phone as my drunken aunts egg them on in the background telling them I left because I didn’t love them. To all the consequences of the choices I made for me and my life. I am shaking with anger and pain and horror and sadness and deep deep wounding. My body remembers, even when my mind doesn’t. This darkness is not a game or a good story or a way to sell. It was my life. And, I carry the memories in my flesh. And, I know deep within me I am meant to write a book about it that will change the world. And, I know deep within me I have a partner willing to walk beside me as I do, carrying what I cannot alone and knowing the beauty of both my light and dark.And, I know deep within me that all that I am is not all of this…but it is fucking real. That this is not a cry for help or a begging for remorse, but a honest telling of living this out in deep clarity and powerful love. This is a piece, a small piece, of what trauma does. What rape does. What healing invites. Freedom to feel. To relive. To reclaim. To know. I am shaken. Broken down. On high alert and simultaneously so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. My head pounds, my nerves shock in different places on my skin, the bed feels like needles and every time I move I want to scream and tense up and clench. THIS SUCKS. I hate this. I hate the memories that are rolling through my body and the lie that says I am too much. Yeah, my trauma is too much. Yeah, it is hard as fuck to believe. Yeah, it is awful and scary and downright evil. Yeah. The darkness is real. Very much so. I just went pee and the pain of that simple, human, beautifully okay act felt like I was preparing to die. I can't even tend to my own body without sobbing in pain. In agony. In memory of what i experienced. My body is beautiful. Strong. Powerful. Wise. I trust it. I trust it's experience. I trust this. Even as I fight it. So here I am…writing about it. Because I was born to.--
This is where it all began.
Just a few short weeks ago.
It was after a trip to work out the details of my visa, and ended up meeting a Romanian author who I told my story to after about an hour into our first "Hello". She cried as we drank coffee, and told me that the reason I had chosen her Airbnb was to help her heal. It was the most beautiful, agonising, brutally truthful encounter I had had in some time...a stark invitation and reminder to my soul that my words in person are 10X as powerful as my words written down. That trip changed me. She changed me. (Check her out here)
I returned to my home 3 days later, and stood there in the stark reality that I had spent the last 3 months going dark on the internet because I was doing my best to attempt to exchange busyness for truth. My book was on its 8th or 10th instalment, left untouched in a document, and I was coming to terms with the fact that I had just spent the last 3 months trying going dark because I was desperately attempting to replace my truth with purpose. Attempting to, pleading with universe to, lessen the intensity of my abuse...and I found the only way I could really do that was to step into one of the most radical and stunning (albeit challenging and all consuming) adventures I had ever embarked upon.
You see, for years I have been trying to write it all (heal it all) with metaphor, fearing that it would be too graphic, but really just fucking terrified to face it myself...
But when I returned, and I sat at the dinner table that night, I clutched the edges of the wood. My jaw clenched, my heart sank into itself, and my body tensed, as the embodiment of a rape at 10 years old filled every inch of my skin, inside and out.
My truth, rising up, telling me it could never be less...and my purpose couldn't be anything else, but this.
I am opening my hands this morning, as the sacred sun hits my back from the window, realising that the words I dreamed up in giggles at the beginning of last year are more real and alive than I ever imagine they could be. A joke then, now coming into the world with such clarity, I cannot help but trust it.
I am Skyler Mechelle and I am born to write this book...but even more than that, I am meant to stand as an advocate, entering into refuges, homes, schools, churches, organisations, businesses, and lives and speak my story in person. To travel seas, meet with humans, and then return home to a country hillside in the land of my heart. To end the silence.
And I fucking could never ever do this, attempt this, receive this without YOU. Your support, whether monthly or one time, goes towards my book, travel, and advocacy.