My Life In A Not-So-Nutshell

I wrote a post recently talking about the men of my life, and with the recent passing of a holiday that represents all things gratitude and the return to our physical homes, this piece seems fitting. There's so many things to say about each of the men of my life. So much so, I feel strongly that some day, I could dedicate an entire book to these men (I am going to need a lot of consent waivers). In all seriousness, I resent so many of them yet am so grateful to all of them, the men of my life. It's the most conflicting set of emotions. I reflect on this daily now, especially as I see story after story on the television and in the newspapers of women and men ousting power players in Hollywood for their acts of sexual violence. I am filled with a deep nostalgia thinking about all of the men I've encountered in my life. And still sometimes, when I see an old face from my past that was warm or comforting then, that same warm and comfort (and safety) finds me in that momen

(Content warning: sexual violence) This blog post has taken me a while to write. I've had my fair share of Harvey Weinstein's. But you know, I'm a pageant girl, so that's to be expected, right? ...Right? Here's a pretty solid rundown - a forewarning that if you desire to know nothing more about me, stop reading now: At the age of 11, I had a priest tell me that I needed to go to an "ugly tree" because I was "just too pretty." This was in a confessional booth. We were alone. At age 14, I was taunted for being a "prude." At age 15, I was sexually assaulted. Probably because, you know, I was a prude. At various ages throughout high school, I was catcalled, assaulted, harassed, and then some. At age 21, I was raped. I have a long saga of men treating me (and my loved ones and my dear friends) as an object at which they sought to throw their sexual desires at. It was as if, for some reason, I seemed to wear a sign saying,

Are you a licensed therapist? A trained counselor? Good, me either. If you are, hi. I'm not a licensed therapist or trained counselor. Welcome. I often notice trends or similar habits amongst those who haven't sought out therapy. I notice these particular habits because they used to be my own before I utilized a therapist. I would put a lot of my problems on other people (friends, family members, etc.) and unknowingly/unconsciously vent my life away to them, hoping for and seeking a response that they often times could not give me. And with good reason. They were not trained to give counsel over my life's problems and then detach themselves from their relationship to me. I've found in the last few years that once you share your own experience with something (traumatic or not) you unconsciously give other people permission to share their same experiences with you. This is particularly true (and happens frequently) in the case of sexual assault. When I first came out

If you know me, you know I am acquainted with trauma. And so are members of my family. And so are most people. But, you see, "trauma" is a word that I feel necessary to include in my biography. It's a part of me. Always has been, always will be. I find that, for whatever reasons, people equate the word "trauma" with words like "damaged," "incapable," or "impaired." When I was told a couple of years ago that my symptoms were aligned with that of "post-traumatic stress disorder," I felt all of those things. I felt damaged beyond repair. I felt incapable. I felt impaired. I felt like a broken piece of junk, for lack of better term. I've been very transparent about my journey to healing; it hasn't been linear. I heal each and every day, and I will for the rest of my life. And I've reached a point where I have accepted that. I have accepted the experiences I've had in this life, and knowing what I know now

My sisters and my mother are three of the most important people in my life. My brothers and father, too. But that is a different blog post for a different day (it'll be soon, guys!) I probably call or talk to my sisters, on average, 4-5 times a week, and I talk to my mother everyday. And that's the way it's been the last four years I've been away. That's the way it's been for, well... ever. With graduation quickly approaching, I'm feeling sentimental, reminiscent, sad, excited, and everything in between. My emotions each day I wake up in these last two weeks left in Tuscaloosa are basically a big fat "TBD, Mags!" But that's okay, because feeling all of these things means this place means something to me. And it means that Tuscaloosa, that UA, will be a part of my life and who I am forever. I've had some really awful things happen to me in college. I've almost failed a semester of school from having my heart broken, I've been v

I have eleven drafts waiting in my blog. Eleven. I guess I just assumed none of them were worthwhile, or perhaps I was too caught up in the opinions of others around me and what they would think of what I had to say. Well, today, I finally found something to write about that I know  is worthwhile. It's April, which means Sexual Assault Awareness Month is upon us. While this is a great opportunity to educate those around us about the growing epidemic of sexual assault on campuses across the country, it also can be emotionally and physically draining -- especially for survivors. Self-care is not only crucial during this time when we are heavily discussing and hearing about the issue of sexual assault (thus likely reminding ourselves of our own experiences), it is absolutely necessary. So, let's talk about self-care. Easier than it sounds, right? Wrong. For sexual assault survivors, self-care can be confusing and well, downright hard. I struggle myself sometimes; it's hard