*Trigger Warning*
Please welcome author, editor, supermodel Julie Anderson, co-founder of Feminine Collective, to my blog today. Julie is a survivor, powerhouse author, fundraiser, advocate for women and children, mother, model, and above all, a deep, vulnerable, beautiful soul. I’m forever grateful to have met her.
Born breach 27 hours after my mother started labor, I was welcomed as my parents’ first child. Their baby girl.
My mother and father were young. Twenty-one and twenty-two. I used to think that they were old, new parents. Now I know that they were green. Young and green.
Both of my parents worked full-time and very hard to provide for our little family. They did not have family that could help them keep an eye on me. It was just the three of us — for seven years.
I have seven memories from that time in my life.
The first memory is the one that involves me eating one of the dog’s biscuits. I remember wanting to try one because I figured it must taste like a cookie. It looked like a cookie. It tasted like cardboard.
The second memory is the one that involves me eating the entire jar of honey. In one sitting. I was hiding under the kitchen counter, out of sight, and I just could not stop myself. To this day, my love affair with sweets continues.
The third memory is one that I still can’t figure out. I remember sitting crossed legged, in the middle of the living room. I was facing my mother. Sedentary in an armchair, her silhouette was all that I could see. I could not see her face. I could feel her eyes, though. She sat there and stared at me without saying a word.
The fourth memory is the one that involves my babysitters house. I remember collecting freshly laid eggs from her chicken coop. I remember watching Sesame Street, on her gigantic TV, while lying on her awful orange shag carpet in the wood-paneled living room. I remember the babysitter’s husband too. I remember climbing all the way to the top of the tree in their backyard. I remember refusing to come down. I recall my mother; red in the face with embarrassment, standing at the bottom of that tree. Her anger rose like steam; she had to leave work early because I refused to climb down. I was steadfast and determined. I would not abandon the safety of the oak tree.
The fifth memory is a nightmare. One that still flashes in my dreams to this day. The babysitter’s husband was the main character. He had a saw. He was cutting off my arms. I can still see what was left, ragged stubs. I can still hear my screams. I can still see the blood.
The sixth memory is the one where my mother is standing on the front door stoop in her underwear, yelling at me. “Come inside right now!” It’s 5:30 in the morning. I’m in the middle of the road, screaming my head off, and covered in sweat. I had sleepwalked, from my little bedroom, right out the front door. When I hear my mother’s voice, I wake up.
The seventh memory is the one where I collected everything precious to me and ran away. A few dolls, my little tea set, a book, my cheetah stuffed animal and a few crackers; all rolled up in my blanket. I left the house my blanket of goods trailing behind me. I don’t remember where I was going. I don’t quite remember why I decided to leave, other than a vague feeling that I had to protect myself. I made it to the corner. That’s when I heard my mother’s voice. “Come inside right now!”
These memories, they are stored in the vault, filed under “before I was five.”
Forever, it seems like forever, I have carried these fragments. Lost moments in time.
Sometimes the bloody stubs, appear when I am in the bath. Sometimes I dream about sitting in the crook of that old oak tree’s arm. Sometimes I forget that I am no longer small, but I will never forget my mother’s silhouette.
Future Memories
I will never consign to oblivion the day I skipped school. That was the first and last time I was a truant. It also turned out to be the last day I attended high school.
I skipped out that day because of a boy. My high school crush broke up with me, and I was devastated. His best friend suggested we ditch fourth period, to head over to his house so that we could talk about the situation. I remember him passing me a glass of Pepsi. I remember him on top of me. I remember his friends, one after the other on top of me. I remember being sick. I could not move. I could not scream.
I remember going to school the next day. The kids in the “cool crowd” called me under their breath, “the slut who even fucked the dog.” I was so ashamed and confused. I went straight to the main office and quit school that day. I never broke my silence about the incident. I never told anyone about being gang-raped. I never explained why I tossed the rest of my school days out the window.
I will never forget the day I was enticed to jump in the policeman’s private car. I will never forget what it was like to feel his pubic hair rub against my freshly shaved gangly 16-year-old legs. I won’t disremember how proud he tried to make me feel when he said “You are an exceptional woman. I never was interested in someone your age before. It’s hard for me ya know? Most women are bitches.”
He was 30. He broke the law. Again, I never broke my silence.
I will never forget the talent scout. “You are exquisite. You will be a supermodel. I will teach you everything that you need to know.” I remember that he did not “charge” my parents a fee, to attend his modeling workshops. That was the first time I learned that nothing is ever free. I recall the payback. He was 45; I was 17.
My therapist, I don’t remember which one, I have had many – put the pieces of my puzzle together.
It all started with the babysitter’s husband.
I was quiet because I remembered.
I will never fail to remember the loss of my innocence. I will never forget how much that loss has cost me.
Julie Anderson is a fashion survivor, sort of. After spending decades globe-trotting wearing her “SuperModel” cape, she is now the Creator and Publisher of Feminine Collective.
Feminine Collective provides a platform for stories that mainstream media often denies. . Writers from around the world: women, teenagers and a few good men have contributed to the site, making it dynamic and diversified. Unlike any other site online.
She collaborates with her dynamic business partner, Marla J. Carlton, in a seamless manner. The two women have recently published Feminine Collective: Raw & Unfiltered Volume 1 : Selected Essays and Poems on Relationships with Self and Others. They have also launched the Feminine Collective Foundation, serving at risk women and children.
She is the mother of three human babies and three fur babies. She has been married to photographer Paul Empson for twenty years, because of their careers the family has lived at one time or another, on each continent. They proudly consider themselves global citizens.
An entrepreneur, publisher, writer, actress, fashion model and photographer, Julie has a creative’s vision that has yet to be satiated.
Her personal site: julieandersonofficial.com is the only authorized place on the web that showcases her career, past, present & future.
photos courtesy of Julie Anderson Official and Unsplash
Purchase Broken Pieces and Broken Places on Amazon now! Learn more about all of Rachel’s books here. Learn about the authors of the Gravity Imprint (books about trauma and recovery, fiction or nonfiction) and purchase Gravity Imprint books here.
Connect with Rachel for social media services on BadRedheadMedia.com.
Stephanie O says
April 2, 2016 at 4:26 pmThis story was a tiny bit of salve for my soul. Thank you Julie, for sharing your story in such a compelling and thoughtful manner. It is hard to “come out” and share our stories with friends and family. You are an incredible force, and by reading a story like yours will help a lot of survivors to thrive towards recovery and that trauma does not define us. Keep shining.
Julie Anderson says
April 3, 2016 at 10:38 amThank you Stephanie, for reading my thoughts. I appreciate your kind words. “Coming Out” is that what I did? Maybe so. I never thought of it like that before. This story is what it is, my story. Unremarkable compared to the stories of others. Remarkably it is a story that too many can relate too. That is what breaks my heart.
x J
Michel 'Area Frenchman' Bordeau says
April 2, 2016 at 7:31 pmDear Julie,
I know you to be a caring individual who shows tremendous empathy in your responses to the articles your writers submit to the FC.
You love us because we muster the courage to speak up against, and never forgive or forget, those who made us feel sickly vulnerable.
You openly admire our strengths and determination, our desire to beat the unfair odds.
You hear us fight
You see us recover
You help us craft a collective voice of hope.
This article gives me a chance to admire you
It is my turn.
I love the courage it took you,
To never forget
To never forgive
To speak up against these men
Who made you sickly vulnerable.
i admire your strength
I admire your determination
To beat these unfair odds
i hear your fight
i hear your desire for recovery
i see the nascent hope
Which you will turn inside out
Soon, very soon
You will turn the screaming anger inside
Into your voice of hope
This article is the beginning
Just the beginning
What a courageous beginning!
Love,
Michel
Julie Anderson says
April 3, 2016 at 10:54 amOh Michel!
You are a poet! Thank you for leaving this thoughtful and generous comment. I try. We once had a conversation about my conviction and drive. I told you that my passion comes from a place of mistakes and regret. I would prefer to be remembered by my family as courageous, rather than a stupid idiot that made one too many mistakes in life.
As per your “screaming anger” comment – do I have that inside of me? Probably. But I do not have anger regarding what I wrote. During those times I disassociated. I was above my body, not in it.
Yes, the after shocks have continued long after they should have.
What infuriates me is not what happened to me per say … it is the fact that sexual assault whether it happens to a child or a young adult has become “the new normal”. My daughter has many girlfriends that have shared their stories of date rape, incest and various other types of defouling and damaging abuse, with her. The take away – straight out of these young women’s mouths: “it happens all the time” or “this is the way it is”. They are not outraged. They are not willing to rat out their abusers. They shoulder these hideous indiscretions as if it is a right of passage.
Clearly there is something disturbing and disgustingly wrong with this picture of today’s generation of girls.
I am hyper vigilant. I tell my children ALL THE TIME never to go out alone, always have a buddy, don’t leave your drink unattended etc etc. I also tell them to tell me if anything should happen. They probably won’t tell me though. Do you know why? Because I have sworn to the heavens above that if anyone touches my child – I will snuff them out. Not in those words, but you get my drift.
Thank you Michel for being my friend.
x J
C. Streetlights says
April 2, 2016 at 9:14 pmMy dear friend Julie,
I texted you earlier but I must write to you now. I have to put into words for you to know how courageous you are so that you remember next time when you don’t feel it.
I’ve been crying today for the words you left here. Not because they have wounded me or because I have been triggered but because I want to go back in time to that “before you were five” and take care of you. To keep you away from that neighbor’s husband. To rock you to sleep at night. The mother in me wants to protect the child in you.
I want to go after those teenage boys with that Pepsi bottle.
I am so grateful we are friends. Grateful you are steadfast in your purpose in giving us a voice. Grateful for you.
Julie Anderson says
April 3, 2016 at 11:03 amDear C.
Your kind words brought many tears to my eyes. Thank you.
Courageous? No, not at all. I just have a big mouth. I would like to use my linguistic skills in a positive manner.
Young children, teens, women and men suffer every day. Abusers are like cockroaches,they breed like rabbits and they are virtually impossible to kill (imprison).
I do find it fascinating and sad that most abusers are born from the abuse they too received.
I find it baffling that in today’s society media in all forms … perpetuates sexual violence.
I find it absolutely outrageous that our students are raped on campus, that pedophiles have communities and that sexual slavery is on the rise – right here in the good ‘ol USA.
What can we do about it? Speak up and speak out.
My gratitude for our friendship outweighs yours, I promise you that.
Best-
J
Elaine Mansfield says
April 3, 2016 at 10:11 amThank you for sharing your traumatic and raw memories. Your courage helps open the gate that imprisons women in silence and shame. As always, your writing is beautiful and moving.
Drew Sheldon says
April 3, 2016 at 12:56 pmYour truth is full of so much pain and ugliness, and yet you wrote it so beautifully. Thank you so much, Julie. You are an angel.
John Michael Antonio says
April 3, 2016 at 11:08 pmMy dear Julie, your courageous piece brought tears to my eyes.Every female I have ever known has a similar collection of nightmarish memories and my heart breaks every time I imagine the pain that you and them have suffered at the hands of men.You are an inspiration to so many, including myself. Bless you Julie Anderson., you are a heroine to me and I am honored to call you my friend. Your bravery and the bravery of the women at Feminine Collective are a constant source of inspiration to me. I am blessed to know you all.
Dori Owen says
April 4, 2016 at 12:49 amI love you, my dear friend, my dear sister. You are strong like the wooden toy soldiers, wise like the Ancient Greek gods, and have the heart of the kindest, truest mother….ever. Writing the words that scare you takes enormous bravery and you have done so with your beautiful poetic words. I can feel your pain, and I pray that you do not feel my rage at anyone who has ever harmed your precious self. For I would tear them into small pieces and throw them into the deepest parts of hell. And here you are. Beautiful Julie. Speaking your truths. I am so proud to call you my friend.
Linda K. Sienkiewicz says
April 4, 2016 at 9:36 amJuly,
Such horrific memories. Thank you for taking the courage to give voice to them. In turn you inspire others to speak their stories. “The heart is imprisoned not by being broken, but by being silenced.” – Martha Beck
H.M. Jones says
August 6, 2016 at 2:43 pmSuch horrors so many of us share. I always wonder why we, so many of us, are treated as unworthy of respect. You reclaimed your words. I am proud to know you. Much love.
Dawn H @SongWarriors says
October 5, 2016 at 1:08 pmI find myself having a hard time breathing as I read these memories. Thank you for sharing your story. Thank you for sharing your words. Thank you for your courage to speak your truth. For all you endured, I am sorry. For your strength to speak out, I am encouraged.
As I begin to try to change my little corner of the world and make them more aware of Childhood Sexual Abuse, I will draw strength from my Warrior Sisters, who, like you, speak their truth. (I will be speaking to a group of Nurses in November regarding their patients with PTSD from Childhood Sexual Abuse/Incest)