Laura Kaponer is 1 in 5

Last week I had an unidentified virus, or so that’s what the ER told me. For two days I could barely move, eat, or stay awake. Seeking in person medical care can be quite challenging when you live alone in a second floor apartment. If I had managed to make it to the door, then there were the stairs. If I somehow made it safely down the stairs, then there was the walk across the parking lot to my car. And if against all odds I made it that far I would have had nothing left in me to drive.

So there it is.

I’ve worked tirelessly in my recovery. My personal marathon with endless trainings, injuries, and medals. I’m not racing against anyone else, just enjoying the scenery of my recovery. For the most part I’d like to consider myself a fairly independent person. People run along side me at certain points, but there are long stretches where it’s just me.

I am a fierce warrior.

Last week that virus took away that part of me and benched her. It is in these moments I truly feel the depth of my loneliness. The lack of the partner to support me when I am unable to support myself. Someone to make me soup, care for my bunny, and gently stroke my hair as I fall asleep. The virus reminded me of what I was missing in all that I have.

I have no “In Case of Emergency.”

When I’m well I feel that I can do all the things. I will persevere through challenges that the past version of myself never could have. I will run, skip, and gallop my marathon. I’m still fully and always aware of those things I do not have. However, they are that off in the distance. I choose not to focus on them.

Unfortunately I get sick and injured far more often than the average person. Genetics, lifestyle, a curse from a Greek God I angered….whatever the reason may be, this is my reality. I’ll push through and find a way 95% of the time. Sometimes to my own detriment.

But I don’t want to.

If I fall, I want someone to catch me. I want someone to hold me in their arms while I cry. I want someone to hold up a sign cheering me on while I run my marathon.

Yet I battle with myself about this concept that I can’t be both independent and dependent at the same time. Who decided this? I certainly didn’t. There’s this overwhelming weight of expectations to fit neatly into a box and I don’t want to be a part of it. There’s a balance somewhere in tall of this that I’m trying to figure out. Unsure what it looks like or how I’ll get there.

I want to try NOT to try and know that that’s okay.

Originally Posted On Facebook May 3, 2022

I recently found out my ex-father-in-law passed away. I was immediately stricken with grief because no matter what happened between me and my ex-husband I always felt grateful for his parents. They were and still are my biggest loss from my divorce. It still baffles me how two of the greatest humans to ever exist produced him.

I was conflicted if I should reach out as it’s been over ten years, but this was a family I used to be a part of. I wasn’t sure what kind of reception my message would receive, but this wasn’t about me.

I first texted my ex-husband as his phone number is one digit off from my own. It’s hard to NOT remember. Then I sent his brother a private message on Facebook.

That was when I came across the very last message his brother ever sent me (pictures below) and it opened up an old wound. An old wound I needed to process with family and friends afterwards. People who were in my life at the time. People who knew the truth of it.

A year before my ex-husband and I got together he took advantage of me while I was intoxicated. So intoxicated I couldn’t stand up straight. My friends trusted him to get me safely to my room. The next morning I woke up alone, naked, sore, and found a used condom in the trash.

My friends had to tell me this was rape. You can’t consent to sex while you’re blacked out. It wasn’t my fault that I had flirted with him that night, what he did was wrong.

Why did I end up dating him and eventually marrying him? Because I thought this was what love was. I thought this was the best it ever got. I believed he was a good man that made one horrible mistake. I was wrong.

He became very neglectful and emotionally abusive. Something all the people in my life witnessed first hand and warned me to get away from. But I loved him, so I stayed.

He told me he had saved $20,000 to put towards a new home. After we had the home built it turned out he didn’t have the money and my parents took care of it. Money he said he would pay them back for and never did.

He refused to touch me throughout nearly our entire marriage. This went beyond sex. He didn’t want to hold my hand, kiss me, or even hug me. When I tried to kiss or hug him I was forcefully pushed away. He would put on a show for his family, but my friends and family knew the truth.

So after years of begging him to go into marriage therapy with me or individual therapy for himself (as I was in therapy for myself), ignoring me for internet porn/pot smoking with his friends/football/poker, and emotionally neglecting me I had an affair. Prior to the affair I told him on several ocassions I was unhappy and wanted to end the marriage. He cried as he made false promises he would do better, but never did. I ended this brief affair to go back to a man that didn’t want me. He told me he would keep the affair a secret as long as I never did anything like it again. He held it over me anytime I mis-stepped in any way as a veiled threat. As soon as we agreed to divorce he immediately ran off to tell his family about the affair. I imagine the narrative was that this was the reason for the divorce.

Who took care of the majority of our house chores? I did. Who contributed at least equally financially if not more? I did. He hoarded our shared money refusing to pay our bills until we got final notices. When I asked to look at our finances to see what was going on, he wouldn’t let me. People told me this was shady, but I trusted him.

My brother had started a lucrative business and took a chance hiring my ex-husband. It was a horrible experience where my ex refused to do any of the work. My brother had to do his work responsibilities for him until eventually my brother was put in the very awkward position of letting my ex go or continuing to allow his business to suffer.

As soon as I was finally able to break free from this abusive cycle I put myself out there with other men. My ex-husband raced to start entire romances with other women. He bought them flowers, took them on dates, and was sexual with them. That’s when he admitted I was the problem, he wasn’t longer attracted to me and that’s why he had stopped any form of affection yet was excited about it with other women. Women who were not his wife.

So it’s okay that my ex did it, but not me. Just like it’s okay that another family member of my ex’s family had a public affair, because how do you buy a house with a woman who isn’t your wife in the same town if you’re trying to be discreet, was never slut shamed for his adulterous behavior. (People that had never met my ex’s family were telling me about it.) So if I’m a giant slut, then I imagine they are too? Maybe the difference is that I’m a woman? Maybe the difference is that I was villianized by the family and that they weren’t?

The narrative that my ex-husband told people about me was never true. My family and friends witnessed everything I just shared. When I showed them the message that my ex-brother-in-law wrote me they were appalled. And they all knew about my affair too because unlike my husband I was honest about my wrong-doings.

It took me 12 years to the write this because I was trying to protect my ex and his family at the cost of myself. Because for years I actually believed what my ex-brother-in-law wrote about me. 12 years of various therapists helping me work through what a horrible person I thought I was to deserve all these things. Believing that I would never find someone who would love and accept me because the one person that vowed to possibly never did.

So no, I’m not going to keep my personal life personal in order to protect my ex’s family name especially when my ex-husband didn’t do that for my family name. I’m not going to be shamed into being silent because then I’ll never heal. I deserve the chance to heal.

Me sharing the truth of what my ex-husband did should make his friends and family upset, but not because I shared it. They should be upset because someone they trust and love did horrible things. Horrible things MANY people witnessed. I don’t have to do anything to tarnish my ex-husband’s family name because he can do that all by himself.

My ex-brother-in-law shouldn’t be ashamamed that he knew me. He should be ashamed that he’s related to someone that treated his wife AND her entire family so horribly. A family who supported him through his cancer scare. A family he scammed out of $20,000. A family that offered him an amazing employment opportunity at the detriment of that business. A wife who sacrificed her own mental and physical health in order to save a marriage that was breaking her.

I do advocacy now and the power behind it is in stating my unfiltered truth. My truth has helped others heal in their own trauma. And hopefully this truth of mine will help others to know it isn’t their fault either no matter how much someone tries to convince them it is. Don’t be silent to make the lives of those who hurt you easier at the cost of making yours worse.

And I’m fully prepared that my ex’s family and friends will attack me for this. They’ll say it’s all lies. They’ll victim blame me. They’ll continue to slut shame me. They may even throw in ugly comments about my mental health. My ex is also the reason we didn’t have an amicable divorce with a mediator as I initially suggested. He refused to let me end the marriage until I legally served him papers. Hence the Facebook post that preceded

Originally posted on Facebook May 27, 2022

Instead of doing a post about guns, plenty of people are engaging in that debate, I’m going to post about mental health.

Whenever there’s an act of violence to this level it’s always blamed on the mentally ill. Honestly any violent act seems to throw ownership at the mentally ill. I won’t argue that some of those people weren’t mentally ill, but not all of them were.

Let’s say they all were though. The appalling behaviors of a few will villainize an entire population. Much like how 911 villianized all Muslims or people from the Middle East. Much like how WWII villianized all Japanese or anyone who “looked” Japanese. It’s an unhealthy pattern that makes society at large feel safer. It’s an easier path than taking a step back to look at the larger picture. It’s definitely far easier than introspection. To say these tragic acts happened because of THOSE PEOPLE.

Yes people. They are all people.

So if everyone who has done something this heinous was mentally ill, then what’s the solution? Access to more resources: mental health professionals, higher levels of care, community supports. That should be the only answer to prevent this from continuing to happen.

I too have been violent towards others in my life. It was only a few times to specific individuals. Every single time I did it I felt scared and threatened. I did not initiate, it was in response to something happening to me such as domestic violence.

Something all of those times had in common is that my mental health wasn’t being properly managed. Because when I’m in therapy, taking my medications, and using my supports I am only at most a danger to myself. And that danger is most likely ignoring my boundaries and capacities or self-neglect. While that still isn’t ideal by any means, it’s moving in the right direction. I’m not a threat to the wellness of others.

Those who feel safe don’t attack. Those who have access to resources for when they don’t feel safe are far less likely to attack. In all my years in recovery and advocacy I have yet to meet a violent mentally ill person. And I’ve seen people at their absolute worst.

The narrative that all people with mental illnesses are dangerous is dangerous in itself. It’s going to make the weight of stigma even heavier for us. It’s going to continue to make us the “other”. We’re not on the opposing side of this tragedy, we’re standing right along side you. We’re feeling all the feelings of anger and grief.

I am queer. I identify as a pansexual cis-female.

It’s very important we as a queer community, along with our allies, keep the conversation going about the rights we deserve and continue to fight for as human beings. Rights that are freely given to others who fit the current narrative of normal.

An equally important conversation is the homophobia that exists within the queer community.

Back when I believed in the gender binary, I identified as bisexual. Nearly all my partners were cis-male. Looking back now my choices were definitely a combination of what I liked and what society at large told me I was supposed to like.

My lack of cis-female partners seemed to invalidate my identity as bisexual to my peers. I was often told I wasn’t really bisexual, maybe I just had crushes on cis-females or I was experimenting or just confused. When I ended up marrying a cis-male I was told on numerous occasions by people both within and outside of the queer community that I had “chosen a side.”

There are at least two problems with this.

The first issue is that I don’t need to prove my identity to anyone for any reason. My identity is how my soul expresses itself to the world. My identity is sacred and special. No one is allowed to challenge or take my identity away from me.

The second issue is how we end up doing the very same things to our peers that those outside of our community are doing to us. Creating definitions of what I should look and behave like as a bisexual or pansexual woman is just as oppressive when it comes from within my queer community. It’s hateful and it’s hurtful. It’s even more hateful and hurtful when it comes from my peers.

And to imply my queerness is a choice is so deeply rooted in ignorance. Being queer was just as much a choice for me as my brown eyes were.

And you know what? I’ve done it too. I used to walk around in my ignorant and selfish bliss believing I had the right to force narratives on others. I promoted these marginal definitions as to what each form of queer was supposed to be.

I was wrong. I fully admit that I was both queer and homophobic. Both can and do exist together.

I am sorry. Having been on both sides of this ugly situation I fully understand the lack of compassion, love and support it provides. We as a community will not thrive if we continue to create as well as perpetuate these harmful truths.

It’s really as simply as allowing people the space to exist as they are.

Trauma is a broken bone that never heals quite right.

My first job out of college had the best version of me. Admittedly I was immature and totally unaware of the adult working world, but I had an insatiable hunger. 

I believed if I worked my hardest, regardless of my level of talent, my efforts would be appreciated and valued. I was wrong. Coworkers got frustrated when I couldn’t match their skill level. Managers were vocal about their disappointment in me. Often they were cruel. It was made very clear that I didn’t belong.

That was when I felt the first fracture of my bone. It hurt, yet it was manageable.I hobbled into what I knew would be a better circumstance. An opportunity to grow and be better. Most importantly a chance to heal.

The belief that each new job would be the career I would retire from; the place I would feel at home; somewhere I would excel and be valued.  These beliefs ended up as effective as a brittle bandage. 

In nearly two decades I have had  thirteen different jobs not including brief temp jobs in between. All different employers. A variety of different industries. Across the span of two different states. Although there were many differences, my experiences were almost always the same.

That first day I walked through the doors with excitement and hope at the endless possibilities. I imagined my career trajectory. An eagerness burst through the seams to learn as much as I could and do the best I could. I wanted to be a valuable member of the team. I tirelessly sought the approval of those around me.

Every time was supposed to be different. I forced myself to walk on a broken bone that never healed quite right from the repeated fractures. And every single time I was lured into a false sense of security that I could walk again. Management appeared happy to have me. Coworkers seemed welcoming and helpful. I felt as if I belonged until I was brutally reminded that I did not. 

You failed to meet our expectations. Fracture. No one here likes you. Fracture. You’re not who we thought you would be. Fracture. There’s no reason you can’t do it if the other person can. Fracture. You’re too much. Fracture. You’re not enough. Fracture. Get your act together. Fracture. You should just keep to yourself. Fracture.

The added weight of protecting each former employer as a potential new employer asked what happened….fracture, fracture, fracture.

The last time left me so crippled I knew I would never be the same again. I could no longer hide behind a slight limp. 

The next job will get the very worst of me. Trauma does that. It stole my ability to run, to jump, and even to walk. It makes me fear that each day will be the last good day before my inevitable fall. 

Thursday January 27, 2022

Trauma sucker punched me this morning.

It was standing next to my bed waiting for me as soon as I woke up.

And not just any trauma. It was one of the ugliest, most vicious, crippling Traumas I’ve ever had.

Looming

Over

Me

With a smile.

I yelled,”NOT TODAY!”

I whimpered,”not today.”

I questioned,”Why Today?”

Foolishly I had thought it was all behind me. The nightmares and the flashbacks, the unexpected land mine of triggers long since passed.

Trauma laughed at me. Trauma ripped off my comforter. Yanked me out of bed by my hair. Repeatedly kicked me while I lay on my bedroom floor defenseless.

I made it to the shower hoping the water would wash the tears away.

It didn’t.

I felt it all over again. How they taunted me. How they cornered me. How they promised I would be safe, but I never really was. The ones who were supposed to protect me defected to the other side. And soon I had no one fighting alongside me. No one wanted to sully themselves with a mere affiliation with me.

My armor ripped off my body. All the cuts and bruises they gave me on display. I watched them all walk away to celebrate what they had done.

Trembling I look up at Trauma,”I don’t want you here.”

Trauma, with its steely gaze, says,”I don’t care.”

Last month at book club some us discussed the monetary roadblocks our society puts in front of us. Who would we be and what would we do if that barrier wasn’t there?Of course I said I would do Advocacy.

That’s always my answer.

I would travel to different conferences, get hands on within the community, write my memoir, and have a much stronger social media presence. Someone said I could monitize what I do. My immediate response was that while I think what I have to say is important, I don’t believe anyone would pay to hear it. Upon further reflection it goes even deeper than that.

The biggest mountain the Mental Health Community faces is accessibility to resources. Everything from medication to professional support to peer groups. It requires money, time, and transportation that most do not have. Some of the absolute best resources out there are Mental Health Conferences. They showcase research, innovations, and the birth of new movements. Conferences that when I was a working professional in the Mental Health Field, could barely afford to attend.These conferences are dedicated to a population that can’t directly benefit from them except in a trickle-down way.

Videos and books are great, but being in the midst of the engine seeing the cogs work firsthand is without debate the most impactful. Professional advocacy wouldn’t offer me a sustainable living, at least not the opportunities I’ve seen. I’d need a living wage with benefits, something I have worked in more mainstream jobs for. If I were to hold off on doing my advocacy until I was paid for it then about 90% of it never would have happened.Because my advocacy is rooted in volunteerism it’s available to far more people. If I were to put a cost on that, that cost would create accessibility limitations. It’s not worth the trade off for me. I’m not going to be another resource you need to buy a ticket to.