The Effects of My Attempted Suicide and Being Raped on the Family

Every morning like clockwork, there is a knock at my bedroom door. It is my younger brother Ryan Feathers. I often yell for him to come in or holler, “Just a minute” if I am in the process of getting dressed, and he will wait patiently till I come and unlock the door. He’ll greet me with “good morning” on a good day or something goofy when he is in what my mom and I call “rare form”. It’s always followed up by, “How are you feeling?”, “Do you need anything?”, or “Do you want me to fix you breakfast/lunch?” The other day was different. It all started out the same; he came to hang out with me in my room for a while. I invited him in and he sat on the floor of my bedroom. Something was off, though I knew he’d been down for a while. Noticing this daily pattern, I receptively stated, “Ryan, we need to talk”. He was silent. “You’ve been pretty worried about me, haven’t you”? His eyes began to well up with tears. I climbed down onto the floor where I wrapped my arms around him giving him a hug. As I pulled away, I said, “Look at me. I’m okay”. “I’m okay.” I repeated. “I just don’t know if I am a good person” he told me. I asked him why he would think that but I was met with “I don’t know”. So I tried asking in a different way starting to sound like a psychologist, “What makes a good person, good”? Again, “I don’t know”. “Well, if you don’t know what a good person is than how do you know you are not one?” I questioned him. Again, I was met with “I don’t know”. Trying another angle, “Okay. What about a bad person. What makes a bad person bad?” Quickly, he listed murders, rapists, and those who hurt people in general. “Have you done any of those things?” I inquired already knowing the answer. “No. But there is small scale stuff too.” “Okay. That’s true. Can you name a few for me?” He started to name things like theft and then brought everything to a screeching halt when he said, “or not being there for somebody when they need you”. “Did you do that?” I asked. “Yes” he replied. “To whom?” I snapped in shock, afraid of where this was headed. He broke down into tears and muttered beneath his breath, “You. I wasn’t there for you.”

We can only control so much and often what we think we can control is an illusion. A false sense of control. It is hard for me to write this as an OCD, “Type A” personality, but so much is out of our hands. As the saying goes, “if you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans”. I have every pair of shoes out of my 200 pair collection categorized and cataloged by color, style, and season. I do this with my clothes, my jewelry, my makeup, and my nail art as well. But am I really controlling anything? It is a false sense of control. It is a false sense of security because I attempt to control what I feel I can in my life when everything else such as my health both mental and physical is going haywire. Everything is about perspective. For that reason, let’s look at control versus choice. We may not have control but we do have the ability to make a choice. The choice may feel like control because making a choice is something we can control; what we can’t control is the outcome. As an amazing former teacher of mine, Mrs. Maria Del Carmen Carrodeguas use to say, “Life is about choices”. We have to find comfort in knowing by making a choice, we took what control we do have, and did all we can do.

After I was raped, the first person I told was my therapist. I didn’t actually say the words. I had waited until the end of the session to bring up the topic, and it was from there that he deduced exactly what had happened to me. Of course, I hadn’t realized it was the end of the session, this leaving my poor psychologist running overtime because he didn’t want to send me home in the state I was in after such a revelation. At that point I had no plans to tell anyone. I told my mom I had a rough session and kept it at that just so it would explain the mood I’m in. I believe it was the next day, when I decided I needed to tell her. My thoughts were eating me alive after the therapy session, and she could see something was just not right with me. After telling her, I came up with somewhat of a mental note of everyone I felt I needed to tell before going public and advocating which is something else I decided I needed to do for my own personal reasons. I didn’t want certain people to find out through social media but unfortunately that is how it happened for many. It is not an easy subject. I thought my mom would be the hardest to tell, but in retrospect it was my brother Ryan. I struggled to get the words out every time, but it didn’t compare to the struggle of seeing my brother break down and cry at the thought of what happened to me and the unnecessary guilt harbored for not being able to protect me. Rape hurts everyone. Suicide hurts everyone.
There never was “daddy” at home cleaning out his gun, threatening the boys to have me back by a certain time “or else”. But here was my younger brother heartbroken, crushed, beating himself up because he couldn’t protect me. It’s the same reason everyone is beating themselves up. It’s the reason my mom feels helpless, the reason my grandma wants to go all “Lorena Bobbitt” on him, and the reason my Uncle’s first words to me were “Do you know where he lives? I’ll take care of it”. The truth is no one could have protected me. I couldn’t protect me. No one is to blame but the man that did this to me.

When I first came out and said I had been raped, I discussed my feelings of guilt, in questioning everything that happened that night. I replayed every moment and wondered what if anything I could have done different to have prevented this. Maybe one day I will be comfortable enough discussing what did happen that night but for now I am not ready to give that play by play. So how do people that were not even there blame themselves? Not just for my being raped but for my attempted suicide. Up until this point, I have been a private person. I have suffered in silence by choice. I did not tell anyone for 5 months. I tried to protect people. I was contrite. Maybe wrongfully so, but I had years of built up guilt for all my mom and brother had to go through with my health. Five months in the hospital where my brother came back every night after school to do his homework in a small hospital room; my mom spending every single night in a chair by my bed holding my hand. While logically I knew I could not help the declination of my health, in my mind if it wasn’t for my mere existence they would not suffer. I hid things. My thoughts, feelings, the state of my mental and physical health all for the sake of protecting the two people in this world I loved most. If I was going to go down the rabbit hole I saw no need to take anybody with me. Music has been very healing to me especially when I find a song so relatable. To quote “Tragedy” by Brandi Carlie:
“Taking you with me would be like
Taking all your money to the grave
It does no good to anyone especially
The one you're trying to save” (Tragedy by Brandi Carlie)

And it ends with, “and it’s so hard not to save”, which is so true. Because again like all things with me, my need to save and protect was deeply rooted in my past. In 6th grade, I had just broken two fingers in two different places on my left hand playing basketball. Following my recovery, I was again playing basketball when my uncle fouled me, knocking the ball out of my hand as I’m shooting and I break my ring finger on my right hand. At the time we didn’t know it was broken, so I told my grandma what happened, she got me ice, I iced it and then we agreed I wouldn’t tell my mother so as to not stress her out. Of course, she figured it out a few days later when she noticed I wasn’t using that hand, took me into the hand specialist and found out I had what was called a “booby trap” fracture because it looks something like an inverted “U”, and I was very close to needing surgery. Fast forward to just a few years ago, I have an Aunt pull me aside at a family gathering to tell me I need to take care of, look after, and protect my mom with certain other implications about my health stressing her out. The guilt piles on.

There was all that led me to be suicidal, but there was also all that led me to keep it to myself. You can’t take responsibility for something you knew nothing about. To my mom Ann Wagner Feathers, and my brother, blaming themselves for not knowing: I did my job. That was the plan. I wanted to hide it. I hid it and I hid it very well. There was NO way you could have known. The purpose of writing this today, is because I know my family’s life is not the only one affected by suicide or rape. We can only control so much in this world, and hindsight is 20/20. My therapist calls it the “judgmental mind”. When we look back on something and think of all the things we could’ve or should’ve done. You have to ask your judgmental mind, “Well where were you when all of this was happening”? If we could’ve done better, we would’ve done better. So tell your judgmental mind to shut up. Thoughts and ideas that you have now are only of use if you are going to work to implement them in future scenarios. You can’t use them to change the past so you either need to let them go or take steps to use them to build yourself and others a better future.

Some things are just out of our hands. Guilt is the gift from hell that keeps on giving. But no amount of guilt can change the past and no amount of worrying can change the future. So if you want to live in absolute hell, believe you are responsible for something you had no control over.

Remember if you or someone you know is struggling, help is free and confidential.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
National Rape & Assault (RAINN) Hotline: 1-800-656-4673
My Email: deborahfeathers@gmail.com

Always,
Deborah Alexis Jewel Feathers
xo

#rapeculture #notokay #rapecultureiswhen #whyistayed #yesallwomen#allmencan #fem2 #youoksis #activisim #ibelieveher #cuentalo#suicideprevention #depression #suicide #mentalhealth #like #likeforlike#like4like #comment #commentforcomment #comment4comment #follow#followforfollow #follow4follow #rape #rainn #rapevictim #metoo#nomeansno

How are you?

I don’t want to hide my thoughts and opinions. I don’t want to conceal my feelings for what I believe to be the benefit of myself or others. I don’t want to but I do, and I have been doing it for years. That’s not to say I don’t have my reasons because believe me, I do—but is it truly benefiting anyone? I can’t speak for everyone else, nobody can. We can only speak for ourselves, and I have come to believe that it is not to my benefit to hide how I truly feel. It is not healthy. It is not healthy for anyone to stuff their emotions so deep down inside, “I’m fine” becomes a knee-jerk reaction. But somehow, I’ve managed to do it for years, and I know many others have as well. “How are you?” “I’m fine”, I quip before I even realize that is not how I feel nor is what I wanted to say. We don’t do anything in life unless there is some sort of payoff, even if it is subconscious. So how does it get to this point where we tell ourselves this two-worded white lie is a sufficient response to what seems to be a genuine question? I say “we” because I know I am not the only one. But I think everyone whom just read this probably circled around the word, “genuine”. Do you question whether someone genuinely wants to know how you are? I know I do. I think at a certain point in our lives we can almost energetically feel the difference between a person whom cares when it is convenient, and a person whom just cares. It’s palpable. It’s a feeling you can cut with a knife. As a matter of fact it is more than a feeling, it is more than words, because it is words backed up by actions. They don’t just say they are here for you, they are there for you. They are not the person that simply says, “I’m praying for you”, they are out doing God’s work. They don’t say I care about you, they show you. They don’t just say, “I love you”, they make sure through their actions there is not a single doubt in your mind that would ever make you question it. Sometimes, they are not the people you would expect them to be but they are the people you couldn’t imagine your life without.

Unfortunately, I fear I too often focus on those that are not there, than those that are. Most recently, and quite unexpectedly after my post on being raped and attempting suicide, I quickly dropped from feeling happy and proud of myself to old feelings of self-hate and desolation. While overwhelmed by the outpouring of love I received in the comments, private messages, texts and phone calls, my attention was soon drawn towards those I thought or rather hoped would respond. To be honest, when I wrote it, I really didn’t put much thought into who might read it; I was doing it for me. Then, full disclosure, I’d be scrolling through Facebook thinking to myself, “Hmm, well _________, just posted, and _________ has been posting all day”. “I just announced some pretty big things including the fact that I was raped and brought to the point where I attempted suicide. Does this confirm my original belief that no one cares?”

As I stated in my original post, this belief of no one caring or rather, particular people not caring, played a monumental role in why I wanted to die. If you’re wondering the point of why I am sharing this, there are several. Before this begins to sound like a rant, here in lies point number one—I am done. I proofread read before I post, just as I think before I speak, but I am done holding back feelings (mental, emotional, and physical). If I feel it, I’ll write it, and if I write it well enough, hopefully you’ll feel it too. It’s a work in progress, but this is step one—and today’s post is about as real as it gets. My previous post while tough to read, was uplifting, today, while the overall message is still positive you’re getting something I never would normally share—a bad day. This is as real as it gets.

 The thoughts and feelings that transpired that day were heavily rooted in my past. It brought forth old insecurities that I obviously continue to struggle with to this day. When I was in the hospital I had certain family members that didn’t show up and kept out of contact, while those that did either challenged the validity of my being sick or reprimanded me for occasionally venting on Facebook when I had a bad day. I believe one person in particular said, and I quote that I had the “devil in my heart” for having the audacity to be sad I was in the hospital on Christmas day. It is not all black and white, and while I have said things during that time I resent, I am working to forgive myself knowing they were the words of a lonely, scared teenage girl. I’ve come to find it is much easier to forgive others than it is to forgive ourselves. We can all be so hard on ourselves and hold ourselves to a much higher standard than we do others. But we are human too; imperfect beings. Whenever it came time to lay all of my cards on the table, I was afraid to show my hand. In my mind, it had become apparent, that no one was interested in the real answer to, “how are you”. “I’m fine” seemed to be the safe answer for me to use to avoid any potential backlash. Any answer other than “I’m fine”, opened up what was stated to discussion, potential interpretation, and a slew of insensitive comments. One of my favorites (and I will not name drop), was quite hurtful at the time, but something I look back on and laugh at. Early on in my days out of the hospital, someone commented on my appearance, something to the tune of “you look very beautiful”, my mom chimed in, “she may look beautiful on the outside but she is really struggling on the inside with a lot of pain”. Said person replied, “Well you can’t have it all”. Now I think “you’re preaching to the choir, sister”! *snickers* This is a person that meant well, but when given an opportunity to listen, sympathize and empathize, either was not expecting the response she received and/or didn’t know how to appropriately respond. Isn’t it true that so many people are well meaning but what they say just doesn’t come out right? My new motto has become, “forgive them for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). It is critical to take a step back when someone hurts you and consider whether or not it was done with malicious intent. Nine out of ten times I think the answer will be “no”. It doesn’t mean the content of what was said or done doesn’t still hurt, but perhaps this new perspective will help you to hurt a little less.

I was talking to my mom at dinner last night when she told me about a man she came across in Publix (a local grocery store). This is a man she has seen before; he works there stocking the shelves where they occasionally exchange a friendly greeting. Yesterday day however, she asked him “How are you?” in response he said, “Actually I’m exhausted”. My mom went on to inquire further and found out his daughter was in the hospital and he was incredibly worried and stressed out. At the end of the conversation he thanked her for talking to him and listening. It was a weight was lifted off his shoulders. Break up the monotony because it can be cathartic to open up to people, and share what has been bothering you instead of allowing the negative thoughts to play cyclically in your head.  Sometimes we really aren’t expecting someone to engage us in friendly banter beyond the typical “Hi. How are you?”, “Hi. I’m fine. How are you?”, “Fine. Thank you. Bye.”, “Bye”. So when someone switches it up and answers truthfully whether it be positive or negative, if we get more than a one syllable answer, like a deer caught in headlights, what do we do?  You’re thrown of your game, but someone has peaked your interest and appealed to your sensibilities. Using the example of my mom’s encounter with the grocery store employee, she did two things. Foremost, she empathized and showed interest. This can be done by simply saying, “I’m sorry to hear that”. This lets the person know that they were heard and you care. Subsequently, she followed up with a question. “What is going on?” showing concern. Follow up questions, are key when someone tells you they are not okay. Asking questions like, “are you okay?”, “what happened?”, and “is there anything you need”, are imperative to making one feel like they are cared for.

This brings me to point number two—social convention indicates one should ask another “how are you” as a polite effort to connect and make small talk. Ask yourself: when you ask someone how they are doing, do you genuinely want to know or are you asking because you feel like it is the right thing to do? While I’m sure you want to be polite, I am also sure that when talking to those you love and care about, if there was something wrong, you would want to know. I know I would. You have to think, if that is your mindset and mine, there has to be a good percentage of people that feel the same way. To think you are the only caring person in the world, is a very cynical way to look at life. What I have learned is if someone has asked me a question, they have asked me a question. I know that is a logical fallacy, but it is true. Give them the answer. How they take your answer, interpret it, respond to it, don’t respond, et cetera, is not your problem. The way someone responds in regards to you says a lot more about them than it does about you. As I like to say, “Sounds like a ‘you’ problem”.

A roundabout way of bringing us to point number three: do what you need to do for you and everyone else can kindly go forth and fornicate with thine self. *wink* I decided to write this a few nights ago after my pre-school teacher heard about what happened to me through the grapevine and was not satisfied with just a phone call so she paid me a visit. I tend to “collect” my teachers, elementary through high school and maintain good relationships with all of them as well as the librarians, office staff, and other teachers that I knew around the time I attended each particular school. It’s one of the things I am most proud of because these people are not just family to me but they are family to each other (particularly the DBFE staff). As soon as I posted on the 25^th, word got around quick to one of the few teachers I had that is not on Facebook. After contacting my mom and playing phone tag with me she came over after school, greeted me with gorgeous flowers, and we talked for a couple of hours (okay, that’s a lie—more like 5 hours) and drank the wine she brought. The first half of the discussion was spent laughing and joking until the conversation took a turn. She was there telling me what she thought about what I wrote, reiterating that she is here for me, and then telling me she thinks of me as a daughter. And to be honest, I felt like an idiot. Everyone who knows me well knows compliments, especially in person make me feel very uncomfortable. It is like sitting there while people sing, “happy birthday” to you. I had been so down and hurt, so focused on who wasn’t there, that I had taken for granted who was. It wasn’t just that night, it was THE night. The night I almost died in ICU as I went into emergency surgery, my mom was texting her updates. The second my mom said I was going into surgery (mind you this is 11:00pm on a Sunday night) she hopped in her car and drove to sit in the waiting room with my mom. Since that night, my focus had been on my father being fifteen minutes away and deciding he was too tired to show up, when it should have been on the amazing woman that came and sat with my mother whom otherwise would’ve been alone in that waiting room, scared, not knowing if I would make it out of surgery. It doesn’t take away the pain by any means, but it has shed some light on the fact that perhaps my priorities have been a little (pardon my French) f*cked up. It was in that realization that everything became so clear. It wasn’t just her, it was every person that commented on my last post, it was every friend that did show up in the hospital, and it was the friends that were there almost every day at one point that became our family. That’s all that matters. It made me realize not all family is blood. Some say “blood is thicker than water”, but I like to think the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

My final point being, the people whom are there for you are not always the people you’d expect to be there for you, but they’re there, and I can’t imagine my life without them. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart to each and every single one of you that reached out to me. Many of you said you didn’t know what to say or you felt like what you were saying wasn’t enough, but believe me, it was and is more than enough. Your words, thoughts, and prayers mean the world to me. YOU mean the world to me. Thank you.

With Love,

Deborah A. Feathers

xoxo

Help is free and confidential.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Rape Hotline: 1-800-656-4673

My Email: deborahfeathers@gmail.com

#rapeculture #notokay #rapecultureiswhen #whyistayed #yesallwomen #allmencan #fem2 #youoksis #activisim #ibelieveher #cuentalo #suicideprevention #depression #suicide #mentalhealth #like #likeforlike #like4like #comment #commentforcomment #comment4comment #follow #followforfollow #follow4follow #rape #rainn #rapevictim #metoo #nomeansno 

I was raped.

I said “no”, but my words fell upon deaf ears. He heard me, but he didn’t listen. I had something he wanted, so he took it. “No.” “Don’t.” Stop.” “I’m not ready.” “I don’t want to.” “I want to go home.” “Please—you’re hurting me.” My words were empty and meaningless. To him, I too, was empty and meaningless. I was nothing but his plaything—something to be used for his pleasure ‘til he had enough. That was my purpose. My wants, my needs, did not matter. I carried my worth between my legs. In his eyes, all that I am, all that I will be was tied to what lied beneath my royal blue dress. I was his own personal f**k doll. When it was over, through the tears in my eyes I scanned the bruises on my body and watched the blood and semen drip from between my legs. The only clear thought in my mind was “I have to get home”. It repeats in my head like a mantra, until I finally return home and I make my best attempt to cover-up what had just happened. For nearly 6 months, I don’t speak to anyone of what happened to me. I keep the ugly truth to myself. Something I’ve grown to be not only embarrassed of, but ashamed of—for reasons I can’t explain. I blame myself. I dissect every detail of that night with great scrutiny, subsequently finding every red flag and hating myself for every missed opportunity I believe I could’ve handled myself differently. I have felt the full spectrum of human emotion one day, and the next I am completely numb. If you haven’t figured it out already, I was raped. I was raped. It took me 5 months and one exceptional therapist, to finally say those three words. I was raped.


A word so vulgar, you don’t realize how casually people throw it around until it happens to you and just the sound of it makes you sick to your stomach. I did not know how to start this message to everyone. There is no easy way to tell someone you have been violated in the most gruesome and heinous of ways. I have tried my best to tell those closest to me before going public, though I know I have missed a quite a few and for that I apologize. I have heard my mom lock herself in the bathroom and cry, held my brother as he cried and unnecessarily apologized for not being able to protect me, my grandparents and uncle heart broken and devastated. As hard as it was to tell these people, it is their love and support that helps me get through the day. I debated whether I should even be writing this. Should I be telling everyone something so personal and still so raw for me? But I have come to the conclusion, that if in sharing my story I can help just one person whom has been through it feel less alone, then it is worth it. With that being said, I welcome all well wishes and prayers, as well as questions from those in similar situations whom would like to reach out and talk. However, I will not be answering the “five W’s”, (who, what, when, where, why), and while we are at it I will throw in “how”. For those of you who know me well, you know that I tend to be an open book. However, before asking your questions to me, please be thoughtful. Will your question help me in any way or is it simply to satisfy your own curiosity? That should eliminate the “who was he”, “how long did you know him”, “where did you meet him”, “were you drinking”, “what were you wearing”, “where did it happen”, “how did he force you”, “did he put a gun to your head”, “did you report it”, “did he get arrested”, questions. I am sure I will get some backlash for restricting what questions I will respond to, but I am going to be selfish and make this about me and what is best for my recovery. I am blessed to be surrounded by supportive family and friends. If someone you know is ever in this position, questions and statements like, “are you okay”, “what do you need”, “is there anything I can do for you”, or simply stating, “if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, want to talk about what happened and/ or how you are feeling, I am here for you”, are far less invasive and show you care more about the victim than satiating your spirit of interest.


I want to say I am okay but I am not. I am working on being okay knowing that one day I will be. I have a long road ahead of me, but as stated, I am blessed to be surrounded by so many amazing friends and family members that have helped give me the strength to write this today. With every word I write I take the power away from this trauma. With every sentence I take away the stigma that surround the words “I was raped”. I am not a victim of rape, I am a survivor of rape.


Fortunately or unfortunately, today holds so much more meaning to me than that which is written in the snippet above. Today, September 25, 2018 is the 8th anniversary of the night I almost died in ICU. It’s bittersweet. While it is a happy day, a day that we celebrate because I truly believe God saved me that night, and kept me on this earth for a reason, it is still a day that harbors so many horrendous memories. At the forefront of my mind are vivid flashbacks of me telling my mom, “I love you.”, “You know I love you, right?” as I feared I would not awake from emergency surgery. If only I could say my struggles ended the moment I walked out of that hospital on my 17th birthday, January 12th, 2012, but they were just beginning. I now had a chronic life-threatening illness, and the events that had transpired throughout my time in the hospital now had me riddled with severe anxiety, depression, PTSD, and OCD that I struggle with to this very day. I could close my eyes and feel the intubation tube slide down my throat as it gets harder to breathe, taste the blood in my mouth, smell the saline flush as they would push the medication through my veins, hear the heart monitor beeping, watching what looked like a sea of scrubs in a frenzy to get me to surgery. And there I was, back in that hospital room.


My demons were back, and they were looking for a fight— only this time they were looking to win. My grandfather passed not long before my parents divorced. I soon became ill spending 5 months in the hospital, had 4 surgeries, nearly died more times than I'd like to remember and came out of it with a life-threatening illness leaving me in excruciating pain every day. Now struggling with severe anxiety, depression, PTSD and OCD, I couldn't sleep at night and when I did my nights were filled with nightmares. I had missed out on my last two years of high school-- couldn't attend grad night or prom. I struggled through college. I tried on campus, but with the state of my health, things would happen like me passing out 3 times in one day. When I switched to virtual, I thought everything would be better. While I could make the grades, deadlines were nearly impossible. I was working with a bucket next to me, throwing up as I took my exams. I had lost friends as we grew apart. It's hard to relate to the "sick girl" when your priorities are school and dating and mine are getting my health back on track. I lost relationships with family for the words of a scared, hurt 16 year old whom was afraid she was going to die and no one cared. It weighed on me. No visits, no phone calls, not even a get well card for 5 months. To feel like no one would care if you died-- it's a feeling I can’t put into words. It's a feeling that has weighed on me for years. I can clearly recall the day after my dad left, he returned to speak to both my brother and I. In tears, I asked him if this would happen to me. Would I fall in love with a man, get married, and think we are happy only to be left for another woman? Is that okay? Would he be okay with that happening to me? I’ll never forget what he said next. He said, “Sometimes love isn’t enough”. For years I feared he was right. When he was “too tired” to show up that night in ICU when I almost died, the narrative began to change. Now it wasn’t just him. It was my family too. Aunts, uncles, cousins— no one came those 5 months. I began to think maybe it isn’t “love” that’s not enough, maybe it is me that is not enough. I couldn’t understand why family would sit vigil at others bedsides, and I couldn’t get a single call. Maybe I’m not enough. They say life is short, but sometimes it is bigger than the strength we have to go on one more day. On February 18th of this year, I attempted suicide. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but what doesn’t kill you also leaves a scar. To paraphrase Tiffanie DeBartolo, no one wants to die, they just want to be out of pain—and I was in a lot of pain. As my favorite song goes:
“Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya”
Some days, believe me, it feels like every time I’ve held a rose I’ve only felt its thorns. I’ve had bad things happen to me, but my life isn’t bad. I’ve come to the realization that I have been to more funerals in my life than I have weddings. In the past 8-9 years I have lost 2 dogs, my grandfather, two aunts, and my uncle whom I had to watch pass away before my eyes and deliver the news to his wife, sister, and niece. With all that has happened to me in my 23 years, I have asked a lot of questions, but the one question I have never asked is “why me?” Many people do, and quite understandably ponder “why” things happen specifically to them when we face hardships in life. Even so, “why not me”? What makes me superior to you reading this, to anyone, that my struggles would be best put off on someone else? Hypothetically, if we could choose, who would we push our problems on? Whom is more deserving? I am sure we have all been through things we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemy—I know I have. As the saying goes, “there but for the grace of God go I”. This of course meaning, I too, in seeing someone whom has suffered misfortune, might have suffered a similar fate, if it wasn’t for God's mercy. We wonder why bad things happen to good people, but you can’t have the good without the bad. Everyone has something going on in their lives. Though I think it is paramount to always practice being mindful and cognizant that things could be so much worse, it’s not a competition. What is bad for us is bad for us. Perhaps we need to look into changing our perspective. Sometimes it is the terrible things that happen in life that help us to appreciate the wonderful everyday things. I believe it was John Lennon who said, “When I was 5 years old, my mom always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down “happy”. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.” Happiness isn’t about what the world gives you, it is about how you look at what the world gives you. We all have bad days. I have bad days emotionally and physically, sometimes both on the same day. If I were to let it get to me, some days I would never get out of bed and there wouldn’t be a silver lining in sight. Some days I am grateful that I got out of bed, and on worse days I may be grateful I woke up at all. It is a choice to be happy. Choose to be happy. Don’t play the victim—take your power back. Don’t let what has happened to you define who you are. If anything, let it empower you. Be a survivor. Me personally, I don’t want to just survive—I want to thrive.


Eight years ago my life was changed forever when a surgeon made a mistake during surgery by nicking my left ureter. In females, the ureters pass the mesometrium and under the uterine arteries on their way up to the urinary bladder. In the medical field they have a phrase for remembering this anatomical relationship, and that is “water (ureters) under the bridge (uterine arteries).” It is because the ureters are commonly ligated during surgery, that doctors use this expression to avoid exactly this mistake. This is how I have come to know the phrase, “water under the bridge”. To most, “water under the bridge”, is used to refer to events or situations that are in the past and consequently no longer to be regarded as important or a source of concern. Funnily enough, whenever I talk to people about all that I have been through, they always say, “if I had the power to go back in time and change it for you, I would”. But you know what? I wouldn’t. Everything I have been through, no matter how horrible, has made me the woman I am today. There is no guarantee that if any one of these events hadn’t transpired I would be the person I have come to not only love but be proud of. I have to trust in the end, it will all be “water under the bridge”.




Special thanks to one of my best friends—Giovanna Navas, my uncle (Roy Wagner) as well as granny and grandpa, and my cousin (Cynthia Herndon) for your unconditional love and support.

Out of everyone, the two hardest people to tell were my brother Ryan Feathers and my mom Ann Wagner Feathers because I knew they would hurt as much if not more for me. You two are my world. I am blessed to have a brother, though younger than me so crushed by his inability to protect me and a mom so willing to put my needs ahead of her own. I have been through hell and you both walked it with me hand in hand. We have been through so much together and because of that the three of us will always have an unbreakable bond.


Please, if you or someone you know is suffering, reach out. There are safe and confidential resources available to you.

Side Note: To anyone who just needs a friend or a confidant, please do not hesitate to contact me.
It’s okay not to be okay.

You’re not alone. Help is free and confidential.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
National Rape & Assault: Hotline: 1-800-656-4673

My Email: deborahfeathers@gmail.com


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