Tonight, I told a story about sexual abuse. I kind of wish I didn’t. It wasn’t an easy thing to express. In words, I can craft my meaning with context. In person, I have to rely on tone and facial cues to fully express myself. I don’t often tell the story I have in my head but I usually get the point across.  This was one of those nights.

The first live stories I ever heard touched my heart in ways acting never could.  Leah Keys, the founder of Spillit, told a true story about her experience as a second wife and mother to a step-child.  The theme that was Identity and hers was not the only story to make me cry that night.  That was the first time I witnessed true storytelling.  An event different from comedy night or karaoke.  Telling a true story is one of the most narcissistic forms of self-expression and, therefore, the hardest to do honestly.

There’s an art to good stories involving skill and timing.  Natural performers can tell a personal story with the precision of a Shakespearean monologue and still not connect to the audience.  An unprepared amateur can punch everyone in the metaphorical gut by simply relating what they remember from a fantastic moment.  The magic exists somewhere between those things.  Tonight I had a moment of grief on stage that I don’t often share with anyone.  I recovered quickly and made sure to at least get the point across.  Later, half a dozen people thanked me for sharing that story.

Performance-wise, it wasn’t a good story by any stretch.  Honesty-wise, my gut wrenched three hundred and sixty degrees halfway through the story.  I practiced a few versions of relating what I wanted to say.  Like most storytellers, I have a starting point and what happened after that as my outline.  The most powerful parts of my experience are the parts that make it true to me.  The feelings I want to describe with my words sometimes come out in my tone of voice or body language.

That’s usually when I falter on stage.  I’ve lost control of the story at that point. I’m giving away how I feel before I planned.  Trembling with the effort to not cry, I know it’s more important to deliver the message than capture any hearts.  I know I stumbled but in the end I described the silent pressure I experienced as a young girl.  I made sure someone heard the story.  I was held down and used as an inanimate fuck-toy because I enjoyed an something once.  I silently submitted to the act because doing it once was treated as blanket consent.  My silence perpetuated the scenario.