I love writing. I may be a Peace, Justice and Conflict Studies Major now, but my love of writing never has and never will diminish. It's my craft, end of story.

It's times like these where my activist side and my writer side intersect.

This year, I am proud to be a member of Goshen College's Prevention Intervention Network (or PIN), and as a part of that I educate people on sexual assault training and teach them how to be an active, pro-social bystanders. I bring this up due to one point in the beginning of the presentation. See, we all have these scripts we go off of, for the most part. And there's a part that goes like this:

"Finally, we will be interchanging the terms victim and survivor, because we believe that all people have the right to name their own experiences. We recognize the complexities of this as well."

It was in college last year that I first heard the term survivor. Before that, I had only heard the term, "victim."

I've spent my whole life surrounded by a violence that I do not under any circumstances wish upon anyone. I have PTSD because of it. But before college I only knew the word victim. I didn't want to be a victim. So much of what I had gone through had been difficult.

"Victim" implies that the wounds are still fresh and bleeding and that one's daily life is still reminded by the event that traumatizes you. But most of all, to me, it gives the power to the perpetrator of the violence.

As a writer, I have to name everything. Whether it's characters or experiences or places, words are my weapon. Not having the right word can be paralyzing because for me, life is defined by words. I need to give everything a name.

Survivor is different. For me, Survivor means that, yes, the wounds may still be fresh and bleeding, but I'm alive. Most of all, the power is mine, not my perpetrators. They have no power over me.

And by that, well, they do. I can't go to certain places anymore without feeling my spine tense up and the hair on the back of my neck rise to the occasion. I can't see people who look like my perpetrators without having my heart skip a few beats. This, in short, really sucks. But the fact is, I am alive. The knowledge is there: I have no reason to be afraid anymore.

It's real. It's complex. But it's also my reality. I am working through my traumas. When those who have hurt me pass me I still tense up. Some of these wounds will be fresh for some time. But that is also okay. I am allowed to heal. I am allowed to recover. At the end of the day, I know that I am loved. I have something(s) and someone(s) to come home to. That is everything to me.

So, hi. My name is Christi. I'm queer. I'm a writer. I'm an activist. I'm an educator. I'm a lover of good tea and fire pits and artisanal soaps. I'm a twin. I'm a survivor.