Buttons

It took me almost a month to go to Button’s grave. I had convinced myself that I was mostly recovered but seeing that rosebush and how the dirt was still fresh brought me to my knees. I had been wondering why my health was getting worse and my answer came in tears. Grief.
I have heard even a few of my friends say about their pets “It’s just a dog/cat” and it disgusts me. That “just a pet” would die for you. It watches over you at night. It goes to you when you weep. What does it ask for in return? Very, very little. My family has never seen our pets as just pets but members of the family. They are our babies and we hurt when they hurt. That is where I failed mine. I failed Buttons.
You see, Buttons was very determined to explore the porch area but no farther and for the past couple of years the coyotes, which we had left alone, had become bold. One in particular. That one chased Buttons from the front door and around the house. No one in the house saw this happen but the evidence was everywhere.
My mother found him in a coyote den, and to be honest, when I saw him wrapped in that brown satin I do not think I have ever cried so loudly or screamed. I don’t remember hearing screaming actually. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to see him hurt. I did not want to think of how afraid he must of been.
When we did have to bury him, I did have to hold him and in that moment I wanted to be alone. I wanted to say I’m sorry, sweetheart. I am so sorry I couldn’t be what scared your fears away. I am sorry I wasn’t there. I am so sorry you were afraid.    I have not said those words to anyone. I have thought them over and over again. It’s the images of him being afraid and alone that hurt the most. People talk about anger being a further step in the process of grief but the anger I have is towards myself but I’m sorry goes through my mind the most.

1498106_10203003244505276_1740612320_o

2-4-15

Advertisements

Victim to Survivor

Last Valentine’s Day I was raped by a person I thought loved me. Most rape survivors are stronger than I am and what I mean by that is that they didn’t let it, the trauma or loss, practically consume them. I kind of have. I hear loving words from those around me but I feel as if they are wrong because everyday I paint a smile on my face. I haven’t spoken of the nightmares that are more reliving the memory and every night more and more resurfaces. Every night I have to deal with a new wave of horror, misery and self-hatred because I lost my memory. My brain shut off the second he rolled me over and the image that comes to mind everyday and night is the window that I was facing. The memory of that damn window taunts me in the fact that it is a twisted metaphor for escape.

I do not see myself as strong because I failed to escape. The thing I haven’t told people is that I let the abuse continue. The abuse started on Valentine’s Day but didn’t stop until April.  I remember that. remember being afraid to say no and I let him do what he wanted then after he left I would ask myself what was wrong with me. Where did my strength go? I have buried that because the guilt and pain has been too much

However. a year later, I start the harder process which is believing in myself and believing that I am as strong as other believe. This process I know will be one of the hardest things I will ever do for myself but it is something I need to do. I have let it interfere with potential relationships, with schoolwork and my family life. I am done being a victim. I am ready to be a survivor.

Action.

Something was pointed out to me, by one of my sisters no less, as to why people may be ignoring it [two posts back.] She didn’t say it like that but her question was, “What would posting that solve? Imagine him reading it. What would you want his response to be? What do you think it would be? I replied, “[It’s] Not really about him reading it, more of  the people around him. Letting them know that someone they put on a pedestal is someone who would say something like this.”Her question was a valid and a good one. Another person said, “People would rather not deal with what they don’t understand or what they don’t want to understand.” These eased my anger and put me in a place of reflection and I came to a few conclusions.
I have very little feeling about how He responds it because I have learned that it is best not to carry the opinions of those who hurt you, but if I had to want him to have a reaction, I would want him to feel ashamed. Also, I am done being seen as the ‘evil one’  because people those around him only have half of the story. Anyone capable of saying things like that to a sexual abuse victim is not a white knight. Reasoning, why do I care about his friends? I wouldn’t want anyone to be friends with someone like that. I am also tired of awful people being praised. You wouldn’t praise someone who slapped and already wounded person, would you? I’m trying to change the way things work, I’m being the change I want to see.
It enrages and saddens me that people aren’t helping. Lack of understanding isn’t an excuse anymore; my mother doesn’t truly understand everything I’m going through but she is still trying to help, she isn’t be ignorant. The true issue is people not wanting to understand and to change because people are afraid of change. The more boastful they are, the least likely they are to actually help, but they continue to boast. I had already learned this but I only believed it when I asked for help yesterday and I’m not one of those Facebook users who posts, “Share this if…” I prefer action. Action like calling-out an asshole who criticizes someone going through PTSD from rape.

The action, the change, I want is for the true good people to win instead of those who are two-faced.

 

Take My Hand.

I wrote this for my loved ones. Some of which are going through really tough times right now.

Clouds roll in; storm in your head
cracking of earth; and heart 
Losing your grounding
Don’t shut your eyes yet

Because here I am;
Right where I always am.
Take my hand and listen:
This isn’t the end; spread your wings
Clear the storm and let it be spring

Invisible or visible, I’m here
Even when the dark draws near
I’ll walk you away from fear
And if there is ever a tomorrow 
Where you feel I’m not there
I’m still there


Because here I am;
Right where I always am.
Take my hand and listen:
This isn’t the end; spread your wings
Clear the storm and let it be spring

CKM (c) 

Purple

Tonight, while I waited for my sister to pick me up, I sat on a bench and held a purple buttercup flower. They are among my favorite wild flowers because they are adorable and smell like, well, a Reese’s. I held it because of how delicate it was. The goal was not to crush it.

Looking at how perfect it was, how unblemished and okay. The lesson was to be gentle with things that have what I do not, to not envy or feel rage towards or feel jealousy. The lesson was to show myself that is okay to trust. To some, it may seem odd to see it in a simple flower but hear me out: You can trust that those flowers will be soft, so very easily breakable, purple in color and smell like candy.

You can trust. It is okay to trust. Trusting will not inherently bring you pain. To trust is one of the bravest things you can do and it’s also one of the most forgiving. Being cruel and bitter isn’t bravery at all, no—bravery is being vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to begin healing and understanding that, yes, awful things can happen but not letting the awful things become your identity and eradicate you of kindness and hope.

I didn’t crush the flower. I will not lose hope or who I am.

Root Rot.

B: Tell the story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual (Step 1, Step 2, Step 3….)
Step 1:
I don’t have an interesting thing I want to focus on. A million things bounce around my head reading those words.
Step 2:
my mind focuses on the one thing I can’t talk about. Focuses on the flashbacks that bubble up like sewage–the memory, the feel, the betrayal. How ripped to shreds I felt afterwards, like my world was impacting on itself and leaving nothing but a shaking and terrified thing in its wake.
I felt like I was nothing. Nothing more than to be hurt and used. Why was a such a fool? Did this really just happen to me?
“No, no, no, no, no… please let this be another nightmare. Oh, please let me wake up. Please let the pain go away. Please, please, let this be a dream–don’t let this be real.” I thought and as the pain got worse, I knew it wasn’t a dream, and I wanted to scream, cry, rage, and run away. I didn’t. I literally just curled up into a ball. I pulled my knees to my chest, my fingers knotted in my hair as if that would make this go away, and I began to shake. My whole body and my head at the same time–no, no, no.
Step 3:
For the next couple of days, I was hollow. I did my best to not let it show. Yet, it felt and still feels as if everyone can see straight through me. I’m becoming invisible, though, to myself. I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel that all I am now is that one horrifying memory. That one day, I’ll scream, be torn apart by its surfacing and yet, I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.

An Admission of Grief and Reason


I’m struggling with eating disorders. I have tried telling my family outright but I get too scared. I worry that I am if I admit that I am struggling with this, I’ll be less than I already am.
I am eating again, but only because my stomach started cramping.
It’s still cramping. It still hurts. Mentally and physically. Every time I eat, my mind assaults me with the things people have said to me,
“Girlfriends are skinny.”
“Without your boobs you’d look like a fat twelve year old.”
“Girls who are Girlfriend-material
don’t jiggle.”
“Guys only date attractive girls.”
“Jeez, hungry much?”
“If you eat like that you’re going to end up fat.”

and then with my own thoughts: “Why do you need to eat? Look at you.” Then I’m hit with nausea.
I. Can’t. Eat.
The only time I feel… I’ve earned the to right to eat, lately, is when my hunger feels as if it is going to crawl its way up my throat; a little indescribable monster, or when I have a headache. Or when I can’t walk without feeling sick.
I avoid looking at myself; I just want to scream. I just want to scream; cut pieces of myself out and hope, hope that I will end up being good enough for someone. Good enough for me and for the mirror. I want to cut myself down to bone. I want people to know how I feel: I feel like a skeleton; I am a skeleton. I am hollow. See through. And yet…
I am not hollow. I am so filled with rage and sadness. It feels as if forest fires and icy tidal waves are at war within my chest and mind. Heart versus Thought.
I don’t think there has been a time where I haven’t been fighting something. Fear has been ever present. Everyone has told me to just say no. As if just saying no makes everything okay. If it was, I wouldn’t be writing this. I haven’t just said no, I’ve screamed it; wrote it; drawn it. When I tell people that I am scared before everything, they don’t seem to understand. They never do, and they always tell me to just remind myself it will be okay. They tell me to say no. How can this work for people? How? How can just a thought make the darkness and the things that hide within it go away? I need more than a thought because my fears are stronger and more real than just one word.
I don’t know if it is possible to make the creatures at the edge of my view go away with just no. Normally I find solace in reading but lately I have found it to be unearthing doubts and insecurities and it feels like a war between,
“I would be prettier if I was skinny.”
I would love to be that girl who is all height and brains. I would love to be able to wear loose dresses, flowy dresses, and not look pregnant. I would love to be thought of as willowy. Long legged. Sinuous.
(“For all of my claim to being smart, I am oddly fixated on something as worthless and fleeting as physical beauty.”)
And a war between this,
“I don’t need to be skinny; I’m healthy. My BMI and weight are okay for my height and age. 19.8. Remember: you are okay.” I have to remind myself that men—no, people who only find skinny people attractive are worthless; people who think being skinny makes them a more beautiful person, a better person, are idiots. Being skinny makes you nothing more than skinny.
What happened to me that made me so insecure and lacking in confidence? Why can’t I believe people when they say that I am pretty? (“Most likely because if you did, you would have a huge ego.”)
I want, so desperately, to be beautiful. I want to feel real and here. I don’t want to feel as if I am going to float away into misery. I want to be free of myself and my own head. I want to be able to look into the mirror and smile.
There. I have told you a small fraction of the reason for getting my tattoo. It will be a reminder that I am strong and I have made it through Hell and back. It will remind me that all of the horrible stuff that has happened: Is behind me. It is done. With this tattoo, I want it to be beautiful, scary because that is what I have gone through and still am, and real. I want this tattoo to symbolize, for me, that I am real and that right there on my back is beauty. There is proof that I am strong and can handle anything. There is the proof, for me, that I am finally beautiful. The image itself stands for things as well: the eyes make me feel safe, someone it watching over me—watching my back. That’s why they need to look real. The chaos star is a reminder to be me and no one else, no matter who says what. I am chaotic. The wings… Oh, the wings. If it is not obvious, the wings are my wings. They are the reminder to forget fear and fly as high as I possibly can. They are the helping hand that freed me from the chains that held me for so long. They are freedom. The Celtic knotting represents strength and the will to hold on no matter what. They remind me that I have been strong and no one can say differently.

Cissy