I am now reading my blog for you. Excuse the Texas drawl, poor enunciation, and stumbling over words or sentences as I discover grammar errors. Here is, the very first post, No Drama.
I have never owned a cat. Well, a living cat but four months ago my sister found a feral mother and her kittens. With some of my help, we took them in and one of them just so happened to look like a toy I have had since I was one. So we named this little kitten Buttons.
My sister was determined that I should have this kitten because of the rough time I was going through. She knew that this sweet little tomcat would help me just as the toy Buttons helped me as a child.
At first we thought Buttons was a girl and at around four months…. we found out she was a he.
It makes sense because the toy Buttons was a boy as well. I like to joke that the toy was incarnated because of the rough time I was going through, like the toy needed to take action. It’s working. Day by day I feel a little bit better when I spend time with him. It helps that he snuggles like a dog and loves to sleep near me. He isn’t just a snugglebug, though. Buttons is very playful and will attack my arm when he wants to play. His favorite conquest is my St. Michael’s medal I wear on my scapular.
Buttons is my sweet, playful snugglebug.
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. I 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.
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.
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.
When do we lose out confidence? How does it happen? Why do we let things get to us?
Things have not been easy for me lately and the self hatred has been mounting. It has been impacting my grades and health more than I want to admit, so, instead of caving any further to my insecurities, I’m going to list my good qualities.
Sasha: “Smart, funny, playful, caring, creative, musical, lovely, lively, and loving.”
Deante: “Generally awesome.”
I’m a damn good writer. I make errors but I know how to grab a reader’s attention. I can play four instruments if you count my voice. I’m a good painting, sketch artist, potter, and designer. I write good songs and poems. I have a long memory. I can pull off wildly eccentric outfits. I have a talent for writing in Spanish. I know a lot about fitness, nutrition and mental health. I’m a great photographer and editor. I can bake like no ones business. I know a lot about animals and can usually recognize what animal by their bones. I’m good with History. Even though I suck at testing, I’m really good at math. I have wicked deduction skills. I’m good with cars, house repairs, and manual labor. I can work a hundred and five hour work week. I’m a natural at horseback-riding and driving. I’m strong mentally and physically. I’m loyal.
I’m not worthless.