I am so glad I wrote “Anger and Silencing” yesterday, for although my writing does not normally make feel better, it has calmed down my body.
Usually I am quick writer, but that piece took me all morning, as I had to keep walking away from it.
It took the depths of my courage to write
I cannot believe that I only started this blog in January, I have changed so much.
Like at the moment I am writing through a mist of tears.
That I can’t believe.
I am feeling the hurt. I am knowing the pain.
I am not afraid to say that I have the strength to be vulnerable.
I do not need to be who I had to be to survive.
I don’t have always to be brave. Have to put up with the unacceptable.
I can cry. I can be angry. I can feel.
I can know I was more than an abused child. I was more than a prostitute. And I am more than just a survivor of male violence.
I am all those, but I am more.
I have always had dreams, I just taught myself to ignore them.
As a child I dreamt that I would die and live with the water babies. In that underwater world, there would no adults. Only children who could not live on earth.
I was happy in that dream.
I could not know my real world.
My dreams for so long were dreams of death. I was scared and I was calm as I made friends with death.
Now, I will cry, I will get anger.
I will blame the rapes, the porn and the neglect that was my home life, for making me think death was welcoming.
I had no place for pain, so I dream how to die.
Only I was fighter, I always strive to live.
I could not let myself dream when I was prostituted, not even of death.
To dream was to hope.
That was too dangerous.
But I got something else. Something so hard to name.
I got a warrior planted deep down inside my stomach. A warrior who refuse to accept what was happening.
She stood with fury, throwing out weapons, screaming curses – as the men rape and torture me.
She carried my hate for them. She carried my strength to stay alive when death would of so easy.
She carried my unspoken words that goes into each word I write as I record my past. She stare with rage at what they did to my mind and body, and with determination remembered.
She is my witness.
Only at the time, there was little or nothing my warrior could do to protect me.
And like a true warrior, she carried my grief.
In her I placed all the tears I could not show.
I would never let any violent man see my tears, know my fear or touch my vulnerability.
It would only give them pleasure.
So I give to my warrior. I let her weep, I let her scream in anguish, I let her want to give up.
I could not be strong enough to touch that fear or grief, I had to hang on somehow.
Now, I see the warrior was nothing more than my essence.
I am so grateful that I lived. I am even grateful that my mind and body keep a record.
I feel I write as a witness.
I write with as clear an eye as I can who I was made into by living with male violence.
As a witness, I write because I know my experiences are too common. So, I write to connect with other women, and say it is terrible, it is horrific – but you are no longer alone.
You were never alone.
As a witness, I believe to force change it need to be show clearly and without censorship what it means to be a survivor of male violence.
That is why I write.