12-08-18 recovery stories

aliasunknown Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
⚠️TRIGGER WARNING⚠️ This is a free write poem about rape or sexual assault and recovery, finding love.


I told ****** that I was raped. It was a really bad night for me... I think it was Tuesday.... no, it was Wednesday. I remembered because I’d just gotten home from volleyball practice. It had been such a good day too. It had been such a good day too. I don’t know what triggered it. Sometimes everything can be going really well for me and

suddenly it’s like I hit a wall. My face cracks and a single tear falls down my face, the first of many. My face cracks... my mask... cracks. It’s like I’m screaming from the inside still. My anxiety rips the breath from my lungs and my fear drowns my mind with the loudest whispers you could ever imagine.

That I deserved it. Too reckless too reckless. Maybe it wasn’t rape because you didn’t speak up. Inviting a practical stranger into your bed what did you think would happen, you slut. Did he slip something in your drink or is that the excuse you’re giving for not fighting back? You put your roommates in danger.

What did you think was going to happen when you said he could stay? You should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve killed you.... and my shame and my guilt put their hands over my eyes dulling them to dark green murky waters. These thoughts without fail find me. Sometimes I dream I did die and my body is found in various ways.

Last night they found my decomposing remains in a vat of acid. Someone knocked the barrel over and the contents spilled out onto the concrete. I saw my head roll to the side my hair stuck to the husk I used to occupy my limbs and upper torso halfway out of the barrel gnarled and stiff skin clinging to parts my ribs showing.

It’s always so vivid, how they find me. Another night I dreamt he drowned me, or I drowned me? I’m still unsure it would flash back and forth I’d be me looking up through the rippling water at the shadow of a man I knew was him. I could feel his rough hands around my neck keeping me under.

Then I’d blink and it’d change, suddenly I’d be the one holding me under. Back and forth it went till I woke up choking on my sheets that I had somehow stuffed in my mouth while sleeping. In the really bad ones where he tortures me I can wake myself up when I realize it’s a dream because it’s always how I looked that night.

I have a septum piercing, a nose ring, and a tattoo now that I didn’t have then. I feel like I did die. More than anything else simply because if I didn’t then that means I’m still the girl that happened to.... and I am desperately trying to remake her. Holding her parts together with thinnest of strings like spider webbing.

Strong enough to catch the fly yet so fragile it snaps at the slightest touch of the giants. It’s a horrible thing to want to be left alone but wanting to be loved and touched but not touched because it makes you sick but held but not held to tight or too long when it all must be just right.

To fear what another’s hands can do but crave so desperately to be loved by someone because you cannot possibly love yourself but you know oh you know with all your heart that you could love someone who does not love themselves a thousand times over.

You... I... I could love. I met someone recently who reminds me a lot of myself when I had bright eyes. Do I still have bright eyes? He has really bad PTSD from the army and has been told he cannot have a roommate because in his own words I guess they think I’ll kill him in his sleep or something...

He laughed but I know that laugh because I have laughed that laugh. There’s fear and questions in that laugh. He has night terrors and doesn’t sleep much and he told me so much more, much much more that I don’t think he’s told a lot of people before... but he told me and I cannot tell if it scared him or if he lost interest —

in me or if he’s busy and waiting for the right time or if he’s dismissing what we felt in those three hours together from 1 to 4am in that car he fixed up himself.... or if he didn’t feel what I felt. Every fiber of my being was screaming because his touch was like fire that ignited my soul after feeling it died somewhere.... back there...

in my bed where a man shoved his fist inside me and I bit my lip and cried silently. This boy in that car from 1-4am ignited me. Was it wrong, was it all a lie. I do not know but even if I did I couldn’t say I cared because it was what I needed. He seemed so genuine and I felt the safest I’d felt in such a long time and in his eyes.

Those bright eyes. There was a silence that had fallen in the car a frozen moment where I memorized his face, every line. He stared back at me perhaps doing the same running the numbers through our brains wondering if everything we’d ever heard about soulmates was true, if people could fall in love at first sight —

if it was lust, or if it was the pulling together of two souls desperately trying to sew themselves back together finding parts of each other that fit the wounds that they couldn’t fix alone. It felt like... home. And in that moment if he had asked, I swore I would’ve married him.

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