At around the same time that I got raped, my family faced a crisis of needing a new place to live. Everything suddenly felt too heavy, it’s funny how different forms of oppression cross simultaneously. At around this same time I didn’t really have anyone to hang out with and everything felt isolated and dark. I took so many trains at this time, trying to escape all the violence that was currently afflicting me. The first thing that I did was try to date the guy who raped me. I recall how much the darkness suffocated me. I don’t think I escaped that place. Every day I have to find the inner light to guide me out of the overwhelming darkness that surrounds me.I resorted instead to seek a friendship, but this friendship was not nurturing, it was the kind of friendship where I had to be happy to feel loved. I have learned to be happy even when everything feels awful. I have been so fucked by capitalism to say the least. I have been in danger of losing my access to education, have felt the reality of having nothing to eat in the house, was forced to abandon the country where I was happiest, and have felt the anxiety over not knowing where we would live next. To top that off I still don’t have health insurance; this is probably the worst reality I currently live as I really need trauma intervention. When people see me, they often do’t know how to take me, I am at once a firecracker, full of happy gestures, and an explosive full of nervous energy. How can I not be nervous when my existence has always felt marginal, always contested. Legislation and the capitalist market contests my humanity every time I don’t have access to something that should be my human right. This is the main reason that I attempted to hide and instead hung tightly to the person who I thought would never abandon me. Losing such a person was a bit of a wake up call, it reminded me that I am in a hostile world and no one will do the work that I have to do to find my own home and safety. The sort of life that I have lived has given me many negative qualities but at the same time its made me the sort of person who doesn’t stop nor gives up. Somewhere down the line I hope that I am able to deal with my negative reactions and begin to truly live. I hope that in this path I find a person who will love me for everything that I am and never finds a reason to leave. I am a lot because I have lived through a lot. I don’t want to hate myself for it, I want to begin to love my scars.
Is this how it feels to die?
like a spinning nostalgia that isn’t just metaphorical but literal?
“i killed the ego”
is that the superego speaking?
the chemicals push out images of some form
a crippled fraction lingers in my head.
the crack in the back of the couch is pulling me away; my hands are holding
while this verbal mastication digests
the images of some night
i killed the gnat and
he said great.
As inspired by both flushing my hair down the toilet and this David Foster Wallace quote:
(The interesting thing is why we’re so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.)
The reality is that I wrote the poem first and found this quote afterwards;
some simple honesty relaying that I did not find hope in this seemingly distant case of mutual suffering.
You drop the hair into the spinning resin
Watching the slush of water
spin itself away,
Taking away layers of damage,
you hope at least, that the spin
is a delta adding the change from rise to run,
changing your interactions with the world.
When will your slope recline?
No longer do you hear or feel helping hands
instead there is frustration as you attempt to put out the fire
the fire that constantly haunts you,
the fire that drove you to hospitals, to hands, and
eventually confirmed your greatest fear:
if you push enough the lingering hope turns away;
so you are awake writing something-which can’t even call itself a poem
and scream casually into the void.
But still on your head the hair sits
so you await the moment when it will all end;
There must be some connection between hair and suffering
you always tried to align both metaphysically,
The only real metaphysical truth is that beyond society
we are alone,
figments of some imagination
always falling short.
Sung: so hush little baby, don’t you cry
I ripped the candy wrapper,
Did you hear the news?
I ripped the candy wrapper.
I do not remember ripping it,
it must have happened beyond my consciousness
but I ripped it.
I broke it, I tore it, I killed it.
In some way parallel to how I handle relationships.
I ruin, and wreck, and never even intend to or notice.
So then I become apathetic to it, I don’t even feel sadness.
I blame it on:
and I find a new tv show,
or another person to distract me.
Because in reality I am sad,
I feel remorse and yet did I truly ruin it,
or did they just leave?
I convince myself that it is the latter, that way I did nothing,
I can’t fix it, and it is insignificant.
I stare instead at some image
It is now six days into the new year and it is time to write about the end because a beginning can only happen after an end. The last year was a true test to my character. I sought love in all the wrong places. I just used a cliché but it is the only way to describe my state of misdirection. I thought that I was so mature and older a year ago. It is only now that I can see that I was a mere larvae shedding it’s skin. If I had to relate to a specific character within a book I would choose Lolita. Every time I even think of Lolita, I think of the beginning of the book:
““Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns” (Vladimir Nabokov).
Why do I relate to a girl who was both victim and lover? And why do I relate to a story that isn’t even told through the girl but is recounted through her abuser, through the obsessed maniac who pushed her into a shattered world. I think that the reason that I most relate to Lolita is because she had no voice. I had no voice and instead hid in my room. I made myself into the idealized version that I envisioned would be loved. Rather I became a martyr and a sinner. I always wanted to feel like fire, to belong to someone, to be the sweetest temptation. I never realized that instead I became a victim in a game where I felt I had cards but instead I held chains. I am not proud of who I was. I permitted myself to be a foot mat, smiled through my isolation, and accepted that the game of love was a game of submission.
I should blame my mother because she always told me that in order to love, one person has to make the sacrifices. I was once the person who screamed no. I became the person who nodded yes and later cried after a yes became ridicule or pain. I was both a first love, and a second love, maybe I was no love, but infatuation. But I won’t blame my mother who is the result of her culture. I will blame myself for seeking truth not in God but in life.
Life can spin you around into a 180 degree version of yourself. What does that even mean? I suppose I envision being upside down. How did I lose myself? I was the girl who read books, the girl who smiled. I became the girl who sought risks. I met strangers, drank, sinned, and stopped coming home. Eventually my parents stopped requesting that I ask for permission to go out. I went from 9 pm phone curfews to sleeping far away from my house with people who barely knew my name.
But still I was the girl who would long to be home so that she could just spin around in circles. I longed for someone to hold me and take me away from the person that I swore would never be me. I wish I could say that I faced severe consequences but I managed to balance out everything. I came out of the event untouched physically, unhurt academically, and I kept moving forward into a path more separate from God. Then suddenly I faced a man who challenged me to lose my worth. He uttered words of love, and then insulted me. He took my innocence away and suddenly I was in a game of adults. A game of glamor.
It was having everything near me that made me realize that the devil was not a scary figure but rather a beautiful façade. I saw richness, I saw excessiveness, and later in the mirror I forgot that I was once a girl who loved herself.
One day as I was preparing for an examination that I knew I would just fail, I ended up at mass. I had shut myself up so much from feeling anything except self-hatred that seeing love immediately touched me. I found myself again through song. It was one mass and I do not even recall what was said but I do remember that I felt warmth and acceptance. I felt too lost to get back and for some time was convinced that I would never again be fine without the men who had once continued to squish me. I took a leap and went to confession. I didn’t confess my specific deeds but I felt a sudden love fill me. And I knew that forgiveness would descend upon me. I knew that I did not want anything of my old life and I began to shut the door.
At first I went through the motions and I would sometimes feel like I was in the path to happiness but sometimes I just longed to feel the superficial happiness that I had once felt. I wanted darkness, drinks, and pretty dresses. Maybe I was too far gone. But I kept going to CSA events.
On Halloween my “Humbert” returned after two months of silence. A single text and instead of ignoring it, I answered. But then something strange happened. I realized that the man on the other end of the conversation was pathetic. I suddenly stripped him of the glamor and money that he used to glamorize himself and saw myself within him. He was lost and unhappy and I did not want to back-track into being that way again. So I told him that I couldn’t see him because I had God in my life now and sinning was something that I was avoiding. He argued about the concept of sin. But it didn’t matter.
I’m not yet in the place that I long to be in my faith and emotional standing. There are still days where I question my chosen path. But I have finally reached myself again. I can read, I can be alone, and I can finally make jokes because I understood that love is found through God alone. And with God’s love, I have found peace.