this is the beginning that's tied to all my endings

THE TAKING

I remember the walk home, I remember the street, I remember the fence and I remember the pink skirt.

Shivers run down my spine, as the memories are coming back twelve years later. Some days I think that the monster was not you, but us as society. How can we claim progress when we rip out the tongues of the vulnerable and abused? We keep silencing, ridiculing, de-victimizing them until every bit of their trauma vanishes into nothingness. A dumpster of all the denied feelings.

THE silence

I am silent. You are silent. The whole world is silent.

I want to blend in with the walls, be so small no one would ever see me again. Stay silent and shrink.

Why didn’t you just say no? He could not do something like this. He’s a good guy. He did not mean that. Did you give any signals? Did you act a certain way? Did you say No? Did you? Did you? Did you? Did you?

I feel guilty for what you did to me.

grief, sadness, isolation, shame, blame, guilt, denial. what a cocktail. i wonder what yours looks like?

Have you ever felt shame so excruciating you want to scrape the skin off your body?

Blame. Without bruises there’s no evidence of violence. Without a fight there’s no rape. Without physical proof there’s no abuse. No one will believe it otherwise. Words are just words anyway. How could I say something? My name against yours. Who will you believe?

Endless sadness. Grieving all the parts of me. The ones taken, the ones never experienced, the ones still creeping into every day.

Denial is like water, leaking through every hole. If I deny it happening, then I never have to deal with it.

How can I not deny it, when people have already done it for me.

THE decaying

It comes easier, when you feel no more. I was destroying my physical health to not deal with the emotional.  

Why did I not fight back? Who’s going to believe me? I had no bruises. I didn’t scream or run. I just took it and waited for it to be over. I went home and climbed into my bed. I did not understand or realize what happened until a lot later.

the decaying. the rotting. the self-destruction. the burial. it's a new day, but I live in the past. can I call it living when I more often think about dying?

I am outside of my body. My body is starving, rotting with the weeds in the back garden, the house is empty, it’s plucked and pulled, by me and everyone who wants to. Used. Abused. Laughed at. Manipulated. Bleeding. It does not belong to me.

The first time with my actual boyfriend came and I froze. I just laid there and let him touch me. I did not make a sound, even tried not to breathe. I was scared and traumatized. The memories were still there. The fingers, the discomfort, the thought – it this what sex is supposed to feel like?

My mental health slowly decomposed.

THE 
fighting

I never get to forget.

My mind often forgets, yet my body always remembers. My stomach turns every time I hear of your brothers doings, my legs shake when I walk past a group of them in the street, my voice hides at the back of my throat when they drive their cars slowly next to me, my vagina trembles every time any of you try to exert power and control, my head turns off the lights when you laugh at the violence and abuse of your brothers.


I wonder if you’re forced to think about it. I wonder if you move through your life any differently. I wonder if you struggle to stop crying when men like you get elected presidents, judges, make millions selling records, even more selling t-shirts stating that us bitches are lying, when you are medical professionals, police and social workers who are supposed to treat us. I wonder if it ever bothers you that your friends talk about getting girls drunk, that they laugh at people coming out with allegations, that they ridicule our bodies, our experiences – us. Even the little things stick. Assuming I am less smart, weaker, belong to you just because I am a girl. That you just keep winning and we are left to live with the trauma every single day in every single event, workplace, relationship. I do not think you ever struggle with these thoughts, I do not think you move through the world any differently.


Opening the box, looking inside, taking everything out, washing it, hanging it out to dry – this is the fight. You start by yourself, your trauma, your emotions, your baggage.

It’s in the persisting. It’s in telling the story. It’s in taking the blame off yourself. It’s in knowing your truth. It’s in sharing. It’s in believing in others. It’s in looking for help, however and wherever you can. It’s in taking baby steps, before the giant leap into reconnecting with yourself.

THE 
reconnecting

I would like to sit down with the people who hurt me, but not yet. I am not ready.

I am taking myself back

I am trying to reconnect with my body, my mind, my heart, the world around me, with men. It’s still hard for me to behave and be in relationships, because I do not understand their purpose. How could I? When all I know is control, anger and manipulation?

None of you deserve empathy, because you thrive on it. You get protection. You need to be called out. But instead we are blaming everyone else, blaming literal children for the evil we had to endure. When we take time to question you, the more children are abused. The more people like you get away with it.

Sometimes I wish to go back to who I was before, but that person does not exist. My mind must be playing tricks on me, because how can I miss something I don't even remember?  But the person here today - that's me. This is the beginning of the end. I am the after picture. 

Ressurection was grand. Through it all I got to keep my mind. No one will dare call me crazy anymore. Crazy for believing - maybe. Crazy for persisting - probably. But crazy for feeling - never. 

I look at myself and touch myself like I haven’t before. I am reintroducing the touch. My own touch. I am looking at all the parts of my body, that I was ashamed to look at before. Taking that mirror and putting it between my legs. All this glory in front of me and all I can think is why was I ever ashamed?

How could I ever let anyone tell me I am anything short of a wonder?

A person fully aware of their pain will never cease to grow from it.

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