Aftermath (Trigger Warning)

After I wrote the post last night I cried for an hour, I tried to talk with my Person and wound up just asking him to read the post. He understood a bit before, but after he read my words he could not argue with my need to have him seek out the words. I was so drained that I could barely keep my eyes open. I was almost asleep when I shifted and felt something under me. I shifted to try and get off of it, I thought it was a pen, as I often lose them in my blankets and do my work from my bed when I have to.

I couldn’t find the pen. Moving around had woken me up enough to help me realise I had to pee, if I hadn’t then I would’ve been awake in two hours and more off balance. So, I went to the bathroom. My body had a somatic reaction to the memories combined with an existing abcess due to the Hidradenitis Supprativa. To explain, I must add to the details of last night. Part of what I left out was the mention of genital mutilation. My father used my vagina as an ash tray. I have scars from both the HS and his gridning out lighted cigarettes in my flesh. I don’t know if I screamed but if not it was only because I couldn’t physically.

The pen I felt was an abscess that ran the length of my canal and was as wide as one half of my vagina. The size means it was there for a while, but the stress or perhaps the freedom triggered it coming to a head. It hurt. I called my person and asked for medical supplies, then I started trying to figure out what it was. It felt like dough with a liquid center. I ran my fingers up the length of it and at the head the abscess filled my hand. It didn’t burst the first time, but there was blood on the gauze. I did it again, and the mass got bigger. This time it burst.

It took a long while to get it fully drained, but, after the initial pain I felt only relief. Yes, that was a serious infection, and yes I have notified my doctor and we discussed treatment. The treatment is for me to keep it clean. If it fills up again and I can’t keep it drained I will go on antibiotics. We are waiting because of my allergies to all antibiotics, each has a reaction so it has to be worth it for me to take the pills.

While draining this wound I was forced to deal with my femininity directly after reliving the trauma. I never want to be female after, because in my mind it would’ve been somehow better if I was a boy. That justification didn’t hit me, nor did the self hate. I felt sorrow but not hate. I had to love myself to tend my wound. The world didn’t end and I continued to function. We did lock William out of the room due to my flashbacks. He would be in danger. Sprite is able to help me with my PTSD and set right to work once the medical gore was taken care of. She watched from the floor while I cleaned and waited for my Person to shut the door. Even now, she is at my side, resting with me.

There was a dream but it was not a nightmare. I was simply a butterfly fluttering in fields of flowers, the wind playing a song in the trees. Everything was peaceful. I flew up into the sky and there I became the wind and began to sing. Once I blew through the trees I became the tree and I grew. I am an oak and solid, I will be here for generations, I will outlast the injuries and pain. I am rare, I am strong. I then was the acorn, falling to the earth. I turned into a flower seed and fed the butterfly, before I was flying up again, on brightly colored wings. I have some tears that are falling as I share my dream. They are tears of joy. They feel different than the tears I shed in sorrow.

They are soft, and light. They are cleansing. I am looking at my wall, where I have a mural made out of butterfly stickers. They fly up, and up, swirling around a Jonathon Earl Bowser card I was given, around one another. I should finish the mural. I can hang the moon, and they can fly higher. I still feel safe. I feel free. There is more life inside of me than before. The infection is purged. I can keep growing.

I am not afraid to look at myself in the mirror. My person cannot see the scars in my flesh, he only sees the woman that I have become. The child who died that night can finally be laid to her rest. She can finally have her peace. I can finally be whole.

I am not sure when this all happened. Any survivor or victim or victim survivor knows this is a process. I have done this mostly alone, which may have made it harder. The alone was not wise. The alone made it harder. The alone felt safer. I no longer have to be alone. I have so many wonderful things in my life, wonderful people, and it is time to grow.

I have knowledge that is new too. I became a dancer because of that night. I couldn’t bear the stillness. Being injured and paralysed trapped me in fear. I denied the truth, I denied just how afraid I had been of being injured once more. When it happened and I lost everything, I secretly thought he had won. When I saw him after, my terror was not just of him hurting me but of him seeing he had won. He only saw that he had lost. I miss the dancing, but, knowing that I chose that path to spite him I can let it go. Perhaps I will teach someone else to dance, perhaps I will choreograph a dance with women who have survived or who have been victims. To celebrate what we are. It is time to grow.

Sink your roots deep, raise your branches to the sky.

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7 Comments

  1. This is one of those moments where I don’t think words can really do anything so I’m just going to leave you a virtual hug.

    (((((Katyrena)))))

  2. I read your posts about everyday. I rarely know what to say, but I want to say something to let you know that someone is reading it, and deeply moved by it.

  3. Big metaphorical hugs.

  4. God BLess You! I am going to say a prayer for you right now! My wish & hope for you is that God will heal you of this terrible infection & wound & also heal your pain,PTSD & give you the strength & insight to 4-give your father (even though that seems utterly impossible) ONLY THEN will you WIN, WIN, WIN and set yourself eternally free.

    God Speed!
    rhonda

  5. I spent a while considering how to reply to your post. You can pray for me but, please understand that not everyone appreciates prayer. I am one of those people. Your God cannot magically heal me, if he or she could then they would be one cruel being not worthy of worship for letting this world suffer.

    I don’t want to Forgive my biological father, and please do not post on my blog again, until you can respect that I do not want any preaching, bible thumping, and hopes for my eternal soul on this blog. My soul is not something that belongs to any being but myself, and my mind is well balanced with in the religion.

    Without praying to a God of someone else’s choosing I have fought long and hard, for if any Gods cared they would make it known and if they have that is not for you to know. I have won plenty of victories with the use of my knowledge, and by not depending on some external force for support or guidance. I acknowledge the blessings of my friends, and yes they are blessings but none are heaven sent.

    The lives we live were granted by your own diety Free will, that implies too they will not step in to save you from that ax murderer standing behind you.

  6. I don’t know what to say exactly. I don’t know why I’m up at 3:30, I don’t know how I stumbled on this blog post that you wrote months ago, or how I stumbled on the one preceding it, or how I stumbled on your blog at all. I’d like to echo one of the other commenters and just let you know that I am reading, and I have been deeply moved by what you wrote. I am even deeply moved by the level-headed way you responded to ‘Rhonda.’ I am really in awe of your strength, and I wish you absolutely nothing but the best.

    ❤ Emily

  7. Hi Emily! Thank you for commenting.

    You were reading this at 3:30 am because that’s when I tend to write? Psychically you just knew that was the right time to be reading my work?

    All joking aside, I know that a lot of what I write on this blog is very heavy reading, and I appreciate most of the comments. I admit since Rhonda I have stopped letting the trolls through completely, having figured out that oh wait… they can’t comment here this is MY space. Makes it much easier.

    I don’t consider any posts outside of updates dated either, people are welcome to comment no matter the age of the posting because when I write I am not trying to make a snapshot of a moment but instead I am presenting a concern, a dream, an ideal, and a hope. None of those have expiration dates.

    I hope you are well, and that you are getting enough sleep!


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