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.

Hot Dogs

In Washington domestic abuse victims now can protect their pets. A part of me felt utter elation for a split second before the futility of this struck me. If my cats are home alone, and my abusers magically find me, a piece of paper is not going to protect them. Yes, violence against animals is a huge problem, especially when small children are victimized by the terror that Daddy or Mommy is going to hurt Bowzer because they were bad.

I have been there. I spent years trying to eradicate my ability to love any small animals out of fear. This sudden dejected response brings me up to a point of realization, we need better protection for our humans and animals. If I had felt that I could have safety, options, or that my existence as a woman without children would have not meant another tour of danger where my life was forfeit able to convenience by the shelter system locally, I would not have spent four years with hidden abuse.

I do not like to talk about these topics, but I feel I must. How can I deny the truth and expect other people to see the way out? I was shown, or I would be far worse off than I am now. From some aspects that notion is laughable, after all how can my health get much worse? I can answer that question. I also look at my mind. My mind is strong, free from suicidal ideation for the most part, and it is able to reject the idea that a bullet is the best pain killer.

That does not mean that I should have to feel fear. It is an awesome thing, the hallelujah godliness sort of awesome, that our animals are finally being acknowledged as impotant. Often, if food was not enough to make me obedient, all I had to do was think of my cat and her own special needs and I would do what was asked of me, even if it was torturous to my body. Give up the money I need for clothing and food? I’ve done it. As of right now I am fighting back from a waredrobe of two shirts and four pairs of pants.

Does not having clothing seem silly to compare with being hit or your animals being burned alive? In some aspects it does, yet, being forced to wear clothing that is not appropriate for the season can be dangerous. You risk exposure, overheating, freezing, sunburn. Not having enough clothing to merit doing laundry or to make it worth the time to change out of the outfit you have on for a week is also depressing. Many women are controlled in their relationships by their lack of finance for fashion, it becomes a third rate priority and eventually that can impact their jobs, their social lives. This impacts their ability to be taken seriously and to feed their children. If they are not taken seriously during a crisis, either medical or one where they make their break for freedom, this can leave us with another statistic, instead of a survivor of abuse.

Should it? Not at all. So, as we celebrate this new law in WA, lets look at other ways we can try and help people to rise above. I look forward to the day when a Utopia exists. Man, Woman, White, Black, Asian, American, Mexican, none of these words will matter. Violence will be a memory, not forgotten but taught about with utter honesty so that history does not continue to repeat.

I have a dream, a dream for every woman who has ever felt fear, for ever child who has waited to see if Daddy was going to get mad because they sneezed. I dream that these women and children find freedom and grow into well rounded adults who are secure, able to advocate to protect the weak and the innocent. I dream of a day when domestic violence is a faint memory, a shameful one, and is no longer an option.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None