Violence

 

For me, Violence was just another word.  Well, it was just another word until yesterday. A word that I could read, that I heard, and it was literally just another word. Violence is just another word in the human language.  A word that I think of when I see and hear about terrible stories.  A word that I think is something that isn't ok.  I have never thought of that word as it pertained to me.  That changed yesterday, and it was a feeling that made me want to run.  

I was in counseling, and he used the word pertaining to the things I had been through.  As soon as he said it, there was recoil in my very being, and I wanted to get away.  If I could have sunk into the couch, I would have. If I could have dug my heels into the ground any harder, I would have pushed myself through the wall behind me.   It was a reaction that I didn't expect and am trying to understand.  All the times I speak and share, I am even part of a conference Titled Women of Violence!   But to have that word applied directly to me, is something I just have never ever thought of. 

I wrote that more than two weeks ago because I just couldn't go there. Somewhere in my head, I know that there is an understanding that the things that happened were violent.  But in that same breath, I brush it off. It's really hard for me still to comprehend and get my head around just how violent those things were. There are pieces of my brain that still want all those things to somehow fit somewhere in a nice neat box.  A box that looks like any other thing besides violent. I think that for me if I say that things were violent, it makes me feel like a victim in a way. I hate that more than the word itself. I feel like if I say that the things that happened to me were violent, it feels like, oh, poor me.  

I do wish that I could call things what they were without wanting to protect everyone else around me. I know I do that in counseling all the time. That dance around a word that I know fits is correct, but hearing it come out of my mouth makes it more real. I say the words to help others, so there is somewhere that I know they fit. But to say them in my safe place, where it's safe to feel, is something entirely different. 

I want to be able to say these things happened and feel proud of myself for how far I have come. Most often, when I say them, I feel shame, second-guessing myself that I was the one who did something wrong.   

It is Valentine's Day next week, and I find myself trying to avoid the day and all that it means. I can finally see that I was just a girl.  The struggle still lies in all the things that others said to her.  Really, if it was that violent, wouldn't someone have done something differently?  Wouldn't they have cared for her? I make excuses for Valentine's Day because I opened the door.  I make excuses because that is easier than the truth.  I was just a girl who wanted little girl things. I wanted to be seen; I wanted to be loved and cared for. I did not ask to be raped. I did not ask him to show up. It was the night of the Valentine dance at school. Just in 8th grade, I was 13. Still a girl. I say that, and still more questions?  Did he know it was the night of the dance?  Another question I will never know.  Middle school, I was in middle school. I was shocked and so excited to see him. Those fucking butterflies, I was glad to see him even.  I knew very quickly he was not the same person that I had met. I know he was talking, and I can see his mouth moving in my mind, but I can not remember a word that he said. I tried to fight; I tried to tell him no. He was big, and I wasn't going to win. He was so rough. Part of me just went away; I knew I was fighting a losing battle. He raped me, and I went somewhere far away. It's amazing that something so terrible can be happening, and your mind just does what is necessary. I remember looking to my left and seeing my little hand.  I wish that I didn't have an understanding of what he was doing to me.  I knew and felt disgusted at myself. It wasn't him that I thought was a terrible, awful person. It was me. I sit here, and the pictures are so very clear, I see it like a movie, only that is me.  I don't know what to do with the thoughts, I hated what he was doing. In my little brain, there was this disbelief like, is this all I am good for? 

I have a hard time calling this violent because I was so far removed from my body.  I don't remember feeling anything other than him pinning my arms down.  In the beginning, when I was fighting, I fought really hard. I can remember his weight on me, the pressure on my arms. His weight on me.  Once I gave up knowing what he was going to do, there was a part of me that was just gone. I can remember asking once if body memories were real.  As I remember, I see it like a movie with no sound.  Somewhere, my cells know, my body feels it, and it's the most terrible, awful feeling. To be so used and degraded, like you mean nothing. I do believe my body remembers, and I have the pictures, but never both at the same time.  I just can't put them together in my mind, because that is where that word.  That terrible word violence would come into the picture.  Once those two things collide, there is no pretending that things were not as awful as they were. He was violent, I was hurt, and I will forever pay the price and fight for that 13-year-old girl who just wanted what everyone else her age wanted. Literally breaks my heart. I am so very sorry Spunky, so so sorry. You were a good girl. He was just another evil man. 

I heart your heart