At writing workshop a friend shared a poem she wrote about her rape and it triggered me. I tried, like I always do, to stay strong and hide the tears but they were too strong. My throat was raw and my heart hurt. But I couldn’t get any words out. I never could. The only thing I could say is that I felt numb and I didn’t like it and I was confused. It’s the only thing I could say. Why is that the only thing I can say?
Writing about things has always been easier than saying things. I usually write about it and “feel better” then ignore it until it pops in my head again. That’s not healthy I know. But what will saying it do? Will it help? That I’m not really sure of but I feel like I have to say it out loud. I feel like if I say it then it will be easier to get over it. I know it will be a part of me forever. But I don’t want to cry everytime someone reads a poem about rape.
Writing this collection of poems really got me sensitive to everything. I’m crying now more that I ever had in my life. I’m crying at random too. Like last night. She said it might trigger but I thought I would be ok since I’m writing about my own rape. Then I cry in fear because my boyfriend didn’t text me. And now I’m fighting tears for who knows what reason. I don’t even know.
I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. All this crying. I don’t know if it’s anxiety or if it’s old feelings resurfacing. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. I wish I could talk about it instead of write about it. Therapy seems so far away. Way too far away. Ten days is too long. I wish I could just go whenever I felt like it. I need to talk to someone. I need to figure some things out.
*Trigger Warning: Rape*
I was sexually abused for years when I was a child by my cousin. I didn’t stop it. I wanted to stop it. I was confused. I felt numb when he touched me. It was all a blur and it feels like a dream. Then I was molested by a guy from high school. I was scared to call him a friend but I did. He kept grabbing me and making me touch him. I just wanted him to stop. Then I was raped in my sleep by someone I thought I could trust. After I told him I was raped and molested. I guess he thought he could have his fun too.
I write about the things that happened to me. But I don’t talk about them. I should probably talk about them. I desperately want to talk about it but I can’t bring myself to say the words. I don’t even know why I want to say it out loud.
One day I will say these words out loud. One day it won’t feel like a nightmare. One day it won’t pop into my head when I don’t want it to. Right? Or will it continue to haunt me forever? Will I ever rid myself of these memories? Why should I even say it out loud? Do I really have to? Can’t I just keep it buried in the back of my mind forever? Can’t I just pretend to be okay? Can’t I just forget it ever happened like him?
Did he even forget? Does he even feel sorry? Would deny it now? I’m scared to find out. What if it was just a nightmare. What if it never actually happened. What if I lied? What if I asked for it?
I should be feeling something right? Anger? Sadness? I just feel numb. Maybe I’m still in shock? Maybe the sadness will hit me later today when I least expect it. Maybe I’m trying too hard to feel something? Or not trying hard enough? I know I should be feeling something.
It’s something we all look for or have looked for at least once in our lives. Some of us might have found it while a good portion of us are still searching. Some say it’s something that comes to you when you least expect it. Others say it’s given to you at birth from a higher power. Some others have said that there is no divine reason for anything and we are simply here to live, reproduce and die.
I am not sure which of these theories I wish to believe. Perhaps I shouldn’t believe in any of them. Perhaps I should stop thinking and search so hard for something so intangible. But growing up with Anxiety and Depression forces me to think long into the night about the meaning of life. I fear that I may be searching for the purpose of my existence for years without any answers.
I know I may be over thinking things. A fatal flaw from existential angst. I can’t help but be envious of those who have found their purpose. I know it didn’t come easy for a lot of them. And I know that I should probably be patient and let it fall in my lap. But there’s something itching for me to find it now. Presumably, my depression weighing me down with thoughts large enough to fill the room and suffocate me until I finally collapse into a restless slumber. At least that’s what it feels like to me.
Then I wake the next morning, or sometimes evening, and think about all the things I must do to be a functioning member of society. And I never do them. Because I don’t believe my purpose it to be a “functioning member of society.” Whatever that means.
Perhaps I will never truly find my purpose for existing. Perhaps it will come later when I least expect it. Perhaps I will find it in my passions; Writing and Art. As soon as I get over the anxiety of being a writer and an artist full time.