The hardest thing for me to write about.
There are things that I want to write about.
These things aren’t particularly nice.
I used to be able to write about them. I struggle to write about them now.
I don’t know if that’s just because I’m further along in my healing process. Maybe it’s because I’m just trying to get on with a normal life.
I’m not sure what the reason is but either way the fact remains: I can’t write about abuse.
I used to process my emotions through poetry.
I have a lot of very dark poems buried in notebooks and word files that I’m too afraid to look at. They deal with a lot of dark topics that I don’t feel comfortable addressing now.
So I used to be able to write about these things, but now that I want to put them somewhere useful I can’t. I wanted to write a book.
I wanted to write a book about life after surviving rape.
I wanted to talk about the healing process, the way that life becomes mundane. The way that I still struggle with doing or talking about certain things. I wanted to talk about the good things in life and the things that I still struggle with.
The goal was to discuss all of the ways that rape still affects my life.
I wanted to do this because I feel like survivors disappear.
They move on and they don’t look back.
Which can be great for them, I applaud that.
I’m just not at that place yet. I don’t get to hear those stories, because once a rape victim gets past the healing process they don’t usually share their journey with strangers.
You can’t look at someone who has survived abuse and point them out on the street.
At the moment, though, I’m struggling with adjusting to life after rape. I’m in this weird in-between place where I can handle some things and not others.
Most of what I can handle depends on my mood, the time of day, the state of my home, my mental health.
Literally everything is a variable that changes the way that I react to certain things.
I still have nightmares though not as often.
I still have flashbacks though not as often.
I don’t see people like me portrayed in media. There is the victim or the survivor. There is no one left in the middle who is still just trying to figure this out.
The problem is that every time I try and write my book I trigger myself. That means that I can’t get more than a few paragraphs out every few months.
At the beginning of my healing journey, I used the written word to heal myself, process what had happened and help myself move on.
Now when I go about writing my experiences instead of it being therapeutic I feel as though I’m harming myself.
I don’t know why that is.
I feel as though there is a need for a book like mine, but will I have to wait years to get to the place where I can write about it without hurting myself?
What if I never get to the place where I can write about this in a healthy way?
Even as I type this piece of writing I can feel myself backing away from the subject. Like my mind is pushing me away from the topic so that I don’t have to think about it.
Why do I have to fight against my own brain to write down a story that belongs to me? Why can’t I be in control of my body and mind?
Did rape steal away my ability to comment on the topic?
Is this yet another part of myself that got taken away?