MY TRAUMA ON A PLATTER
I thought I would make this a poem, but it feels fake trying to present my thought in a more artistic form. Instead, I want to portray rawness as it spills out of my mind.
Is this what they call prose? I still don’t know what that is, but I know this for sure- I write everything from my heart.
I can also say this, I’m tired of trying to present my trauma to be more palatable and digestible.
I’m tired of trying to gloss over the pain with intricate words so as to not cause discomfort; but what I feel is exactly that- discomfort.
It’s time to tell my story without shame
Without remorse, with all its pain.
I can never forget what you did.
It lingers on in every bit of me. Projecting itself in my actions. My thoughts, Tarnished. For they aren’t mine. They have been tainted To the point of no recognition.
It’s hard to form connections, what should be a gentle caress, feels like thorns grazing my skin.
14 years later and I still relive those moments. I was only 6. Maybe to you that was much older.
Maybe that’s why you introduced me to porn, forever warping my idea of intimacy. Maybe that’s why you practiced on me. The constant experiments that cost me my sanity.
Maybe I could have found a way to forgive you in my heart, maybe I could have convinced myself that it was a mistake on your part. There seem to be many maybe’s.
Maybe if it had only happened once.
After the third time, I was completely numb, and I still am, years after
All I feel is inadequacy.
I am not my experiences, I keep telling myself that, But my body hasn’t gotten the memo. Neither has my mind.
They say the body keeps the score. Well mine is still tracking tallies of the pain- physical, and emotional.
The scars are deeper than any knife could ever form.
Maybe if it was only you it happened with, then I could have convinced my cognitive to forgive
But sometimes I think about why my Quran teacher would do the same. Maybe that’s why I have a hard time believing in religion- Maybe that’s why I have a hard time with authoritative figures- It served as a mask for him, didn’t it ?
A pedophile slithering under the radar, using the guise of purity to lure in unsuspecting victims
What a snake.
I don’t cry anymore though, It never seemed to solve my problems.
But talking did. So that’s why I’m doing so now, I feel safe here.
Writing is the only way to feel better- I’m able to bear my feelings irrevocably.
I wish heartbreaks from men were my biggest issues.
But instead I’m scared of them, Scared of what they might do. So I always say yes, Even when I don’t mean to.
Even the ones I trust try to change my answers. Soon again, I find my no’s change to Yeses.
The coercion never stops, even after you grow up.
It took time to understand that I have full agency over my body.
And even though I know this, I still have a hard time believing it. It’s a reason my poems are so sad. It comes from real hurt, Real pain.
I would love to write happy things, But when I feel joy, I’d much rather revel in it than put my thoughts on paper, distracting me from the moment
Combined with a foggy memory, I also have to deal with over-sexualization, vaginismus, detachment between my body and mind, depression, anxiety, trust issues…
Just to name a few. And it’s all because of you.
YOU! And them.
I would like to end this on a positive note, I will say I’ve been trying to rewire my brain (breath-work and mindfulness), but I don’t know if I can ever stop the pain.
