via Daily Prompt: Final
Instead of a poem, as I usually do with the Daily Prompt, I want to talk to you guys about me. Last night and this morning I posted some insight to my instability. I got a little heavy. It gets heavier, so I don’t want to not address it.
I was raped when I was nineteen. That was seven years ago. Almost seven years ago. It happened in late August of 2010. I didn’t tell anyone that mattered until June of 2011. I had what the legal people call an Outcry Witness. I remember distinctly being balled up in my then-boyfriends bed where it happened and texting my then-room mate “I want to die.” So, she knew. My best friend, though, who’s boyfriend did the heinous act, had no idea until I couldn’t take it anymore and showed her a poem I wrote about it.
She believed me at first, but then asked for some time to process it. I gave that to her, out of respect. He didn’t. During the next few weeks or months (time gets a little blurry there) he did he best at convincing her I was lying. Then she did her best at ruining what little life I had left.
It wasn’t until a little while later, when he sexually assaulted her one day, that she actually believed me. Which hurt. A lot. But it’s been years since then and many tears and shaking later, we came to terms with everything. She and I are still best friends.
I got really heavy into drinking. I got really heavy into smoking, and cocaine. I had numerous sleep overs with people I can’t even name at this point. I had a list, but it made me want to vomit every time I looked at the numbers of names that all blurred together. I thought I was taking control of my body. I wasn’t. I was searching for any way I could possibly loose control, really.
That was seven years ago. In the last two or three years I stopped having flashbacks. I stopped having nightmares. I only talk to two or three people who knew me back then. I don’t mind that so much. I had a good life before it, but my life isn’t bad now. Just different. And when I say I stopped having vivid PTSD symtpoms about it, I don’t mean to say that I’m over it entirely. I thought I was, I said that I was, but I think that was just another way of trying to control what I can’t control.
So, what I wanted to say from this is that this feeling isn’t Final. The remembrance I’m feeling right now, the anxiety, the out of control emotions, the tears that seem to spring out for nearly no reason what so ever, they aren’t Final. This will always be a part of me, because it happened, but it doesn’t need to define me. On the day-to-day it doesn’t define me. But it is a part of me. It gets easier every day. It gets more manageable.
Being upset isn’t Final. I get through every day. I may have faltered, I may be faltering, but I haven’t given up. I won’t. I’ll keep talking about it. Because that’s how we take control. We can’t let people do these things and then not say anything. I didn’t go to the police. I’m not going to. I don’t want to. It won’t give me closure, and at this point I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is up. . A part of me died that night, and I don’t want any more negativity. I don’t want to be the smaller person. I just want to get better every day.
Not sure if this wall of text will actually be read by anyone, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this feeling isn’t Final. That’s the thing about surviving. It’s always in the present tense. Yes, I survived that night, but the point is I’m still surviving. Everyday. Because nothing is Final. There is always more path to be followed.