B Y VA N E S S A B U C K A REFF
C H A P TER
C H I L D
I
Fathers. It’s incredible how from the moment we are born, a man can define us so much.
It’s been a lifelong battle to understand and commit to healing from the damage that the separation of my parents inflicted on me as a young woman. I know. Most families end with divorce. But even still, it has gone down as one of the most clear, definitive moments of my life, particularly IN MY EARLY TWENTIES. When a family falls apart, everyone in the inner circles suffers and heals in their own way. Over the course of my young adult life, I sought refuge in my art. It took me a very long time to get the courage to become more open about the things that defined me, and it took me even longer to decide what I would ALLOW to define me. Slowly the older I got, I realized that I didn’t want my father to be one of those definitions. Father / daughter relationships should be one of mentoring, teaching and nurturing. For the most part, my dad was doing all the things that most dads do. But then he wasn’t. And then he was gone. As much as I owe absolutely nothing to my father, I owe absolutely everything to him. Over time I began to stumble across a common theme of women struggling to overcome and forgive absent fathers - the idea of “daddy issues”, that women carry the weight of loveless fathers into their relationships and beyond. This misogynistic philosophy angered, but also fascinated me. The fact that the weight of this absenteeism was somehow responsible for my current state as a woman. Somehow it was brought up time and time again, that it was my fault that I could not forgive, even if the forgiveness wasn’t being sought after by my Dad. This angered me, seeing as I in no way feel that any child should seek responsibility for poor communication skills from either parent. Disconnect is a choice. Anger is taught. Absenteeism is cowardly. This book translates the nostalgia of my childhood into the pain, heartbreak and forgiveness I had to put forth towards all the men that came in and out of my life - even the ones I have had to push to the very depths of my unconscious mind. And most importantly, the forgiveness I had to give to myself. I now realize that although the teachings of father shaped me in more ways than one, I have a choice of how I am defined. My childhood is very important to me. It was a time of pure happiness and innocence. The period where I remember the idea of family most clearly, and the idea of who my father was to me. Here, I lay out my “daddy issues”, to evaporate and to move forward. Here, I let go.
ICE CREAM I remember those car rides with all the windows rolled down A
much
Staring The Rock
younger into
bounce and
of roll
version
the the cruises,
of
sticky
speakers innocent
at
myself
blue every
braces
red and
sky light bruises
It’s here that the pain will settle somewhere in-between
It’s a happiness that feels so real and long ago Dad, do you remember those times? Or is it easier to shelve away the vulnerable bliss? I didn’t know no satisfaction beyond this Eternal daze, this sugar wave
So content sometimes I wonder if we imagined it Those hot days of hot pavement complacent and buried The creases of sweaty leather seats The never ending vacation of childhood My rolled down windows reminding me Of someone I wish I still was
O U R I
always
All I
wanted
the remember
S T R E E T to
float
paths,
so
swings
running
down
I
could
see
and
trees
our
street
Breathless and you’re running right beside me Your
denim
shorts,
my
yellow
t-shirt
The brightness of the sun baking our shoulders The dullness of the sidewalk with passing clouds The
grief
of
new
season’s
chills
Quick! We’ve got so much to do before the cold hits Eventually
summer
sighs
and
creeps
Farther away with every afternoon and sleep
But for now give me summer’s goodness And all of her heat spells Tomorrow is another day for you and me And all the stories we have to tell
CHAPTER II
GIRL
I don’t consider myself lost. I am more found and awake than ever. I am sure of my identity and I can feel true happiness because of it. My darkness comes from the exhaustion of constantly seeking. I’ve always been walking around in a daze, not believing anything is real half the time. Always trying to resist an existential crisis from sucking me in too deep. In the end, we’re all trying to find some sort of happiness. Even if you don’t believe in holiness, you will still feel like the holiest version of yourself makes you feel safe and free. As children, we are taught right from wrong. We are all looking for forgiveness and acceptance. When I find someone who likes me, I feel better about finding a way to like myself. I’ve never been comfortable in this body. It has always felt ill fitted and uncomfortable. Some nights when I am alone, the pain comes to visit me. I try to speak to it, try to get it to go away. It’s my envelope, the place where I sleep and don’t wake up. But I still want the sun to shine on me, enough that I can trace the orange translucence of my veins and skin on top of my eyes. There with the veiled light, I dream. This is where I am most awake, with my eyes closed to the rest of the world. They say that the eyes are the window into the soul, and my soul is heavy. I am a person who has lived many lives as a child, a girl, and a woman. I have established the ultimate definition for my version of who a woman is. I am more aware of who I am when I’m at an all time low. I rock with the waves, and my spine aches, but I will not stop. I will not stop breathing. I will not stop moving. I will not stop being. No matter how much I hate it, I will continue on, because I know how to fight with my words and my mind. I know the power of speech. My mother always said that maybe my anger was a good thing. Maybe my anger is the reason why I want to keep going, even on the days I want to stop and just ache a little bit longer.
S
e
v
e
n
t
e
e
n
imaginary sorrows in mellon collie and ing wn dro ent em bas In your a r e w e e H e r olds year seventeen flying high broody moody, The sink ir in your bathroom , while dying our ha MTV and mixed drinks g reasons for everythin pitch over analyzed ’d we th for and k Bac thought we than less knew we ugh tho Even rained it when happy only were We l that it would fee talked so much Happy when we other each of top on piled were words our Like k would start to sin r bedroom floor you y all ntu eve t Tha up growing of afraid y onl re we We would never we like t fel It
T h e I I
am
a
am
tall
P a r t y glass
completely
of
out
evaporated of
my
water element
Left to try to talk to all the other utensils by the sink I don’t want to be here but being normal takes work
I
dressed
up
but
who
am
i
kidding
When someone tries to talk to me I have no words I’m barely getting by but whose here to be friends These
walls
are
bland
and
falling
in
Steady hand holding this drink like the snob I am Everyone
in
this
space
has
an
opinion
Everyone around me has taken their invisibility off
Pretty girls, pretty skirts, pretty shoes AND here I am melting into the room
Th o u gh t s While Un der Water I remember when I didn’t understand what a memory was /
Do you remember how simple living simply was?
Everything was new, bright and shiny / A simple slip into a hopelessly naive dream
/ Becoming a grown up isn’t much fun
P av e m e n t My driveway
My current sleeping bag Anxiety my pillow Cold braille on my skin Headlights coming What if... What if lights became The way out of here Not tonight “I’m better thAn that”, I say So vulnerable So sad and afraid So brave Steady breathing And she’s back again Just human We’re all going to be okay
You > Him Starting
from
emotional
scratch
How do you get over something you’re not ready to give up? There
is
no
one
So
much
THIS
a
consequence
gives of
CATHARIC
this it
YOU’RE
I
do
THE
not
up
BREAK
everything
after
MAKES
Each day passes And with that, And with that, Completely
for ME
YOU
a
day
FEEL
pathetic
HAVE
MADE
by with less of it you’ve let go slowly it all goes away and t o ta l l y
ONLY
negate
SURVIVOR
HERE
was
obvious
what
I GUESS YOU LOVING HER ALL ALONG WASN’T REALLY A LIE
“Nonetheless,
you’re
a
better
person
now”
But you realize it’s not as good as it could have been Now you know that waiting is the equivalent to loving
But you are you, and he is he That was that, so let it be Slowly at night, I ease under sheets And sink into the bottom of the sea
Tomorrow is one step closer to forgetting
That That
breath comfort of
of when
release you wake
CHAPTER III
WOMAN
I am not the woman I used to be. Here, a dark cloud covered me for days. I slept, I cried and
I wrote, searching for the right words. But I knew nothing
would be the same. I had to keep going. I did this alone. I am a survivor. It happened so quickly, but I will always remember his face. I remember the day, the time, the weather and the clothing I was wearing. Even now, years later, I think about that day and can feel the anxiety IMMEDIATLY creep into my throat. People always talk about out of body experiences, and that’s exactly what happened. I screamed and punched and screamed some more as fucking loud as I could. As a human, my survival instincts saved me. But as a woman, I was broken beyond repair. There in the forest, halfway around the world, far from anything familiar, a piece of me was lost. It was meant to be a trip of healing. An escape from the difficulties back home. It seemed that instead, I had walked into the open arms of more devastation and loss. Talking about my sexual assault as a real event with family and friends was not easy. Talking about my assault with myself was even harder. I remember being upset about my mother’s reaction. I felt like she didn’t believe me, because she didn’t cry. I was hyperemotional to every reaction, because I didn’t even know how to react. I was too embarrassed to tell my friends. The moments after being home were made up of anxiety attack after anxiety attack. While at bars, while out in public, at every given moment that I was alone with a man. I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t know if I was talking about it in the right way. What if my tone wasn’t upset enough? What if my tone was too serious? I couldn’t date for a long time after. And when I did, the sex was viewed as a healing process for me. A bandaid, proving to myself that male attention was attainable and harmless. What if no one believed me? I had police documents, photos of the bruises on my legs, the undeniable heaviness in my eyes, the change in my skin, and the change in my weight. I suffered from severe PTSD in silence for years. I didn’t diagnose it as such until recently. The anxiety that I carried was immense. The times I’d walk home alone and had to switch sides of the sidewalk to avoid sharing space with a male pedestrian were countless. I remember having a panic attack in London, England while visiting the Tate shortly after my assault. I felt petrified because I was alone with a man in a lift. There have been numerous times that my boyfriend has had to pick me up at any point of the day when it’s dark out, because of my fear or riding public transit alone. The times after my assault that I was openly sexually harassed in public. This is the life of a woman. This is my life. Again, I refuse to be defined. Again, I seek healing. This is the stuff that no one knows. This is what I am trying to let go of.
V
E
S
YOU
KNOW
S
E
WHO
YOU
L
YOU
ARE
P E R P E T R AT O R
THE
LOSS
OF
THE
TURMOIL
OF
MY
PEACE
MY
STILLNESS
I
HAVE
TO
TRY
TO
WALK
AGAIN
I
HAVE
TO
TRY
TO
TALK
AGAIN
TRY
ALL
OVER
AGAIN
DO YOU HAVE A MOTHER YOU CALL? DOES
SHE
MY
WORTH
MY
WORTH
THIS IT
WHO AS
WILL
NEVER
STOP
ALWAYS
ARE? WOMAN
A MY
YOURS, WILL
YOU A
AS
BODY,
NOT I
KNOW
BEING VESSEL
CARRYING NOT BE
ME EVER MINE
While in Brighton, England, about a month after my assault, I found myself on the beach hanging out with some of the other young people residing at my hostel. I was trying desperately to force myself to be around people, and though no one knew what was going on, I remained as normal and steady as I possibly could be. At one point we all started walking back, and I found myself in a deep conversation with an Italian of whom I had befriended. I realized, as HIM AND I continued on talking and walking, that suddenly we were alone. I stopped dead in my tracks and asked where we were. My Italian friend insisted that the way back was up the street. I started sweating, overwhelmed of the situation I had found myself in at TWO in the morning, on a vacant walkway on the beach. He saw the stricken look on my face and pressed, saying it was alright, he knew the way. Shaking and scared shitless I asked, “I would like very much if you walked meters ahead of me”. Confusing for him, but a safeguard for me. At this point I am crying. Bewildered, but aware that I was terrified of him, he put his hands up and said, “of course”, and walked the entire way to the hostel two meters in front of me, looking back every so often. When finally, safe and back at the hostel, a wave of relief washed over me. And then regret, realizing that I had not trusted my friend, and that I was in fact still completely and totally terrified from the events weeks before. I sat on the edge of the steps and cried, him sitting beside me empathetically rubbing my shoulders. I told him everything. My last day at the hostel, he approached me with folded papers in his hand. He told me that they were for me, and to only read them once I was on the train heading to my next destination. I hugged him and we went our separate ways. Inside he had written: “Vanessa, you will heal soon AND FIND HAPPINESS” followed by a hand written transcript of Nietzsche’s essay “ON THE Use & Abuse of History FOR LIFE”. In it, Nietzsche describes the empowerment of forgetting, and how ultimately we never fully forget. And how sometimes, even if you cannot fully forget your past, moving on is the only true way to happiness. I went the rest of my trip carrying that letter on me at all times. I revisit it till this day.
WHEN I WAS TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD I FELL IN LOVE. IT WAS A RELATIONSHIP THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING I THOUGHT I KNEW ABOUT LOVE, AND EVERYTHING I KNEW ABOUT GETTING HURT BY IT. I NEVER TOLD HIM THAT I LOVED HIM, BUT I DID WRITE IT IN THE FORM OF POEMS. FOR EIGHT YEARS MY SECRET WAS SAFE ON PAGES AND PAGES OF UNTOLD FEELINGS AND GRIEVANCES. NOW MUCH OLDER, WISER AND IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE, I WISH MY TWENTY-TWO YEAR OLD SELF WOULD OF BEEN HONEST ABOUT MY FEELINGS, JUST SO I COULD HAVE EXPERIENCED THE EMPOWERMENT OF BEING TRUE TO HOW I FELT.
B
L
Blue,
I
never
Except
that
Christmas
lights
I
I
strung
at
asked always
you,
“do thought
E
really one
looked
And
U
you you
had
you
day
in
May
across
the
room
held
my
breath
feel
the
same?”
lied
when
you
said
Yes You’re such a comedian, the best at conversation SO Cast your long shadow and I’ll drink your shade All
this
Your Could
time,
blue
I’m I But That Are
eyes
you
When
and will
see
I so
all
right
the the
that one’s ones
feel
found
just what you who
ashamed me
me
myself you
is
swallow
through
made happy
can
always
pretended isn’t
I
last
think always
time
tell
you
your
girl
for they
whole
always
you say?
you
love
get
away
The one person who taught me the most was my father. This is hard to admit, as most daughters look to their mothers as a mold to fit into, BUT MY FATHER TAUGHT ME MANY OF THE THINGS I HAVE COME TO NEED KNOW NOW IN MY ADULT YEARS. fathers hold A LOT OF responsibility in shaping their daughters into women. I think one of the hardest things I have had to admit to myself, is that the reason why I have struggled with figuring out who I am, is because I never understood who my father was. I knew that he was a parent, but as an individual, that identity is unknown. I knew his past, knew how had he grown up, and the experiences he had as a young man. But as a father, I did not know who he was. For a long time, I held resentment towards my father for the hurt that he later inflicted on my family. Particularly my mother. I felt responsible for shielding the female spirit in my home. I felt betrayed, and ultimately carried that well into my adult years. I know now that these things shaped me more than I could have ever imagined. People very quickly regard dysfunctional relationships with their fathers (or in some cases, their mothers) as the bad seed that played a part in the complications in their ability to develop as a person. I had been trying to forgive my dad for a long time. There were many things that were said and done towards my mother growing up that would set the stage for how my relationship with my father would flourish later on in my life. And even now, I find it hard to find the strength to continue to at least try to move on from where my life seemed for a long time, to have stalled and left off. Now however, I can see the woman I craved to be. The woman I always wanted to be. The woman I simply am.