The Survivor Anthology Volume III by The Survivor Anthology

The Survivor Anthology VOLUME III

SPRING 2019

The Survivor Anthology VOLUME III

THE VOICES OF SURVIVORS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE , RELATIONSHIP ABUSE & SEXUAL ASSAULT AND ALLIES, ADVOCATES & ACTIVE BYSTANDERS

THE SURVIVOR ANTHOLOGY EXECUTIVE BOARD 2018-19

CO-PRESIDENTS SUBMISSIONS MANAGER PUBLIC RELATIONS CHAIR TREASURERS EDITORS AT LARGE OFFICE OF RESPECT GRADUATE ASSISTANT ADVISORS

ALISHA COMPTON MONICA SCHWEIZER DREW BRYANT SARAH DUGGAN JACKSON NEWBERN CAROLINE KNOX HELENA HASS TAYLOR JAMES GRACE MORROW

JAMEYCHA DUNCAN, MA CHRISTINE RISTAINO, PHD

A LETTER FROM THE BOARD Welcome to the third volume of The Survivor Anthology. We are a social justice publication at Emory compiling the writing and artwork of survivors of relationship abuse, domestic violence, sexual assault, and related acts of interpersonal violence created in response to their individual experiences. We also accept and encourage pieces from allies, advocates, and active bystanders who have dedicated their time and resources to helping survivors. Approximately 1 in 4 women and 1 in 33 men will experience sexual assault during their college careers, while transgender and gender nonconforming students experience sexual assault at disproportionately high rates. Clearly, sexaul assualt and related issues are extremely prevalent on campuses. We want The Survivor Anthology to help address this reality by raising awareness and also providing an opportunity for empowering creative expression. The Survivor Anthology is meant to be a platform where all survivors and allies feel comfortable sharing their work if they wish to do so. Therefore, our goal is to accept every submission we receive, handle each confidentiality, and publish all pieces anonymously with no identifying information. If you feel triggered or need assistance, please see our resources guide on page 41. It has been an honor and a privilege to gather voices and perspectives from survivors and allies in this anthology, and we could not have done so without a great deal of support. We would like to thank our contributors for sharing their powerful work and making The Survivor Anthology possible. We would also like to thank Jamechya Duncan and Christine Ristaino, our wonderful advisors. Finally, we would like to thank you, our readers, for your interest in supporting survivors. We hope you find this publication informative, relevant, and deeply meaningful. Sincerely, The Survivor Anthology Executive Board

DISCLAIMER While all submissions are from Emory community members, including students, faculty, and staff, they are not necessarily about events that occured on our campus. Please note that all names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of contributors and other individuals.

TRIGGER WARNING Please be aware that the works in this anthology are inspired by real lived events, and thus they depict a wide range of experiences and emotions. As such, some works may be triggering for survivors of sexual assault, domestic violence, relationship abuse, and related forms of interpersonal violence, such as physical, verbal, or psychological abuse and stalking. If you feel triggered or need assistance, please see our resources guide on page 44.

TABLE OF CONTENTS 08.31.17 Only Blood 09.15.15 3:05 am-3:48 am Healing Process PTSD Burying Poem #3 “The F Word” Jigsaw Am I too late ? My Little Girl The Closet Door in Detailed Relief Fight or Flight Assault Internal Healing I remember To the girl who could not have hurt me Silence The second it starts A Love Story What about sleeping beauty Excerpts from a Memoir : 12_4_18 Dear Mom and Dad Thoughts I Have

11 12 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 28 30 33 34 36 38 40

08.31.17 Only Blood

At the age of 8 I prayed Dear God, it’s me…. Now I lay me down to sleep, I prayed the lord my soul to keep And if I die before I wake, I prayed the lord my soul to take But my angels never watched me late at night or woke me with the morning light their halos were dimmed and rigid with sin I was never God fearing because after 5 a God didn’t exist as the innocence was taken from my skin and everything within touched by kin a male confidant, who I was supposed to always remain confident but lacking the capacity to understand confidence our bond was prominent I was never lesser nor dominant but always an object objectified by eyes, tongues, and toys touched by fingers, lips, and tips sexualized before breasts, thighs, and hips there was no master and no whip but only blood, only blood only red have you ever felt breathless without being dead? lifeless with a beating cavity in your chest forever sleeping without rest with only myself and an abuser to attest and only God to bear witness At the age of 20, I pray Dear God, it’s me... Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep and if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take May angels with gleaming halos watch me through the night to wake me with the morning light Strip these demons of their sin and forgive me for my heart I was given because I will always love my abuser, my kin because growth is never rigid my soul will always hold frigid but I will never unlearn love there is only blood only blood

09.15.15 3:05 am-3:48 am Healing Process I’m tired of black stained pillow cases Stop wearing mascara to bed Still framed memories with an ill pained heart Unpause the photo in your head Get over it I looked at the sky today and smiled to myself I am Get over it I had a dream last night I never got my ring with a fucking castle on it With affection on top that’s all I really wanted Diamonds never awed me Abnormalities did, my self did. I wasn’t Let it go I fell in love with a man But I get disgusted when I see your face in him When he touches When he loves me I tried. To stop having glimpses of lost innocence Caught in augmented images Ones I once prayed were fictitious Downplayed with conviction. You are not a victim There are days I’m captured by consumption Days my heart cannot function Lost by the racing that my thoughts do I lost you. I know this I’ve known this. I’ll always know this I am not a victim But a survivor Reaching for life after death After lost breath Heavy-chest, breathe Count with me.... In-out It’s okay In-out It’s not okay In-out

Breathe. Mom, help me I cannot sleep I cannot eat But I have to, breathe I have to get over it I have to let it go I have to stop wearing mascara to bed I have to stop framing grotesque reflections in my head I have to I have to I... I didn’t do this to myself You are not a victim I know Stop telling me to let it go I did not do this Get over it. Let it go. It doesn’t work like that It never worked like that You wanted it to work like that But never wanted to acknowledge that I hurt like that That I hurt like this It will always hurt like this. You are not a victim- stop telling me things I already know I know this I’ve known this I will always know this. “You are not a victim” Hold me You didn’t hold me I just wanted to be held I didn’t want to hurt I don’t want to hurt. I know. You told me I am not a victim, you told me to get over it, to let it go. But it doesn’t work like that, this doesn’t work like that I just need you to know. You are not a victim, neither of us are You are not a survivor Please don’t deflect introspections And respect My healing process

PTSD

post traumatic stress syndrome for you don’t realize the trauma until post like you didn’t realize molestation for 8 years absolutely no recollection like you didn’t realize violation for months because you had to be detached and away to see to feel what that meant sexual violation isn’t always rape sometimes it is following someone else’s truth sometimes it is submission it is saying no to yourself post traumatic stress I didn’t realize until another man kept asking even after I said No.

Burying Poem #3

I have been carving a casket for years. I think of laying his body down whenever I think of that room. I rub my cheek against the velvet I’ve lined, All the stitching has been done with weakening muscle. I have written poems about burying him, Violent poems. Tomorrow, I’ll write about love because That’s all I want them to know. Not many know about burying, Greed for blood and Wanting the same from yourself. I don’t really write about love I am too much filled with violence; It lays docile beneath my tongue. Sometimes, when my mouth hangs open I feel it drip down my neck like honey. I write about that and people think It’s a love poem.

“The F Word”

I tell my boyfriend to stop saying “F@*% you!” when I’m around. “It feels violent. Invasive.” “I was pretty angry,” he says. Others justify, “But the word is so strong and harsh. Cathartic.” Do we really need a catharsis from the anger of: a missed test question? an unreturned text? a [fill in the blank]? On my best days I say I want to: End all the sexual violence. End all the systems of domination. End all the language that binds us to that past and future of force Where bodies become meat for someone else’s pleasure, or anger, power or pain. So I search and I find: New Words. Charge-Into-Battle Words. Words that take concentration. Words that weigh more than me so maybe he won’t toss them around and throw his body over them without a pause. Yet, today, when I hear another man tell of his anger, his anger at: Her Her naming pain Naming rape Naming his responsibility He may be angry but Rage bubbles up deep inside me From my bones I feel my frow burrow Against my will My fists flail against the steering wheel And the only words I can scream Are the ones I hate. My skin crawls With the power of rape. Fuck you.

Jigsaw

My dad gave me a lot of puzzles when I was a kid. It started with those ten-piece jumbo sets made for toddlers, but it wasn’t long before I was up to one hundred piecers. When you’re five, one hundred is a pretty big number. It’s the kind of stuff you brag to your friends about. Yet one thousand is bigger, and soon I was on to those. But there’s one puzzle I couldn’t put together. Sometimes if I left pieces out, I’d get berated. Sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes the berating would get physical. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Sometimes he would storm out and drive off. Sometimes he wouldn’t. It wasn’t immediately obvious how many pieces this puzzle had. What I did know, however, was that all of them were the consequences of my actions. I controlled all the variables, I just had to figure out what I was doing wrong. This puzzle was the hardest one yet — his episodes were unpredictable, I often went to bed not knowing if he’d be there in the morning. Even when he wasn’t angry, I still didn’t know if I was worth sticking around for. And if I did fall asleep, it wasn’t much of an escape. The earliest dream I can remember was of me, buckled into my car seat, riding down the road, half-consciously realizing that there was no one driving the car. The dream aged with me; my car seat turned into a booster seat, later, I’d just get abandoned riding shotgun. But he got help. They gave him antidepressants and he stopped leaving, except I didn’t understand that then. I thought he left because of me. So I kept working on the puzzle: if I could solve a one thousand piecer, I could figure out what was wrong with me. Sometimes I thought I’d found a solution, but it didn’t take much for a piece to get knocked out of place. A bad hair day, a cruel joke, a low grade — he’d taught me that imperfection meant I deserved mistreatment. Now that I’m older, I help take care of him. I move the furniture, I drive us around. Hell, I drove him to the hospital during his fourth heart attack. I know he’s had his own puzzles, even though that’s not an excuse. He made mistakes. I can’t change the past, but I can end the cycle.

Am I too late ? They say it’s better late than never Was I late? {18} years too late I didn’t say anything before But that was before / I had a voice That was before The frequent bleeding sweating and crying That life brings Am I too late? {17} years too late Does it matter that I said / anything Aren’t I too late? What happened happened What’s done is done Right? Aren’t I too late? Am I too late? {15} years too late To reclaim my body Was I too late?/ To say no What happened happened What’s done is done Right? Cause I stood there/ Again With deja-vu having seen the same thing Happen before me/ to me Once again But this time when/ I relived it I was taller and louder I had a voice It took years / But I had a voice I said no I gave them a promise not a threat I reclaimed my body But am I too late? {2} months too late What happened happened What’s done is done Right?

My Little Girl Flashbacks come and all I hear are mean words and all I see is hands grabbinʼ and groppinʼ and no words being spoken from my mouth at all well, I guess thatʼs my fault for not knowing who to call to help me to help me escape from torturer, captors, kidnappers Kidnappers that kidnapped the innocence of the little girl still living in my heart that beats her little fists erratically trying to escape the world that her eyes were too young to see and touch not appropriate for her body and words not meant for any little girl to hear A little girl too young to feel isolated and hated, too young to not feel like a person because nothing is worse than not seeing her frown turn upside down A frown that I still show the world even though people always tell me to smile but I donʼt want to because Iʼm no Cheshire Cat thatʼs always smiling Iʼm no Ronald McDonald with a smile painted on my face Iʼm the girl that greets sadness with an embrace but if I do smile it’s only for a while or its not real at all because as soon as you turn the smile starts to fall But hey I know it’s time for me and the little girl in my heart to part I need to grow I need to grow up into the young woman that I know I can become I need to put the little girl to rest I need to learn how to smile a real smile and feel the happiness in life I need to move on And I know Iʼm not alone I know Iʼm not the only one with a little girl inside me thatʼs beating her little fists trying to escape the world her eyes were too young to see Iʼm not the only one who has to let their little girl free and grow up Iʼm one of many that need to stand up and tell their little girlʼs story of the monsters under her bed and awful thoughts going through their head Iʼm one of many that wants my little girl to Rest In Peace

The Closet Door in Detailed Relief I started dressing like a boy when I was nineteen. Didn’t cut my hair or anything, because that’s not what people did then. Girls who didn’t want to be girls laid low and pressed their breasts against their chest in two layers of sports bras, covered that with a t-shirt from the thrift store, a men’s cut, something with a crew neckline. I stopped fucking guys when I was sixteen, three years before the t-shirts. My mother would tell you it was because I got raped, tell you that was the moment that changed all this. Don’t remember much of that night, just something about the way the back of the car smelled, like the deodorant my ex boyfriend wore and moldy soccer cleats. It wasn’t my ex though, he never knew. Pretty sure he doesn’t even know what I’m doing now, he doesn’t know about the people I sleep with now. My mother still remembers me crying in the last stall of the CVS bathroom, worried I might be pregnant. She bought me a test that day. Negative. When I told her about the rape about a year later, I don’t think she ever connected it to the moment in the bathroom, but I know she remembers. My stomach was hanging out a little over my bikini bottoms at the pool and she asked me to take a test. Turns out I was just getting fat. I don’t think being gay ever had anything to do with being raped. Neither did the fact I used to tape down my breasts until I couldn’t breathe. They were just two things that happened. Like a day when you spill hot coffee on yourself until it scorches and scalds the top of your thighs, but later, kiss the person you love after they bring flowers to your work. That’s the thing, maybe the spilled coffee and the flower kiss are connected, through some series of cosmic interactions and chaotic happenings, but I can’t be totally sure. I guess sometimes when I am talking my girlfriend on the phone, or walking down the street with all of my hair tucked into a knit cap, I think about the man who raped me. How he reached over to lock the car doors. His body on top of me, the alcohol and the cocaine pulsing through my veins, how heavy he felt. All that weight, pushing me against the sweaty polyester seat, like how scuba divers can’t come up the surface of the water too fast or their chests will collapse. Pressure like that. And still there.

Fight or Flight neither. I am a deer caught in headlights, a beating heart impaled on a broken glass windshield I am a novelty, a toy manufactured for his pleasure, crafted with perfectly parted, rosy red lips and no voice fighting has never been my strength, and I know I am weaker than most but i could have tried. I could have done something I could have screamed, or pushed, or bit or tugged or howled or ran or jumped or even cried somehow, the dignity of choice is one I could not even afford to myself he may not remember me. but I could never forget the rancid air he breathed into my lungs, the greedy hands that swung open my ribcage like a rusty drawbridge and left grimy fingerprints on every surface I could never forget the acidic taste of burning shame as the words he whispered into me quickly grew stale and rotted inside my skull as he continues, I know this was an expected outcome. I know this was his plan from the first honeyed text message, to the calculated cute coffee date, through the astonishingly few steps that separate a harmless hug from the dead-eyed man thrusting into a vacant body his eyes are those of an apathetic appraiser, clouded with lust and utter indifference for the motionless body he sits atop. how could I possibly be human, be a person, if he looks at me like a blow-up doll, an object of envy and such forceful desires I ask to slow down, trying to take breaks, desperately trying to cling to each article of clothing until they are all, one by one, peeled away - but these feeble protests are no deterrent. he merely strips me faster now, relying on a conditioned desire to please, to be afraid, and I am exactly what he expects. whoever said to lay back and enjoy the ride has clearly never been on this rollercoaster, but I am still afraid to lift the bar, shift out of my seat when the ride is in full swing. once it has started, I am told, it cannot stop. yet that is the worst thing I couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done: too scared to say no, too shocked to scream, just frozen. is it even his fault, I ask, when your own body betrays you â&#x20AC;Ś the darkest recesses of my being claw determinedly at my sanity, whispering a string of words into my ear with rising intensity:

fighting has never been my strength, but i could have tried. I could have done something I could have screamed, or pushed, or bit or tugged or howled or ran or jumped or even cried somehow, the dignity of choice is one I could not even afford to myself.

Assault I have lived a hundred years Have carried groceries across hot pavement Have inhaled stained air from busses That fart and moan to a stop And spit out a woman, three bags and a baby And turn away a man stinking of whiskey. I am tired. I imagine myself on firm ground. I build my own home, bake sweet bread, Pull weeds from my garden one by one As landscapes from my past assault me. I pin them out to dry and watch As they flap in the wind like linen.

Internal Healing

The house I grew up in was very interpersonally violent. I have been healing from the experience, bit by bit, finding beauty and disarray in each step. The fragmentation of the process has been the hardest part about this: finding pieces of pain and hope, with dust of happiness and sadness each day. This piece was made during a time that I was re-experiencing this chaos.

I Remember I was a child of the forest- my body meant to be covered in moss and mud and dappled with the sun. You put me in lace and heels and told me to spin for you: a music box personified. You bought me with music and dance and poetry: a carved flower in my mailbox, a roller coaster of lust and love and anger. I remember the first time you raped me you smelled like body wash and coconut oil. You couldn’t finish because I was crying and it didn’t turn you on. My first word the next morning was “FUCK” because we missed our flight to the Caribbean. I remember the alcohol must have been watered down because no matter how much I drank I never got drunk. I wanted to lose myself, but no matter how much I drank you were still there—my “duty” still existed. You propped my hips up with pillows to get the angle just right. You held my hands down and told me to be quiet. With every thrust, a lightning bolt shot through my core and I cried. You went soft and made me feel ashamed of myself for not being braver. This was my duty. I was your wife. I remember holding my breath until I was smaller, smaller, smaller until I could fit into the palm of your hand. I remember shaking on the kitchen floor: the wine bottle shattered beside me that you had thrown across the room in frustration. “Where were you?” That’s what triggered it tonight. Tomorrow you would say you were sorry. You would hold me and tell me that life wasn’t worth living if it wasn’t for me: that I was beauty and goodness and better than every blooming thing in our garden until I melted back into you and said “yes. I love you, you are mine, rest on my lap and be still”. But then. I would wake up to you on top of me moaning a name—not mine—and covering my mouth until you came. You plant me a garden, write me a song, hold my hand and dance with me in the street until I lean into you and you come home late again: stinking of weed and sex and self-loathing. I remember it hurting more than I thought it would: the knife digging into my wrist. I should have sharpened it, looking back, but it’s dullness is what saved me. I held my arm

over the sink and bled and bled and bled until the world went black. “You had a psychotic break” you tell me and you bury your head in your hands. “You cannot love me anymore- it is like putting your heart in a blender” I hate that you are right, but I hate even more that you don’t fight for me. You didn’t even show up for our court date. The judge sat tired and bored behind the bench. I sat anxious, biting the inside of my lip, looking at the hallway hoping you will come running up the stairs to stop this madness. I was hoping you would push through the doors and say “Wait! I am sorry! Here I am!” and shed your skins of addiction and abuse until the beautiful, kind, adventurous, funny, intelligent, passionate, loving person I know was the only thing left. I would laugh and cry and say “there you are!” because I knew you that you were still you beneath it all. But no one was there. You weren’t coming, and it felt like the floor kept dropping out from beneath me and I couldn’t breathe. “Approach the bench” I walk up, alone, in my three-piece suit and uneven bangs I cut myself the week before. “Is your marriage irrevocably broken?” I glance towards the door again to make sure sure you still weren’t there. I nod. “Okay. Take a seat.” He points me towards a chair to wait while he fills out the paperwork. $250 and that nod was all it took to undo the vows we made to each other. I felt it a bit unfair that all the pressure and misunderstandings and immense pain that was our marriage could be unraveled so irrelevantly in a courtroom full of strangers. Nevertheless, it was over, and I was free to unravel and reform and unravel and reform until a new woman emerged from the chaos of my mind. She was broken, but she is beautiful—a warrior, a priestess, and a goddess divine—and I know now that no amount of darkness or pain can stifle her light.

To the girl who could not have hurt me

To the girl who could not have hurt me, I didn’t tell anyone, you know. I didn’t tell anyone that day, that summer, or even that year. My therapist fired me because I didn’t utter a single word in session for 2 months afterwards. Then I convinced my parents that, since I was in 8th grade now, I didn’t need therapy anymore. I want to tell you that things are different now, but I’m not sure that’s as true as I tell myself it is. I saw a new psychiatrist a few days ago. He asked me if I had any sexual abuse in my past. I choked on the word “yes”, swallowed it, and said “sort of, not really” instead. He pushed me for details, and even though I lied and said you were 3 years older than me instead of 2, I still don’t think he believed that another girl could have hurt me. I’ve been thinking of this letter in my head for a while now, but yesterday in class I decided not to write it. Did you know that even in a sexuality studies class at a top university we still only name men as capable of causing sexual trauma? I wrote down about how a victim could be anyone, but those same notes screamed at me that women aren’t perpetrators; you could not be a perpetrator. But how else could I explain the way you still haunt my body? Or how my entire first year of college I had to be drunk to let another woman touch me, because if I was sober, all I could feel were your hands? Or how I’m still too afraid to have a female exam? Sometimes I outline how you were molested by men in your life before you got your hands on me. I guess I figure that if people can connect the root cause to a man, then maybe they’ll believe me. Other times I admit to being a victim of sexual trauma, but don’t say anything else about it; I know that everyone will assume it was a man and so then I won’t have to defend myself. I think that there are some differences today, though. When I sit on the couch in my therapist’s office now, I am able to name that I am a lesbian who was hurt by you. I can say that I believe that cisgender men do not have a monopoly on being perpetrators, because I have known you; I have known you far more intimately than I ever consented to know you. The most important difference today is that, despite what I decided yesterday, I did write this letter. I wrote this letter because you are the girl that hurt me. And I wrote this letter because I know that you are not the only one who doesn’t fit into society’s box of acceptable perpetrators. This letter is to you, but it is not for you; it is for everyone, including me, who needs support to claim the truth of what someone else did to them. All my love, A survivor

Silence

The second it starts

I do not know him. I do not know what he will do but I do know where he is trying to go I grow more fearful with each heartbeat, my feeble attempts to push him away only making him more fervent in his desires my voice betrays me in ways I never imagined it would, every scream dissolving before it passes my lips I am so scared of confronting him that I convince myself I will be able to stop him before it’s too late but I feel his hands roam lower and I startle and begin to pull away but oh god, oh god it’s too late he is holding me down while he positions himself and suddenly it is here and happening and it’s just so fast that I feel the wild tang of panic rise up in my throat like bile and I tense up and I say wait, hold on, stothe second it starts, I am unceremoniously shoved out of my own body. the second it starts, I am ejected from the side door thrust into empty air, clawing at the handle as it locks quickly behind me I am forced to watch from outside, dimly aware of the sloppy squeak of bedsprings, the careless slap of skin-to-skin, her hollow body mindlessly absorbing the shock of impact while shame presses against my skull like a knife please let me back in the lights are out and nobody’s home; at first, he doesn’t seem to notice that she is dead silent, frozen, her concentrated fear a potent paralysis poison

if no one is there to scream, how bad could it be? he gets no response when he barges through doors, forceful fingers worming their way into cabinets and locked drawers she bites her tongue so hard it bleeds, its metallic taste oozing thick and hot down her throat I feel nothing why won’t she put up a fight? I watch him shatter windows, his hungry hands pulling her hair, cupping her face, shoving a searchlight down her throat he cannot see the locked door that stands between us he wants to find me, wants me to bear witness to his unabated destruction so I can take a look around my violently desecrated home and validate his hard work it is not as satisfying, it seems, when I’m not there it is minutes days years later when he finishes, letting her drop back down like a used rag he doesn’t meet her eyes as he sloppily gathers his clothes and exits the room. I have long since stopped scratching at the locked door, I want nothing more than to abandon the scrap heap of my own body. but I can’t hide forever, and soon she reaches me with shaky arms and just like that, I am back in my body but it is no longer my home

A Love Story

He was my world, my everything Wrapped up in the fear and wonder of moving across the ocean, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice what was happening The first year, it was euphoria. It was one person knowing the other so fully That every last corner was filled with the otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s presence The next year was living hell. His hands reached deep into my soul, Found the void that had been growing there And filled it with his narrative Every time I pushed him just a little too far He snapped and the devil came in, Possessed him until he grew tired His eyes became unrecognizable His nostrils flared, breathing got labored Foam frothed at his mouth My lip swelling, neck sore from the chokehold Gasping for breath from the punch to the gut I held him each time he came down from the high of his rage My arms wrapped around him, Crying when he cried, I forgave him, I apologized for making him do it And in the dark I lost another piece of me He was my world, my everything All I had to do was learn to control myself Stop getting jealous when he flirted Stop starting the fights He taught me how to cut myself How to be so angry I could no longer recognize myself

At night I cried in bed, how could I be so evil And in the dark, I lost another piece of me For eight months I drowned, I didn’t know which way was up or down He was the anchor and he was my life vest White knuckles, I held on to the hope That one day it would be like before, Even as the light at the end of the tunnel Grew farther and farther away Time came for me to move back to America This was worth saving Was worth drowning for I stopped eating, because maybe if I got skinny I would hate myself less And get better at loving him He couldn’t hit me anymore Couldn’t pull my hair, scratch my skin Bite me, choke me, spit on me, suffocate me Tear my clothes, kick me But still his words were scalpels Slicing into me each time I called him To talk him out of killing himself Or to tell him I had cut myself again for him My hollow body did its daily duties My tortured psyche debated Whether dying was better than living The only reason I ever made it out of his world alive Was because another boy kissed me Told me I was beautiful

And I remembered there existed life outside of him By now, my two best friends knew that it got physical, as if that was all As if that was enough to describe the past year April 16th, 2015, I said I think I should break up with him And the best thing anyone ever did for me Was when she took my hand, sat me down, Brought the only other person that knew

Do it right now, or you never will

So I did. Over the phone, I heard him smash a lightbulb And shove it down his throat Screaming for mercy, begging me not to. I cried but they held my hands and didn’t let me back down We fought for months. He visited, Mindfucked me into repaying him for his hurt By giving him my body “one last time” I threw up as soon as it was done I don’t live in his fictional world any more But I am still unwrapping, untangling my brain Clawing my way out of the thoughts he planted deep, deep inside me Five years later, his stain is still there. Sometimes I panic, thinking his grip will never truly lift Thinking that engraved into my very core are his dirty fingerprints Thinking parts of me are so sculpted by his hands I don’t know who I am But on that day, April 16th, 2015 In the light, I took back a piece of me.

What about sleeping beauty

I am 17. After watching TV you looked at me. I was only 17. You said I had to kiss you. I was just 17. I wasn’t ready to do it, I was scared. I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes at 17. You grabbed my hands out of nowhere. I had Haphephobia when I was 17. You rubbed my fingers, moved my rings. I made promises when I was 17. “But I had done way more with my first girlfriend the first week we dated.” I had my first boyfriend at 17. “I’m not ready.” My throat feeling like cotton. I was scared at 17. “Why won’t you look at me?” I had trouble making eye contact when I was 17. “Don’t you love me?” I was 17 when I was in love. “Can’t you look at the person you love?” I was 17 when my heart broke. But. You didn’t leave for hours, you rubbed my arms. I was 17 when I first felt my own skin crawl. “Come on. Don’t be so dramatic.” I was 17 when I learned I was dramatic. “Nobody wants a dramatic girlfriend.” I was 17 when I learned I wasn’t wanted. I was 17 when I kissed you. “Come on, now give me a hug too.” I was 17 when I no longer owned my body. “See that wasn’t so bad” I was 17 when I hated myself. I was 17 when I cried myself to sleep. I was 17 when I realized you weren’t a prince, or a frog, or a monster. I was 17 when I realized you weren’t my friend, my companion, my partner, my confidant. I was 20 when I realized you were inpatient, stubborn, wrong. But you were the adult and I was 17, I was asleep and you were wide awake. I was seventeen.

Excerpts from a Memoir :

10/30/17

pg. 5

My day started very...lethargic. I was so tired and sleepy that I could barely get out of bed. I don’t believe this was due to a lack of sleep (even though I had been going to sleep past 2 and getting up before 8 every morning for four days.) Well, perhaps it does have something to do with my sleeping habits, but I believe even that is connected to something different. The feeling in my chest hasn’t gone away. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The day went by and as hours passed, I still felt… off. I was more tired than usual, but more than that, it was really hard to put up my mask. Often times I am able to hide my insecurities, awkwardness, and my emotions behind a mask of fake extraversion and Self-confidence. Today my mask had many cracks, leaving me feeling a little vulnerable and exposed. To be honest, I could’ve enjoyed the feeling if it weren’t for the sadness that accompanied it. Nick was always good at seeing straight through me. Ever since the end of last semester when we started getting closer and closer, he’s been able to tell when something was wrong. Today too, he could sense my ambivalence. He just looked at me, and asked me what was wrong. Said I looked “confused.” I didn’t know it at the time, but I was confused. Confused by a hodgepodge of emotions that I didn’t know what to do with. That’s nothing new though, it’s been happening often these days. Even so, I can honestly say that talking with Nick was the highlight of my day. We spent the day catching up with each other, goofing around, talking with friends, and making each other feel so uncomfortable it was hilarious (which was mostly Nick trying and me actually succeeding. Perks of being bi with straight guy friends I guess!) It was a blast. … 12/6/17 pg. 13 As I sit in the dark of my room, Aria sleeping in our guest bed while my roommate Guille sleeps in his own, I contemplate why I love douchebags so much (at 4am) instead of writing my research paper. It’s a strange thought you know? To like someone despite how mean they are to you. Rather, it is that very meanness that is the reason why you like them so much in the first place. It’s strange. Why do I like people that treat me like crap sometimes? The thought first came to mind when I was hanging out with a drunk Nick, and drunk Nick can be a real douchebag. However, I thoroughly enjoy Nick’s company, and I especially enjoyed how much fun drunk Nick could be! Why is that though? Is it because I don’t like myself? Because of all my insecurities, self doubt, and the loathing that I have buried deep down for myself? I don’t know. I only know that I find enjoyment when people ridicule me, and act mean to me. It only makes me want to be there friend even more… you know, as long as I know that I’m already their friend in the first place. It only eggs me on to try even harder. And for the people that are really nice to me, I find it a little… unsettling. I don’t know why. I either just get nervous, get really awkward, or wonder if they like me. And when I think they like me, I find myself trying to make myself like them back. I have so much love for others, yet I find it hard to spare a portion of that same love for myself. Everyone keeps telling me about how everyone loves me, about how Im so “popular” and know so many people, but do I really? I know a lot of names, but do I truly know anything about what’s behind them? Because a 34

lot of them don’t truly know me. What they like is the me I show them. I’m worried by that. Worried that if I show them anything else that… they’ll come to hate me. Another thing I’ve noticed is that I minimize my own experiences a lot. I need to flat out acknowledge them. For instance, the fact that I was sexually assaulted. It took me a while to actually fully realize this. Sure, we were both high, sure we’ve had sex a lot of times before, and sure he used to be my best friend. I also used to have feelings for him. Shit, I still have a lot of feelings for him. But I didn't say yes. I didn’t want him to cheat on his girlfriend again. I didn’t say anything. He asked, but I didn’t say anything. I followed him back to his room and- I let it happen. It hurt… a lot. There was blood there too. And I have to acknowledge this. I have to acknowledge all of this, and I can’t just brush it away. For the longest time, I minimized how I’ve felt about it. I’ve been quick to try to accept and get over it, not allowing myself to feel anything. Now I know that, that’s just it. I’m not allowing myself to feel. That’s how I protect myself. Repressing my experiences and emotions can’t be the right way to protect myself. … 12/12/17

pg. 15

In an effort to write somewhat semi-consistently, I think I’ll start to try this whole journal thing again as a once a week effort. So, to detail the events of the week that has come to past… One thing fails to escape my thoughts as I lie down in my bed, staring at the ceiling in a futile effort to avoid it. “I haven’t told Nick yet.” The words play over and over again in my head. Even so, I try to avoid it. No matter how much time I spend on my phone, or how much I try to enjoy my flights of thought, this one in particular pervades each and every cloud. It all boils down to the fact that I feel a little guilty. Perhaps, maybe more than just a little… This week, I came to realize something. Last week when I accompanied a drunk Nick to his room, I stayed for a while, wrapped up in conversation as usual. Everything was normal and I was fine… until he started undressing. It’s not like I haven’t seen Nick in his underwear before, or that I didn’t particularly “like” the sight. It was this, coupled with his intoxication that…scared me - and I didn’t know why. For the longest time, I was nervous. Even as we continued conversation, even as he started playing his xbox, even as I pretended everything was normal. I was nervous… nervous that - he might try to do something. With me. And I was worried, MOST of all, that I would just sit there and let it happen. Like with what happened withI thought I had accepted it and moved on. But there’s a lot that I’m just really fucked up inside. And I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Now I find it really affecting me and my real friendships. Even the ones closest to me. ~END~

12_4_18 I am alone in a crowd full of people. Many is to some is as one to none. I feel like a walking ghost, non-existent, whispering amongst myself. You look at me, but I am not me. I am an optical illusion of what is nothing. I am the abstract expression of burden, trouble, mislead, lost. Lost. I am a sea that you drown your sorrows in. I am the air that you breath everyday-yet ignore. Absentmindedly willowing through my embodiment. I am. I am. I am not. I am not human. I am not rational. I am NOT CRAZY. Yes. NO. YES. No. I am a widow of myself. Half of me has died, yet half of me lives, or at least tries, or at least does whatever the fuck you guys call living. The greatest imitation of life. No, the greatest imitation would be what these damn psychiatrists and psychologists or whatever the fuck you wanna call them try to make you do when they put you on these medications. Lexapro. Seroquel. Risperdal. Lamotrigine. 25 mg. 50 mg. 100 mg. 150. Be careful. These medications can leave you prone to ( like in them commercials they try to hurry up and slide by) heart attack, lactation from breasts, seizures, difficulty breathing (as if it wasn’t already hard enough to do), DEATH!! Yeah, let’s just bring me to the brink of what I was already coming close to, assholes. HOW THE FUCK does this shit, a fucking blue, or white, or whatever the fucking color pill suddenly, or miraculously make everything okay. With just the swallow of a blue or white pill, huh, not even blue or red like in the matrix, I learn to forget. I learn to disguise. I learn to hide myself behind a masquerade of happiness. I learn to pretend. I learn to “exist” without living just so I won’t jump off a 5 story building. I learn to be silent, not even loud enough for my own ears to hear the insults my brain throws around. I learn to listen to the sound of a spark, the sound of my “chemical imbalance” finally re-connecting. An electrical problem, no problem. Like Bob the builder, we can fix it. Barack Obama, YES WE CAN!!! I let the sodium potassium channels do that shit they be talking about in my psychbio class (or was it biology class, whatever) where it makes it so my neurotransmitters can travel more smoothly from the dendrites of my presynaptic neurons through the synapse into the axon of my postsynaptic neurons. Yay. I remember something. Yet, I remember nothing. I don’t remember. I don’t know. I refuse to know. I won’t let myself know. No. No is No. I said no. Did I? I thought I said no, but my mind never knows. Maybe his mind did the same thing. Maybe he just couldn’t process the word no. I mean, everyone learns (or should learn) what a no is, but maybe I just didn’t say it loud enough. Maybe I just mumbled it under the restraints of his hands over my mouth. Maybe deep down, I never said it. Am I sure? Maybe he knew deep down that I had an unsaid desire for it. Maybe I had it coming. Maybe all those years I begged for a humbling experience, where I would learn pain, agony, misery, torment. Isn’t that what we all want, deep down? Something to cry about? Whine about? A desperate call for the attention her daddy never gave her? I said no. But no doesn’t mean no. I wandered into a stranger’s arms and into a stranger’s home, and into a stranger’s fate. My fate. So the time for no is long gone. Past 12 o’clock in the morning, “no” no longer lives here. A skirt above the knee, “no” no longer lives here. A girl by herself whose had a little too much to drink, “no” no longer lives here. Its all yes’s from here. Here, leaves the door open for anything. Anything will be an automatic yes. There will be no point in crying. Pity is for the weak. Pity is merely entertainment here. He laughs at my fight, my

might, my bite. My tight p-. His height towers over my security. My purity. The one that never existed. Resisted. Yes, officer. I resisted. He persisted. WHo can back up your story? Just a story. Just a story that keeps being read to us. Happily ever after, but for the girls we never get saved. Our prince charming never comes to slay the dragon, carry us from the daunting height of the tower we spent our lives in, waiting to be saved by a man. Sweep me off my feet, awake me with a kiss that makes me yours. I owe you, how can I ever repay you. How can I ever repay you for the things you have done? You’ve taught me so much. More than you could ever imagine. Hmm. Imagine that. A world where women don’t lay as mats for the swarm of men to wipe the dirt from the bottom of their shoes. This is their world, and ladies, well goddamn it, we just live in it. We don’t fit. We don’t fit into the little space leftover from their egocentric way of life. We’ve tried squeezing our way, pushing, mushing, and well- there’s no room for us. Me. There’s no room for me. Don’t bother making room for me. I only want to tell my story and I’ll be on my way. This way or that way? WHich way? They. They think I’m crazy. They think I do irrational things. They think I need help. They think I will commit suicide if I don’t get the blue or white pill help. Help me. Please, help me. Help me before they they help me. I’m reaching out my hands through the blue ink on this paper, through the voice you used to read this and make the dots connect that will never. Find me. Please, find me. I’ve left a trail for you. Please find me before the final darkness does. Please hide me. Hide me so that I can never be found out. Please help.

Dear Mom and Dad Dear Mom and Dad, I want so badly to explain everything… but I just can’t find the words courage strength to tell you face to face what happened to me You know something is off, you just don’t know what You know I’m not “myself” but honestly, after all this time, who is the “old me?” I’ve forgotten her You don’t understand why I am so anxious defensive closed off

Why can’t you talk to us? Why don’t you come home more? Were we bad parents? Was your life that traumatic?

Yes, in ways you can’t even imagine And no you weren’t perfect parents, but this pain is not your doing This pain comes from a man you know all too well a man who “would never hurt me” a man you trust a man you love So I keep quite holding your world intact shielding you from the trauma of the truth because, if you knew, it might kill you

or maybe it would kill me because what if after all of this you still donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe what if I pour out my soul just for it to be twisted, fingers pointing back at me It takes a different kind of strength to survive the weight of abuse violence assault but this strength doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t negate the fear of rejection of not being heard of retraumatization it never will it never could So I keep quite, until I am strong enough ready to speak up to let go to forgive to find my way back to myself Mom, Dad, I forgive you for the things that were out of your control for not realizing for not seeing what was really going on under the surface I hope one day this will all make sense to you we will be able to put ourselves back together again we will all heal Love, Your little girl

Thoughts I Have

Thoughts I have while I am supposed to be taking notes but my sexual assailant is three seats away his hands recline on the desk loose, resting, separate from him. he’s to blame but they’re the ones who did it: those hands with slow, self-assured energy loose and relaxed while my chest is wound tight as a clock breathing in and out in time with the second hand I concentrate on my professor’s smiling voice but his fingers drum they drum and draw circles on his desk and sit idly on his keyboard stroking and they’re on me and I am so far away sinking into the cushions the room slowly spinning his hands so relaxed and on me and my chest is wound like a clock so tight I can’t breathe but in the dark of my mind I can’t feel my own heart racing my eyes blink heavy and those hands are draped on my breasts like locusts on a field like locusts raining from a clear sky blanketing the hills and wounding everything he wound me up so tight I may never unwind never let my lungs expand without that sharp grip of dread that he’s around the next corner behind me as I walk home beside me in class raising his hand and it’s the hand that he put on me and his voice shudders through my chest like a ghost passing through just shivering through my body he haunts me and when my chest is gripped the tightest and my whole body thrums with energy when I time my footsteps with shallow, calming breaths I begin to tremble with anger need? desire punch I want to punch him I want

to wrestle him to the ground and pull out his teeth by the root I want to wrap myself around him squeeze his face until his cheekbones bruise underneath my fingers I want to possess him and enter his body and take up his space and shove him apart from within I want him to shove me up against a wall and fuck me I want to drive my fingers through the bruised skin of his arms into muscle and push my fingers up inside of his veins I want him to kiss me so hard our bones and bodies combine into one and our tendons weave together and he cries I want to pick him apart from within until he feels my aching emptiness I want to grind sand into his skin digging the heels of my hands in until the barrier between him and me is thin and raw I crave his flesh I want those hands dragging from chin to chest digging into my hips and yanking me closer gripping my neck gripping my neck until my veins bulge and I bruise and his hands squ e e ze and I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe my chest is so tight I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe and my rage-fear-need becomes one I want to wrap my arms around his body and pull we are two magnets I want to put his negative side towards mine and p u l l our bodies repelling harder and harder magnets shaking against each other unable to touch I want to pull until my muscles tear away from my bone and blood oozes from my eyes and I finally donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel so alone

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We would like to sincerely thank our advisors, Dr. Christine Ristaino and Jamechya Duncan. Dr. Ristaino is a Senior Lecturer in the Emory University Department of French and Italian Studies, and she is also an advocate for violence prevention, diversity, and equal rights. Jamechya is a Respect Educator and Survivor Resource Specialist in the Office of Respect, Emoryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s center for interpersonal violence prevention and response. Their support has been integral in the process of growing this publication. We would also like to express our profound gratitude to our contributors for their commitment to raising awareness and promoting healing. Without them, this publication would not be possible.

RESOURCES

On-Campus Resources

Off-Campus Resources

The Office of Respect (404) 727-1514 Emory Police Department (404) 727-6111

Day League 24-hours confidential crisis line (404) 377-1428 Free counseling service (404) 377-1429

Title IX Coordinator for Students, Judith Pannell (404) 727-4079 jpanne2@emory.edu

Emory Decatur Hospital Emergency Department Ask to speak with a physicianâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s assistant (404) 501-5350

Student Health and Counseling Services (404) 727-7551

National Dating Abuse Helpline 24-hour confidential crisis line (866) 331-9474 Live online chat support 5 p.m. - 3 a.m. EST loveisrespect.org

Counseling and Psychological Services (404) 727-7450 Emory University Hospital (404) 712-7201 Emory Helpline (404) 727-HELP (404) 727-4357 Sexual Assault Peer Advocates sapa.emorylife.org/advocates

RAINN Rape, Abuse, and Incest Hotline 24-hour confidential hotline (800) 656-HOPE 24-hour confidential online hotline ohl.rainn.org/online Promise Place Georgia 24-hour domestic violence hotline (800) 334-2836

CONTACT For more information about our organization, how to get involved, or how to submit work, please visit our website, contact us through social media, or send us an email. Website Email Facebook Instagram

www.survivoranthology.org emory.survivor.anthology@gmail.com facebook.com/survivoranthology @emory_survivor_anthology

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