VOLUME II
SPRING 2018
VOLUME II
THE VOICES OF SURVIVORS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, RELATIONSHIP ABUSE & SEXUAL ASSAULT AND ALLIES, ADVOCATES, & ACTIVE BYSTANDERS
THE SURVIVOR ANTHOLOGY EXECUTIVE BOARD 2017-18
CO-PRESIDENTS
CLARE ELIZABETH FOGARTY SONIA GHURA CARLI KOVEL
SUMISSIONS MANAGER
MONICA SCHWEIZER
TREASURER
TAMEKA PIERRE-JEAN
LAYOUT EDITOR
ALLISON LIN
GENERAL BOARD MEMBERS
EDDIE PARK ALEXIS SUTTON ZOEY ZHANG
OFFICERS AT LARGE
VALERY BERENSHTEIN JENNY BRAVERMAN DREW BRYANT ALISHA COMPTON CAROLINE KNOX WINKIE MA TANIA TREJO-MENDEZ YUNQIAO XU
ADVISORS
JAMECHYA DUNCAN, MA CHRISTINE RISTAINO, PHD
A LETTER FROM THE BOARD Welcome to the second 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. 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, sexual assault and related issues are extremely prevalent on college 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 and safe sharing their work if they wish to do so. Therefore, our goal is to accept every submission we receive, and all pieces are published anonymously with no identifying information. Please understand and respect that all the work in this anthology is inspired by real occurrences that encompass a wide range of experiences and emotions. If you feel triggered or need assistance, please see our resources guide on page 38. We have been humbled and proud to witness the incredible outpouring of bravery, solidarity and support among and for survivors across the world over the past year. From the #metoo and #timesup movements to the Silence Breakers who were made Time magazine’s “Person of the Year,” we applaud the bravery of those who came forward. To both the men and women who chose to share and those who chose not to, we offer our support. Much of our executive board will graduate this spring and pass the leadership of this publication on to a new generation of Emory students. It has been a great honor to produce this second volume of The Survivor Anthology. We would like to thank our contributors for sharing their powerful work, trusting us with their stories, and making The Survivor Anthology possible. We would also like to express our gratitude for the guidance of our incredible advisors, Jamechya Duncan and Christine Ristaino. 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 occurred 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 38.
TABLE OF CONTENTS Humanizing Mom 4:07 PM Her Light On Emotional Dependence Metamorphosis Learning to Write Dead Fish The Devil Wears a Navy Backpack Crossing Myself Let Us Disagree Kuebiko My Body, Pt. 3 Welcome to the Hunting Ground Psalm 23:4 I Did Not Say Yes Untitled
11 12 13 14 16 18 20 21 22 25 26 28 29 30 32 34
Acknowledgements Resources & Information Contact Us
37 38 39
HUMANIZING MOM Mother, look me in the eye, Let me see your tired flesh and Aging bones, let me see you as Human and not monster who left scars Around my calves from being dragged Into our home, Skin peeling. I passed out from the pain, All horror stories and no Love. Mother, look me in the eye, Let me see your laughter Bubble from your lips like an ocean spring, Shared with me like water, Healing. Let me see you as human and not monster who laughed at me when I told you I wanted to kill myself, Who laughed at my brother when you Found his suicide note an hour too early and his lips were not yet blue. Mother, look me in the eye, Let me see the I love you’s on your lips Radiate out in actions, Let me see the gifts you’d buy me with your last scraps of money, and not the semester you spent living at your boyfriend’s place Leaving me to starve, How you spent Mother’s Day curled up against his side and I spent it with my own arms around me Blaming myself for being alone. Mother, let me see you as human, and not the swell in your body That was supposed to make a mother but Grew a child without one Instead.
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4:07 PM pencil shavings, newspaper clippings these are what line the floor he hasn’t shaved in about a week this is what occupies my mind and I clench my fists inside my broken pockets because I swear to god I can’t see anything my fingertips are cold I cannot supply the warmth he desires walking walking walking the same route there and back every single day only now I’ve been painted shut inside a box that proclaims it was my fault for fucking around and the artist in me is screaming that numbness is overused but I feel nothing towards you anymore the mirror outside of me begs to differ yet I still make it back home safely every single day despite the fact that I still smell like you and I still taste you And once I trick myself into thinking clearly the artist in me recalls that the sleeves of my sweater are still stretched out just like your perception of the truth
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HER LIGHT For the last twenty years of her life she was never satisfied, with her plate-round face, squinty eyes, and substantial waistline. She was never good enough for the tall and slim boys she prized; her ex once gave away how he liked her gleaming spine. With her plate-round face, squinty eyes, and substantial waistline, she bruised her days with self-denial and mirror-shattering cries. Her ex once gave away how he liked her gleaming spine; despite her wilting heart, she thrived in his lies. She bruised her days with self-denial and mirror-shattering cries; the gym was her appearance asylum and food became a crime. Despite her wilting heart, she thrived in his lies-Collar bones and thigh gap were just a matter of time. The gym was her appearance asylum and food became a crime; the arc of her smile maximized as the number minimized. Collar bones and thigh gap were just a matter of time; by the end of the semester she was hardly recognized. The arc of her smile maximized as the number minimized. Girls’ green eyes followed her in her jeans, skin tight. By the end of the semester she was hardly recognized-Mom saw her, skin over bones, with tears contorting her sight. Girls’ green eyes followed her in her jeans, skin tight; yet pride could not disguise the pain every sleepless night. Mom saw her, skin over bones, with tears contorting her sight; with falling hair and protruding hipbones, she shivered in daylight. Yet pride could not disguise the pain every sleepless night; doubts messed with her breath, and her mind uptight. With falling hair and protruding hipbones, she shivered in daylight; ghrelin would overthrow insulin and start a revolutionary fight. Doubts messed with her breath, and her mind uptight; ghrelin overthrew insulin and started a revolutionary fight. And here she is a year later, in baggy sweaters and a forced smile, with her plate-round face, squinty eyes, substantial waistline, and an appetite always suppressed, but never satisfied.
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ON EMOTIONAL DEPENDENCE A lot of people ask me why they have to ask my permission before they hug me or why I am afraid of being near people. When I try to explain to them that it’s because I was in an abusive relationship for a year, they say they’re sorry but that they don’t understand why I stayed. And it’s really quite simple, actually. When you love someone and you think they love you back just as much, it’s nearly impossible to let go. And when someone can convince you that they love you and hurt you as much as they do, they are charming, amazing liars that your parents fall in love with because they just don’t know. And you don’t really know, either but you think you do. It’s how he tells you it hurts his feelings that you spend time talking to other people when he made time to talk to you instead of his friends. It’s how you protest at first because these are your best friends, but he looks down at his shoes and bites his lower lip and says he misses you and how can you say no to that? And suddenly two months have passed and your friends think you are mental and have abandoned them for some guy who took your interest. And when you cry because they have moved on without you, the only person you have to turn to is him and when he says they don’t realize your worth, you believe him and don’t bother trying to fix those broken friendships. That is when the abuse starts because you no longer have friends to tell you that when you say you don’t want to have sex with him, it is not okay that he tells you that you’re making him suicidal by doing so. More importantly, it is not okay when he threatens to kill himself if you don’t. But you don’t know that, so you shed a few layers of clothes and when he moves in to kiss you, you start to cry and he says he’s sorry and that he loves you and goes and finds some other girl to share the time. So you pull your clothes back over your skin and you feel like something in you has been cracked open and you try to pull back your spilling guts but they are everywhere and you don’t know how to stop bleeding. You don’t know how it came to this and you have no idea he’s seeing another girl so you just put on oversized clothes and try to stop feeling dirty. The next week, your hands shake when you go near him and there is this emptiness in your chest and when he presses your arms above your head and kisses you, you want to scream but you don’t because you feel bad. He says you owe him an apology for saying no the last time and you are crying so hard you can’t talk and finally, he snaps out of it and sees you only you aren’t you anymore. You have drifted away from your body and you are watching everything happen to you and he is trying to pull you back in but he can’t, he can’t and he cries and says he didn’t mean to but deep inside, you know he’s lying. So he introduces you to a new friend who’s pretty and sweet and for the first time, you feel hope for something, anything. You two talk for hours and hours about anything and by the time a month has passed, she is your best friend only you find her sleeping with your boyfriend a month later and you scream because she was the only thing that made it okay and she was a lie. And that is when you go cold, colder than ice, so cold you can’t feel a goddamn thing. When he tries to talk to you, you are so silent and he is treating you like a China doll but you are too broken to know how to be a person. There is no energy for anything and so you sit in bed all day and stare at a wall and cry. Your teacher asks you why your grades have dropped from straight As to failing and you mumble something about best friend issues. They tell you they hope things get better but that grades are important and you want to cry but there is nothing left to give. Two months pass and he tells you that he will kill himself if you don’t slice your arm with a razor and you tell him that you have been clean for almost a year and he says if you don’t do it, I will and when the blood starts to run down his wrists you do it and for the first time, you cry. You cry and cry and
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you can’t stop. You cry on the way to school and in the school bathroom and during class and in your sleep and you can’t stop. Your hands are always shaking and you feel like a ticking time bomb but there is no one to ask if you’re okay so you look at yourself and try to reassemble the pieces but there is nothing left, there is nothing left. And when you try to kill yourself he says he loves you as if it’s enough and you are so angry that you cannot die yet because he must feel your pain first. And so you hate him. You hate him and her and you hate them so much you wish you wanted to choke them with your own two hands and when they beg you to be kind you laugh and laugh and say they killed that person long ago. You are so angry you cannot think, cannot feel. You just move, move, move but underneath it all, you still love them and when you see them hurt, your heart still peels wide open and you want to hug them until they feel like hot chocolate inside and out. But you can’t, because every time you hug them they stab you in the back and then get mad at you for bleeding. And you cry, because you just want him to be happy but he’s only happy if you’re not and so you blame yourself when he says he is hurt that you are crying when you catch him sleeping with her again. You feel your chest crumble and you see yourself turning to ashes but somehow, your body is still upright without a soul in it. Your heart is beating so fast as you stare at them that it gives out and when you fall to your knees, he sees you but it is too late. Your heart is dead and you cannot love him or anyone. You are sprawled on the ground shaking and he is holding your body in his hands and for the first time, you see him cry because he knows there is no getting you back this time. She pulls the sheets over her body and looks at you with hatred because the moment you are in the room you are all he sees. He says he’s sorry but your face is slack and your eyes are glazed over. You go to school and your hands won’t stop trembling and you have forgotten how to smile but there is no one to notice. You try and talk to your teacher to see if she can help you but she doesn’t notice a goddamn thing is wrong and so you walk away without telling her what is happening inside of your rib cage. There is something rotting in there and so one day, you pry it open and let it spill onto journal pages and cry when you see how sad you have become. You stomp into his room and ask him how he could cheat on you and he says it was okay because he was teaching me how to accept it. Manic laughter poured from my mouth like tidal waves. “You never loved me,” I said. It was the first thing my heart felt in months. I left him without a word, at 7 P.M. on the first day of June with the Texas sun blistering my golden skin. I laid in a bikini on my bed and watched the light filter through my dusty windows. There was nothing left but sunshine and loss. I turned on the shower and let cold water run through my hair and along the curve of my hips and I cried when I saw my scars. I fell to my knees and cried and cried and my intestines were curling with shame. Shame that I had stayed with him so long, shame that I wasn’t strong enough to leave earlier, shame that I still loved him. I had left home, but it had never been mine. I was so blind by my need for a home that I never realized that there was a perfectly good one within myself. I built my own home in my heart and it has no doors. Visitors come to and from with smiles like split open suns, our laughter spilling through the windows. There are wildflowers sprawled across the walls and my love provides sunshine for all only this time, his love is not the sun that sustains my life. My love for myself is, and I have never been happier. I sometimes am afraid that the next person who wanders through my open heart will have a love like an axe and they will try to chop me down like I am a tree, but it is about time I realized I am no forest. I am the fire. Once you learn to burn, there is always something to be kindled within. I don’t know how not to love over boiling point. I don’t know how not to be too much for anyone. I don’t know, but what I do know is this: He turned me to ashes and I became a wildfire. Tell me who else could survive that. Tell me who would want to.
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METAMORPHOSIS I stopped saying maple syrup style dreams because It was one of sexual assaulter’s favorite things about me. He said I was magical like My child eyes were one of the woman splattered on Playboy magazine and not Those of a freshly minted eighteen year old. I sometimes think that He found my need to sleep with stuffed animals and Inability to be anything but honest as A turn on. I wonder what drove him to me, If it was my tumbling ebony waves or the way my curves always flared a bit more than most my age Was it the delicate pairing of My baby cheeks and bright eyes with The budding womanhood of My body, The way my chest has spilled from my bra since I was 13 and My ass the continual talk of the upperclassmen? Every college essay always had a prompt about What made you come to age and I never chose it because I never really felt like I was an adult Not really Not in my bones until He slipped his hands in my pants for my eighteenth birthday and Shattered any semblance of innocence I had in me. My therapist has me take deep breaths Tells me to practice pushing my arms out slowly slowly And then all at once Says it will give this body back to me Reclaim it as mine instead of his
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Every place he touched me feels like A cave covered in icicles just waiting To fall and pierce my organs to death. I feel like I am continually frozen And every reminder of him is Melting through the ice and Suddenly I cannot stop crying and As my knees hit the ground My mother wraps me in her tender arms and says, “I wish it could have happened to me instead of you.” I tell her that I don’t want anyone to Have to experience this kind of pain. I tell her I feel so sad. I tell her sometimes I feel like I’m screaming and No one can hear me cry out for help. I don’t know how to swallow trauma when Half the time, I have trouble swallowing The ex part of my ex best friend and The stress of normal life. I don’t know if I can handle this but I am trying I am breaking out of every wall I have built Carved out of false insecurities I tell myself: You are strong You are a warrior You will survive I am more alive than I have ever been. I am in more pain than I have ever been. But god damn it If there is anything in this world I can do It is not just making it out alive. It is truly living.
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LEARNING TO WRITE I sometimes think of you When I write poetry and that’s why For so long, I had to stop Because my mouth was a bleeding bruise Of all of the memories suffocating in me And before I could shout a warning There you were Your ice blue eyes sealed into my eyelids with Wax every morning when I jolt out of bed Like my spine is constructed of lightning Like I am constructed of fear of you I started crying in the shower the other day Because I remembered what you did to me How my muscles cringed away from my skin My body from my vulva I could not bear to be close to anything you had touched but I did not know what to do because You had touched me But that does not mean that I am yours It just means that the first month after I had situational depression, I Would stay up crying on the bathroom floors eating ice cream and That I’d scream into mountain ranges asking why why why like there was ever an answer
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All I know comes from Google searches about Child Grooming A) Get close to said child. B) Desensitize them to close touching. C) Convince them nobody cares about them D) Except you. Always you. How many relationships have you cost me Just so you could get a chance at raping me For my eighteenth birthday? How much of my life were you willing to ruin Just to get that chance? How many hours were you willing to pour into Investing in making me so sure no one loved me That I stopped loving myself? I used to have anxiety before it happened Your sexual assault It hit me so hard I shattered and when I got up I realized Nothing could ever break me because Nothing could ever be worse than what you did I have already survived Hell I repeat: I have already survived Hell. The game of life is over. I fucking won but damn it I was too young I am too young To have gone through this much No one should ever Have to hold a pain This heavy
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DEAD FISH You injected your Deoxyribo Nucleic Acid in me licked my veins sucked my bone marrow bruised my spine muffled my skull blinded my skin stifled my sight and burned the oxygen right in front of my gasping mouth That’s what they teach in Orgo class nowadays, I see You forget that I remember the tongue-tied twitches by my parted lips as spastic as my pinned-down legs as spastic as my cut-open artery the feeble heaving of my clogged lungs as buried as my ceiling-clingy gaze as buried as the clumprudish me in your “jeez why are you looking like a dead fish” joke... (Cuz you said we would go at my pace but then you flipped at my “No...”) Stomach cells regenerate every five days epidermis every two weeks But I wish having a whole-body transplantation were as easy as you dissecting me in that lab
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THE DEVIL WEARS A NAVY BACKPACK When I asked you why you wanted to join a club for Survivors and supporters you told me it was because you “wanted to show them that there are still good guys out there.” Because of you, I no longer know if this is true.
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CROSSING MYSELF my entire life i watched as my middle school classmates with their blemished skin and metal train tracks sliding along their teeth, watched their bright eyes widen in awe and horror, mouths a gap when Friday the 13th rolled around the corner I never understood what made a single day something worth being so afraid of. I clasped my romance novels in my palms like My grandmother crossed herself the way the Catholic church taught her Perhaps her utterance of, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” is what made her symbol of protection more Fruitful than mine On Sunday the 20th, day of the Lord Mighty God, -How Art Thou Be in Heaven?A tall, lanky man with white stubble rolled around my corner In his white pickup truck The summer before, he’d called himself my uncle when He’d let me stay with him and his wife for a week in the Great State of Hawaii He’d said I was like his niece, then He steps out of the truck and says happy birthday With the kind of enthusiasm that makes me roll my eyes 18 was the beggining of adulthood- a step into a world I had always seen but never truly touched After dinner, he tells me he has my present back in his hotel room and when he tells me that it’s a five minute trust exercise I raise my eyebrows and tell him that’s a bit weird but He asks me if I trust him and Looks sad and I feel guilty for the curdling of my organs so I say, “Yes.” And before I know it we are on his bed in his hotel room Reading poems when He announces it, like he’s the radioman in the sports arena: “I want to take care of you like a parent but I also want to make love to you like you are my Lover. I know it makes me a bad person, but I can’t help it. I need it, so I’m going to make love to you.” I freeze. Every atom in me is stitched to icicles. I can’t breathe. Speak. Anything. He is on top of me before I can move, his eyes glittering As he peers at me. I shut my eyes, swallow, say, “I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think it’s a bad action, but one action isn’t indicative of who you are as a whole person.” Your laughter rings in my ears like the pulsing sounds I’d get during vertigo, My whole world trembling in and out of existence. “You’re sweet to say that, but I know I’m a bad person. You’re too kind.” 22
His body slams like concrete into mine and then His tongue is in my mouth His hands in my hair Lips pressed against my neck My collarbone Me I feel something pouring out of me Feel empty Like someone is pulling out each of my organs and before I know it There will be nothing left Just skin Just skin For some reason, I can’t stop thinking of my ex boyfriend’s face His smile I imagine him saying he loves me It makes me feel less empty less like I’m drowning less like I can’t breathe Icantbreathe His hand shoots into my underwear and then i feel him he barks at me to open my eyes to say that i love him so i do voice cracking I tell him I need to use the bathroom and Race in there, lock the door, stare at my reflection There are tears everywhere Mascara stains lining my cheeks i don’t understand how i’m wet but my cheeks are too i touch the mirror once to make sure this is real that this isnt a nightmare i fall onto my knees and cry because i dont know if hes going to kill me i have so many regrets i think of my mom my dad my brothers my sisters my ex boyfriend I think of how awfully it ended between us how If I die today he’ll think I never loved him that Our relationship was nothing but it’s not, it’s not I realize that i’m still in love with him I realize that my mom might think i hate her because in our last conversation We were arguing and All i can think is about how much i wish i could take it back
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I think of my brothers, how I’ll never get to say good bye I pray to God for the first time since I realized I was bi He doesn’t say anything back I brush my tears off in the bathroom because If he sees them he might get angry and I walk into the room Sit on the bed Skin trembling Shaking I can’t focus on anything He goes into the bathroom and I look at the door but I am frozen. I cannot stop shaking I curl up into a ball and stay there. I hear the door unlock and when he sees me His face looks all weird So I force myself to sit criss cross He asks me if I want to spend the night and I shake my head no so He takes me home He asks me if I’m cold because I can’t stop shaking and I can’t speak so I shrug and He tells me he can’t believe I’m cold That he feels so hot The entire car ride home he talks to me about things I can’t remember Everything feels wrong My chest is a bruise My body a sack of skin I cannot peel it off me I know because over the next four months I scrub my skin so hard it bleeds but I still feel like he’s on me I kiss boys in movie theaters I don’t like And let them slide their palmy hands over breasts So he’s not the last person to touch me I cry into my mother’s arms for so long I feel like i’m no longer a person That people like him exist scares me
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LET US DISAGREE I sit on my mother’s bed and I cry I tell her of this man who Used me Abused me Held me down And raped me In my own bed I tell her of this man who Was bigger, stronger, faster, Who I couldn’t escape No matter how hard I fought I beg her not to let him in the house again And she tells me of how sometimes We want something Really bad And realize too late That we really Didn’t want it My mother tells me that It was my fault And she calls him my boyfriend My mother tells me I wanted it And that I deserve This disease he gave me That it serves me right For being a slut I say She’s wrong
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KUEBIKO The first time I meet someone with his name with the same bright blue eyes The air gets stuck in my throat and i stare at them heart beating like butterfly wings like pounding rain like everything inside me is breaking i feel my organs unwind like his existence has caught my heart by a fish hook and He is reeling up every piece of me until There is nothing left. Did you hear me? There is nothing left. There is a hunger in my belly a fire, it is raging, it is touching everything I love with burning tendrils the color of crimson roses of kisses of everything that was supposed to be love but wasn’t, wasn’t not with him no the SEX WAS SUPPOSED TO MEAN SOMETHING. It was supposed to mean something and it does but not like thisNot like this. Not like the way I hold my heart like a dying flower Like a weed Like I keep staring at old selfies like it’s my open casket funeral like my whole word has been divided into
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Before
And
After,
(I was sexually assaulted)
I cried. for hours. for days. At first, there were no words no sounds just my own heaving breaths my saline tears slipping along the caverns of my golden cheeks just my body this skin Me
the days roll by but the clock face is broken. time is a tapestry stitched by blind women soaked in good intentions. the first time i speak it is my ex best friend’s name it sounds like rain in the summer time feels like the atomic bomb is going off and my chest has become Hiroshima and i am bleeding senseless violence kuebiko all over my chest is a grave yard i am still burying my ex best friend like i am my innocence they are holding hands
sometimes i picture my ex best friend see his molten chocolate eyes hear him say: “Sarah, it’s not your fault. It’s not.” but i keep thinking, keep thinking How did I not know? Not realize? my family says if it was them, they would have known but i-- i did not know and that seems to have cost me
Everything.
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MY BODY (PT. 3)
I touch my body as if it a museum of you I slip my fingers inside me to feel The place where you once were. You slid your hands across my skin like I was made of metal Like I am not entirely fragile, made of glass Like I can tolerate anything more than gentle touching, gentle kissing, gentle everything When I left you, I told you you couldn’t break me but I lied. You left me so shattered that I had to cover the five mirrors in my bedroom with sheets because Every time I saw my body I felt like it was yours And not mine Even when I left you, my desire still ran rampant No matter how horribly you treated me I was still aching and horny at night Body begging for your touch I felt like a monster for needing you.
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WELCOME TO THE HUNTING GROUND Everything burns-The grams of sugar like shards of glass slicing me seeing me opening me into this--this person with my dilapidated skin it is so heavy. so beautiful. so pretty. i remember my stepmother’s voice it floats in the air like cigarette smoke it says: The beautiful do not deserve intelligence. It is not fair. it says: You were given too much beauty too much intellect so Of course we had to take. i should have known the day would come. No, I did know Feared it like a curse like a feeling deep in my belly my gut like You’re too beautiful to not be sexually assaulted. like You see the way they stare. This is the price for being born like you with your sunlit smile your bright eyes your smooth, golden skin your body spilling in all the right places like wine inside of an hourglass figure Did you think that the person to take your cherry Would do it by choice? Don’t be naive, girl Don’t be naive Beauty is the hunting ground and youth-Youth is the prize.
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PSALM 23:4 Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, His head Blonde hair stroked across his neck as though the angels had taken turns with a paint brush But the brush had too much paint It smeared back and forth His head He thrusted Ran from his abuser Grabbed Sucked in Fed and spat out the parables only given to him by the Lost. I will fear His eyes Holes, whole but waning away at the sight of retribution for a sin he did not commit as I, Serpent Master Carer of no one watched one The paint had thinned to reveal
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no evil, but oh, the screaming the screams I did not hear in my dreams until I became the Agressor the pleasure I had when I took the paint from the angels wings and smeared it over her face to hide her to conceal herand it worked. so she took the paint brush and never gave it back. For thou art with me, but then he took the rod and he used His staff The door He locked it, then slammed it My mother grabbed me Wailing Screaming thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
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I DID NOT SAY YES I went into college dating my high school boyfriend. He actually wasn’t even my boyfriend. I really wanted a relationship with him, but he said that he wasn’t ready, and wouldn’t be ready until sophomore year of college. Nonetheless, if a boy even so much as looked at me in a flirty way, I wouldn’t have heard the end of it from him. The first time I drank alcohol was with him. It was the first time I drank and the first time I blacked out. He told me that we needed to drink the entire handle of the honey whiskey his friend got for him as a gift. Here’s what I remember: We were at his friend’s apartment. We started drinking while his friend smoked weed. Him and his friend started playing video games. We were still drinking. Blackness. All of a sudden, I was waddling my way to the bathroom. Blackness. We were walking out the door and I had just ordered an Uber back to his dorm. Blackness. We were getting out of the car. Blackness. We were going up the stairs. He said, “You’re acting really drunk right now.” Blackness. He was on top of me. We were naked. I kept saying, “There’s a condom in my bag. There’s a condom in my bag.” Blackness. He was still on top of me. He said, “You need to make sure there’s enough money in your bank account to get a Plan B tomorrow.” Blackness. I don’t remember anything else besides waking up in the morning completely naked. I was confused. I was in pain. He was dead asleep. I put my clothes on. I walked very slowly, wincing every time I took a step. I was practically walking side to side. I could hardly remember what happened. I don’t even remember if I said yes. I don’t even remember if he finished inside me or not. I went back to my dorm that day, but of course I went back that night when he asked me to come over. I loved him, and at that point, I told myself that I would have said yes anyway. The second time it happened was towards the end of our first semester. We went to different schools but were nearby enough that he always asked me to Uber to him. I had a final the next day at 3PM, but he asked me if I could come over at 1AM. So, I said yes. He told me to find a way to get alcohol. I’m five feet tall and I have a big bust, so getting free alcohol wouldn’t be a problem. I showed up to his dorm with a full 1.75L bottle of Bacardi Gold rum. I had twelve shots. Twelve. The rest of what I remember are bits and pieces of a terrible night, and to this day, after a year and a half, I still try to remember what the other bits and pieces were. We were apparently having sex when I said another guy’s name. I don’t remember any of that, but I remember the argument afterwards. He was yelling at me, saying how could I do something like that during something so intimate. I was sobbing. His roommate was sleeping in the room next to us. I don’t remember how long the argument lasted for. The next thing I remember was accidentally calling him the name again. He grabbed me by my neck and said, “That is not my name. If you call me that one more time you are never coming back here again.” He was practically snarling at me, talking through his teeth. My sobs were too loud. So then he grabbed my arms really hard and said, “If you wake my roommate up, you are never allowed to come back here again.” There were bruises on my arms and neck the next day. The next thing I remember was throwing up in his trashcan. At least he was holding my hair, such a gentleman. Then, there was blackness. There’s another part I remember, and it’s really hard for me to think about it, but I try not to shut it out because I know it’s one of the only things I remember. He made us try anal sex. He said there wasn’t any lube, but he had lotion. Even though I only remember three seconds of it, it was still one of the most painful three seconds of my life.
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The next thing I remember was waking up at 1PM. I was supposed to wake up at 8AM to keep studying for my final. I started crying, which woke him up. He told me to calm down. Once I calmed down, he told me we needed to have sex again. After my final, I would be leaving for a month, and he didn’t want the last time that we had sex to have been when we were drunk. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt like everything that happened was my fault. I felt like I owed him everything. I couldn’t stop telling him I loved him. He just kept saying, “I know.” So, we had sex, and afterwards, he couldn’t even look at me. He said that he wasn’t going to end things with me because he didn’t want to affect my performance on my final, but that we were on thin ice. I went back to school, and I didn’t go to my final. I went to the doctor instead because I felt like I was dying. It’s weird being told that you’re having a panic attack. That was one of the last times I drank, and it was definitely the last time I drank so much that I blacked out. I wish I could have said the same for him. It was the last day of January. At this point, I had finally convinced him to be in a relationship with me. He always said I forced him into it and told me that I would regret doing that. I remember feeling really sad that night. I was supposed to go out with my friends to this concert, but instead I stayed in my room and had a good cry. I asked him if he could come over and take care of me, but he said he had already made plans to go out with friends. A few hours later, he texts me. He’s really drunk, and he can’t find his friends. He doesn’t even know exactly where he is, but he needs help. I get into a Lyft at 2:30AM and drive to the location he sent me. It’s weird, to this day I remember it was a Lyft because I had gotten a Lyft Line, and the driver was telling me how terrible it was to be stuck in a line because you could be in one for over an hour. We got to the address, I got him, and I ordered a regular Lyft with the same driver. He was nice, so I didn’t mind spending the extra money. We got back to his dorm, I helped him get him out of his clothes and into pajamas, and I held the trashcan next to his bed so he could puke. I didn’t want to have sex; he was terribly incoherent. After about an hour, though, he told me to take my clothes off, and we had sex. It was taking a while. Nearly an hour had passed, and we were still going. I was starting to not be in the mood, and the condom was hurting me. I even felt swollen down there. I asked him to stop, but he kept going. So, I asked again. He still kept going. One more time, I said, “Please can we stop for a bit?” He finally responded. “Be quiet.” So I didn’t say anything. Eventually he fell asleep. I went to the next room to cry, and then I went back to bed to go clean him up. He woke up when I was trying to pull up his underwear, and immediately said, “Put it back in.” I told him no, but he put his hand on my chest. I told him to stop, and he said that he was sorry, but he continued to touch me. I was so upset. I told him, “When I say stop you need to stop.” He stopped for a second, said he was sorry again, and then went back to touching me. So I said, “I’d like you to pull your underwear back on.” That made him angry, but he did it, and he turned around and went back to sleep. I just kept crying. For a long time, all I could do was blame myself. I told myself that it shouldn’t have happened. I told myself that it all could have been avoided. I’m never going to know if it could have been, all I know is that it happened. All I ever got was an, “I’m sorry.” Just one. The rest of the excuses were always, “We were drunk,” and “You would have said yes anyway.” But that’s the thing. I. Did. Not. Say. Yes.
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i. please, you’ve called four times already-listen, i’m trying to let my thoughts boil over but when they start to simmer, my phone goes off and-that summer song is blaring again, where the woman sings of a perfect man who angrily breaks things, and i wonder how perfect a woman i will be when i smash my radio if the song plays a fourth time downstairs, i discover rubble in hallways just walked through moments ago, flooring littered with pieces of thrown sink, my mother’s whisper summoning to embrace the lone survivor do not call me misandrist before you have memorized the men who’ve stared, demeaned, touched, penetrated, manipulated, pushed, myself, my mother, her mother, her mother... ii. the first funeral i attended was for a dead woman and sure, i’d seen broken, seen breaking, but notreally, every dead woman i know was taken by a man. does that make me a woman, too, or just unlucky? he shot (twice) and he beat her face in and he ran her over at 48 miles per hour and he strangled--
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when i was told, when i read, when i heard, when i saw, my breath escaped me part exhale part scream detached, for a moment i feel only the collective trauma of all women’s bodies please, not her, not her, not her, not her, not me iii. do not call me a woman before you have memorized her faces, laughing out sunshine, consoling with gentle wisdom, relieving the wounded, talking late past bedtime. then, your hair was smooth just straightened and hard to braid my hands twisted, tugging, to get it to stay just so, just like the picture they are talking on tv again about why she didn’t just leave? i hold so many other why’s within me and i wonder if i screamed them at the screen loud enough if it’d leave me (alone) by now, my thoughts have reached 1400°. i swallow a bag of ginger tea, whole, let it steep in boiled blood until i am nothing but healing.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We would like to sincerely thank our advisors, Dr. Christine Ristaino and Jamechya Duncan. Dr. Ristaino is a Senior Lecturer in the Emory 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 Respect Program, Emory’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.
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RESOURCES ON-CAMPUS RESOURCES
OFF-CAMPUS RESOURCES
The Respect Program (404) 727-1514
Day League 24-hour confidential crisis line (404) 377-1428 Free counseling service (404) 377-1429
Emory Police Department (404) 727-6111 Title IX Coordinator for Students, Judith Pannell (404) 727-4079 jpanne2@emory.edu Student Health and Counseling Services (404) 727-7551 Counseling and Psychological Services (404) 727-7450 Emory University Hospital (404) 712-7021 Emory Helpline (404) 727-HELP (404) 727-4357 Sexual Assault Peer Advocates sapa.emorylife.org/advocates/
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DeKalb Medical Center Emergency Department Ask to speak with a physician’s assistant (404) 501-5350 National Dating Abuse Helpline 24-hour confidential crisis line (866) 331-9474 Live online chat support (5pm-3am EST) loveisrespect.org 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
www.survivoranthology.org emory.survivor.anthology@gmail.com facebook.com/survivoranthology
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SURVIVORANTHOLOGY.ORG