Content note: abuse.
january 3, 2019
I’ve been driving a lot.
I feel safe in my car. It is my space, every square inch of it. I say who drives it and I give it up to no one. I spend hours there, relishing each moment in a vessel that is wholly and completely mine.
A vessel like my body. My body, which I’m told is still wholly and completely mine, feels more shell than sustenance. Seats stripped of fabric and cushions, steering wheel violently ripped away; exposing the foundation, exposing my bones.
Hours and hours and hours go by. I drive and I sing, the same route over and over, the same song over and over. Hours. And hours. And hours. I cry and I drive and I sing.
cowering stalk / turning blue by the bed it’s true I cry better than I talk—
—leave it be to make my pitiful peace that I was something else before / giddy in the morning tearing through the columns at the grocery store
grieving from an older touch / don’t tell me now I know so much / we’d hardly even just begun / who’s your one
come on here, why’d you come so near / was it furious fire, was I the only one here—
Linying, Alpine
My voice, out of practice, sounds like my bones rattling, tendons shaking with vibrato. My muscles are weak with exhaustion, tired of carrying the rest of me.
They scream.
Can’t something else carry these things? Can we put them down? Can we put them in the backseat? Can we lock them in the trunk? Can we throw them out the window? Can we leave them on the side of the road? Can we bury them in a ditch? Can we put them on a bus? Can we put them on a plane? Can we put them on a boat? Can we send them far away from here? We don’t want them. WE DON’T WANT THEM.
Heart and lungs and brain and eyes and tongue and teeth and tears and guts.
When I look in my rearview mirror, I see only a shell.
Was I something else before?
december 4, 2018
Three months ago, I stood at my kitchen counter, knife in one hand, toasted bagel in the other. Looking out onto the deck of my new home, I unwrapped the package of cream cheese sitting in front of me—slowly at first, ever-so-careful not to disturb the breath caught in my throat, lodged between insults my body had absorbed and carried for far too many months; flesh made sick by aching.
Soon, though, my hands made quick work of the foil: sharp-as-knives nails ripping and cutting, fingers clumsily tearing one side from the other, palms smeared with errant spread. Laid bare, the block of cream cheese stared up at me, a seemingly absurd barrier to overcome, a remnant of the house I walked away from just three days before.
Except it wasn’t absurd. It wasn’t absurd at all.
I drew the knife and cut a small, perfect slice the way I was told. The way I was expected to. The way I had to. Except now, no one was watching me. For the first time in a year, no one would open this package later and ask me why I couldn’t do this right. I only have myself to answer to now. This is my home.
I am alone here. I am alone here. I am alone. Here.
I dug into the center, drove the blade so hard it tore foil off the other side. I cut diagonally across, moving erratically and with abandon. I mussed up my perfect slice and it looked beautiful. It looked like defiance. It looked like freedom.
I let go of the choked breath in my throat, felt it move at breakneck pace up and out of my weary lungs like a diver lost at the bottom of the ocean, finding their way to the surface after months of trying to survive. I felt like I could breathe again, but not too freely.
Bit by bit, day by day, my lungs would open and let go of these breaths held in chambers carved by pain and self-preservation.
january 3, 2019
My breath is lodged in my throat again.
I read what I wrote on December 4 and I am embarrassed. Who was I to think my lungs would open? Why are we here again? I can’t believe we’re here again.
My shell speaks to me.
This is what leaving looks like, Sarah. This is what healing looks like, Sarah. This is what recovery looks like, Sarah. It’s not linear, Sarah. You know that, Sarah. You work with abuse survivors, Sarah. Be gentle with yourself, Sarah. This is what depression looks like, Sarah. Some days are easier than others, Sarah. It’s okay not to be okay, Sarah. Don’t you know that, Sarah? WHY DON’T YOU KNOW THAT, SARAH?
I know.
In September, I whisper to my therapist. What if it’s me? What if it’s my fault? Who’s the common denominator? I am. I am. I am. She asks me if I can think of any other common denominators. I can.
But I am twenty-five years old and it happened again. I feel like I lost myself, again. I feel like a ghost of the person I want to be, again. I have to rebuild myself, again. I have to recover, again.
But I am exhausted. Every part of my body burns with fatigue. I don’t want to do these things. I want to leave my insides somewhere else.
I think I already did.
If you are a survivor, you are not alone. Please know that you are loved and supported. You matter because you are here in this world, and you matter to me.