I told myself I wouldn’t tell your story I told myself that this is about what is mine, Not what you took from me. But that little voice inside my head? The one you trained? Tells me there is nothing but your story. Tells me that i’m wrong. i’m lying, this isn’t what happened, this isn’t true, this isn’t the truth. i should go home i should hurt myself for everything i’ve done every lie i’ve told No. No that’s wrong.
I will tell my truth. I will tell you what happened, because what happened to me is a part of who I am. And my therapist says if I am to love myself then I am to be honest.
And honesty starts with four letters. P T S D.
So I can’t separate you from my story. You’ll be standing right here next to me, sharing this keyboard. I’ll have to be okay with that for tonight.
I’ll have to be okay with crossing my own boundaries tonight to tell you that I am a mess. That I thought I was messy before, but god, I didn’t know what turn things would take. And I don’t think I know how anything is going to go anymore. But there are three things that I know to be true:
First: Self care is not selfish. My self-care is cutting myself off from you. It’s not face masks, or nail polish or chocolate. It’s not skipping class. Self-care is keeping on. Self-care is the 136 days that I haven’t checked your social media. Self-care is getting up at 8:00 am, scrubbing my face and mouth free from you once again, and going to Chem lecture. You didn’t know me when I complained about Kryatov. Self-care is burning pictures and removing the stain of your presence from my eyes, I already see enough of you in my memory, Self-care is taking the long way so I don’t pass your house, it’s listening to Galantis at five AM while I speed down 95, it’s doing anything to feel alive and know that I am wholeheartedly mine.
There’s number two. And that is a radical statement. That I belong to myself. That I am no longer your caretaker, your plaything, your tidal wave. That no matter what you do you will never occupy the same space as me again and I am slowly un-learning the things you taught me were love. I am slowly untwisting myself from your manipulative hands. I am learning to say those words that start with “s” and “a” to describe what you did to me that night. I am beginning to be okay with the fact that your gaslit eyes will never see that what you did broke me.
But I will continue unfolding and dusting off the parts of me that I forgot existed. I will embrace the anxiety that makes my hands shake as my body keeping me safe. I am embracing the suicidal ideation as a way to understand that I am in control of my own fate. And lastly, that I’m going to be okay, and I’m going to choose that every day.
Third. I know this: when scrubbing my body red every morning finally makes me feel clean, when looking around my home doesn’t feel like staring into the past, when walking around campus isn’t a burden on my back, when I can say the words sexual assault, physical abuse, emotional abuse without biting my tongue, things will be okay. I will be okay. Or at least I'll be headed in the right direction.