Poem: Then, I Cry

TW: rape, sexuality, sexualized violence, PTSD

This poem was written over eight months ago, coming up to the year anniversary of the rapes by The Rapist, aka Austin Poly Rapist or The Auctioneer.  I’m happy to say that entire days go by now without even a thought straying to The Rapist, especially here in London where I know I’m safe from him.

I don’t cry anymore, not over this, but I wrote this at a time that I still cried several times a week, although no longer every day. About a week after I wrote this, my husband was in a near-fatal accident. About two weeks after I wrote this, I came home to find my dog nearly dead because I trusted the wrong person, again. Those two traumatic events set me back a bit, but about a month after I wrote this poem, the year anniversary of the rapes, and it seemed I turned a corner in my healing.

Today I’m in London, enjoying the rain, and working on the second novel I’ve written this year.

Regardless, I wanted to share this with you.

-_Q

“Then, I Cry”

I keep thinking it’s over.

I’m happy again, for a few minutes or hours or even days, but then it returns. The underlying sadness that’s always there, just below the surface, comes up for air once again.

Then, I cry.

I look at cartoon drawings of sexual positions, and I cry.
I read yet another site about how to recover from rape, and I cry.
I masturbate, desperate to feel normal arousal again, and I orgasm.

Then, I cry.

He stays with me, even though he’s gone. He’s been gone for so long.
Was he ever here?

I’m reminded of how he said he loved me and adored me. Is this love? Is this how he worships his lover? How he expresses his adoration? By raping? By punishing? By sexualized aggression in anger?

And afterward, I was no longer loved or adored, although he said both, just moments after the rape. But, then, I asked him to say it. I asked him if he loved me, hoping to hear that he did. Hoping it would prove he didn’t do what he had just done, and he said he loved me. He said he not only loved me that he absolutely adored me.

The next day began the devalue and discard. Condescending cruelty.
I was no longer loved or adored.

I was an annoyance.
I was clingy.
I was bothersome.
I was tainted.

Dirty.

And I’d never be clean again.
I’ll never be clean again.
I’ll never be okay again.
I’ll never trust again.
I’ll never feel desire again.
Without feeling damaged.
Without feeling ashamed.
Without remembering the fantasy.
That fucking fantasy he used to drug me
Into believing he loved me
Into believing he adored me.

He must have a different definition of love than I do.

The affection and overtures of love during that fantasy time still assault my mind.
Because that’s what he did.
Assaulted my mind.
Assaulted my body.
Assaulted my heart.
Assaulted my soul.
Memories assault me still, wanting to believe it was a mistake.
Somehow.
That he was just scared.
Somehow.
That it would be okay.
Somehow.
If we just talked.

Then, I cry.

Eight months. He’s had eight months to talk to me.
He hasn’t.
No contact.
Except to exert further control.
Except to punish me more.
Except to intimidate.
Except to threaten.
Except to shame.
Except to show the complete and total lack of love.

I get it.

Just when I think it’s over, it returns.
Then, I cry, again.
Then, I idealize death, again.
I just want it to stop. Again.

That which brought me such joy has been ripped from me
My soul, too, ripped from me
A gaping hole remains

Then, I cry.

I return to the web, reading unending posts and articles and accounts
of Rape. of Abuse. of Cruelty. of Monsters. of Recovery.
Looking for answers
Anything to understand
Anything to heal
Anything to get through another few minutes
Another second
Another moment
Anything to function again.

I will.
I know, because just two days ago I wrote
Just two days ago I laughed
Just two days ago I danced.
Just two days ago I sang. Loudly. To myself.

Always to myself.

Terrified of being alone
Unable to be with anyone
Trapped
Searching for understanding
Then I find it in another survivor.
She gets it

Then, I cry.

I feel validated and so not-alone
But it passes
Just as quickly as his love did

Then, I’m afraid again
Then, I cry
Again.

Just one ounce of human kindness
Just one sentiment of sorrow or pain
Just one piece of evidence that he is
Genuine
Even a little bit

But nothing.
Any word from him contains more cruelty
More callousness
More evidence that he is as empty as I feel
Because he consumed my soul
And it burned up in his inner void

If I only had the words to make him understand
If I only had a way to forget
If I only had the self-respect to hate him
If I only had the courage to let go
If I only could forget
If I only could forget
If I only could forget

But I will never forget.
I am forever changed
Although not forever shattered
Not forever broken

I’m so much better already
But still not whole again
Will I ever be whole again
Or will I remain hole forever?

Not forever.
Just for now.
Takes time, of course.
Eight months for three.
Not even three.
Eight months is nothing
Just like I feel
Nothing.

Just like he means to me now
Nothing.

It will be over soon.
Soon, they say.

Until then, I cry.

~ by omgrey on August 5, 2013.

5 Responses to “Poem: Then, I Cry”

  1. Sorry that you too have been there. What a powerful poem. I’m glad to read that you’re doing better.

    Thank you for dropping by my blog🙂

    • Thank you so much.

      I’ve written about my rapes rather bluntly on here and over on http://wearawhitefeather.wordpress.com.

      I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with rape and sociopathic narcissists, too. I’m always astounded at just how many of us there are. I’m proud of you for writing about it and refusing to stay silent. Your blog moved and inspired me. Thank you for your courage.

      I will never be silent again. No matter how many hateful messages I get from one of my rapist’s fans, I will keep speaking the truth about what happened.

      Your rapist’s mother, the “boys will be boys” bullshit, should be tried for accessory to serial rape. That disgusts me.

      May you find peace.

      • I will check out your link! I’m so glad to hear that you speak out about it too. Our voices do make a difference. There are far to many of us that have survived this. Sadly there will be many more but I hope more will have the courage to talk about it, and ask for help! We have nothing to be ashamed of.
        I’m sad to hear that you get hateful messages.😦

        I never thought before of my rapists mother being and accessory. or my own for that matter.

        Peace to you too!

      • So many more. 600 every day in the USA alone. I think people like your rapist’s mother are almost as much to blame as the rapists. Almost.

        They give them the social license to continue and they intimidate survivors into silence through shaming and blaming. That’s what needs to turn around. These kids of social reactions are as traumatizing, in many cases, as the assault itself. It’s being re-traumatized, aka second trauma. These trauma compound on ken another and create complex PTSD.

        I’ve written so much about this stuff on this blog especially. The White Feather site is about trying to turn things around so the benefit of the doubt goes to the victim and the questioning to the accused.

        I think as long as we keep speaking out, more will. Nothing has helped me more, given me more strength and inspiration, than reading people like you: fellow survivors who have found the courage and fight to talk about it…to break through the lies and propaganda of rape culture…to speak loudly and remind themselves and others that it is not our fault. We did nothing wrong.

        The sole blame and shame belongs to the rapist. Period…and, secondly, to those who excuse his behavior. Rape apologists and victim-blamers.

        May you find peace.
        Keep writing about it. The millions of survivors together will have a voice no one can ignore.

      • It’s an amazing thing you’re doing and I’m sure it will touch many lives for the better!!! I live with C-PTSD and you’re right, ignoring the victim is just as abusive and damaging as the crime itself if not more so. I don’t care what people think, i will never shut up about it again, or should i say no one will shut me up!

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