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.