"I
would like to show both survivors and the general public the
wide range of 'types' of women that have survived sexual violence.
We are young, middle aged, old, beautiful, diverse, educated,
illiterate, from all socio-economic backgrounds. There are stereotypes
I believe must be overcome in order for survivors to be fully
empowered."
-Raquel
"My
two sides coexisted for a long time: the one that was competent
and careful and the other that was reckless and unstable. They
needed each other, even though it felt like they couldn’t
possibly inhabit the same skin. My good-girl self was tired of
the game, tired of making A’s and being responsible. But
my escaping self needed her for cover. She still had enough sense
to know that escaping would be easier with nobody chasing behind.
So they tag-teamed: going out to forbidden places at night to
get high and erase fear and doubt with sex, and leaving each morning
for another day of good grades at school. I was a daughter, a
student, a drug-dealer, a slut, a scared little girl and a swaggering
adolescent. But my oldest-child, responsible persona was not just
a bystander. She was guarding my other self, holding on to that
desire not to get too lost and not to risk so much that all of
me would vanish.
Scars formed from my
trauma, especially the tough jagged scar that developed from believing
that my 8-year-old self should take responsibility for allowing
myself to get hurt. They are places where I’ve managed, somehow,
to patch over the old wounds. Places in my mind where I’ve
learned to believe in extremes in order to survive. To believe
at times that my trauma was imagined but to fight publicly for
other survivors. To believe that I can do anything well but I
would excel at nothing. To believe that I should stop reading
books for pleasure for fear that I might be escaping reality.
To then take enough drugs to set me free. Scars hardened from
hurting myself over again in my efforts to feel whole - from trying
to trust myself, trying to escape from myself, trying to believe
that in this body I could be desirable. And some scars just cover
the places I can’t look at quite yet.
Getting my scars to stretch
and soften is hard work. Looking in the places they’ve covered
for so long is even harder. And letting them dissolve to allow
myself to breathe, is just plain scary. Look at me: you don’t
see any of the callused spots. They disappear if you look head-on.
But from the corner of your eye, if you catch me when I think
you aren’t looking, you might see them. You’ll see me
doubt my judgment, decline a smoke, or rigidly guard against meat
in my diet. You may see the onset of a panic attack, before I
manage to leave the room. Or notice the effort it takes for me
to smile at you when I’m looking down into that black pit
of depression. I’ve learned to show you the self that you
can handle, the self that can handle you.
Anxiety has ripped some
of the old scars open, leaving me over-exposed. It feels like
falling upwards. Their tough protection is comforting, but so
impossibly small.
I’m listening, waiting for what my body has to tell me. It
has always told me what I needed to know, even when it told me
to run. And now it is calling me inside, telling me to send down
roots. It’s telling me that there are many holes needing
patching. It is telling me I need a bigger belt, because this
one is not letting me breathe."
-Liat
Time writes itself
on our bodies.
There are lines drawn
onto my form that will last a lifetime.
I pray for a new skin,
and wake each morning disappointed at the same exterior.
The intensity of my gaze
grows daily as my life comes back to me.
My dreams are prophetic
but this is something I never speak of.
My hands are powerful
and I claim my freedom.
I am the history of resistance.
- Raquel
