Silence = death

[TRIGGER WARNING]

I learned to be silent at an early age

Always told “Not now. I’m taking care of your brother,”

or “Leave this table right now, young lady. Go to your room

until you can behave like a human being.” or

“We don't fight, we play peacefully with our siblings.”

“If you guys can’t work it out peacefully then go to separate rooms

until you can talk to each other kindly.”

They meant well, but this kind of parenting made it so that I spent

a lot of hours screaming my anger into pillows,

which could not hear my pain,

could not act as witness for what had happened to me/

could not protect me from myself.

Writing my sorrow into journals, which were deeply hidden from all,

only to meekly come out of my room  a little while later

with a forced smile on my face so I could be accepted again

and a “willingness” to play peacefully. Did we ever talk out our disagreements

after that forced solitude? Or was it forgotten/swept away, to the

relief of my tired parents

who only wanted to sit and drink their beers or their coffee in peace?

No one knew my shame.

What he took from me, that blonde-haired bastard who

shit on my house,

was something I was not even aware that I had; it

wasn’t something I knew could be stolen,

but it was, and he did. And I hid. I hid from my pain and

I pushed it away and I layered it under cushions and

blanket forts

until I no longer knew that it was there.

I smoked cigarettes and I listened to loud music to drown it out

and I drank and fucked and drugged.

But the shamepain never went away, it only stayed hidden

except to peek out when I was in the middle of a sexual

experience and something happened that was too much like

what he did to me and then it would all come rushing back,

but before I could see it/feel it/know what had happened

I would leave my body. I would magically disappear  into

the safety of my blanket fort

and let whatever man was fucking me finish what he was doing

without my having to be there to feel it.

I spent a lot of years hurting but not knowing why.
I spent a lot of years being told I was “too sensitive” or made to feel like a

freak for jumping when someone came up behind me, or startling when I heard

a loud crash.

I spent a lot of years thinking that the only way out of that pain spiral was

to drown it in alcohol, just one more beer at the end of the night,

or push it as far away as possible by cleaning--

obsessively, and with a toothbrush--

all the gunk around my kitchen sink

or brushing and flossing my teeth upwards of seven times a day,

as if I could wash brush floss rinse away the thick layer of

hate that spread over my tongue

when he left his seed on me

and walked away from my tiny blonde innocent body,

with the Shirley Temple ringlets on her little sweet head.

Shirley Temple was my hero. I wanted to be that cute little child with the

serene but impish twinkle in her eye

tapping away her troubles on the good ship lollipop

But I wasn’t her. I was me. and I was scared of everything and I was

afraid to tell anyone what he had done

and I was afraid to death of being raped. I had nightmares every night of my life that

some “Him” was trying to break into my bedroom window at night to take

even more of my self away from me

I silently screamed in my dreams, not running, my feet frozen

to the painted concrete floor of my bedroom

silently screamed for someone to help me,

for him to get away, anyone!

But my voice had already been stripped of me,

as was my sense of self-worth and dignity.

The hooded, faceless man, with his large hands reached out for me,

or chased me, and I

could not walk away, was pinned there,  always waiting frozen/powerless/for someone to

save me.

But no one ever did.

In my adult life, afraid still, always worrying that I was going to be raped. Not knowing why,

not having a voice even to say to my husband when I was upset about something,

and when I did manage to tell him ,it was my fault anyway.

You, blonde bastard,  ook away my voice, and now I am taking it back. I will not be silent anymore.

I am not afraid of you anymore. I will kick you in the teeth if you come near me again.

I will take my balled up fists and I will fight you,  with all of my power. i I will punch you in your sick face and

then I will spit on your dead eyes. I will call the police and tell them that this fucking sick

excuse for a man raped me when I was five years old.

Of course i don’t know where you are anymore, if you are even alive. I am buddhist in my principles but I have no forgiveness in my heart for you, you poor excuse of a human

I have no tonglen in my heart for you. I have only sorrow and anger and pain.

I have only pity. Which is as close to compassion as I can get for you.

I want to forgive, and be Christlike,

I want to sit under the Bodhi tree and I want to climb the mountain and I want to say

to the heavens that you

are human, just like anyone else and that you deserve compassion

love, even.

But I can’t. Because I hold hatred in my tired soul for you. I hate what you took from me, I hate

that I stripped because you hurt me. I hate that I let boys and men touch me,

because I wanted to be worth something.

I hate that I never told. Until now. I hate that I let your piece of shit little

one worthless act

keep me hiding in shame for so long.

I will not be in shame anymore/ I will speak about this. I have found my voice and I will shout it out to whoever will listen. I don’t have to be quiet anymore. I don’t have to be peaceful when it makes more sense to fight. I don’t have to acquiesce. I don’t have to keep myself safe

anymore because I am grown and

you can’t hurt me. What you did to me can’t hurt me anymore. I take it back, I claim it. It is MINE.

I won’t be silent any

more.