To pay tribute to my broken ass knees, I’ll post a poem I wrote about broken things. Surgery. Scars. Gordian Knots. Date Rape. During my first knee surgery (got it in CR when I was 17) the surgeon took advantage of me (for some reason I hate to use the word “molested”, as in, HE MOLESTED me) while I was under local anesthesia. He thought it was total anesthesia (or whatever the proper name for that is). As soon as he figured out I had requested local, he knocked me out. Since this surgery, I’ve had 4 more.
Following a subsequent surgery (in CO), for months a certain guy friend would take care of me and carry my stuff and act as my human crutch. After a party I went back to his room to watch a movie. I’d slept over plenty of times before. It was not an unusual situation. I was not sober but I was nowhere near drunk. He tried to rape me. I fought him off for an hour but he tore my clothes to shreds in the process. Finally he passed out. I wriggled my way out of his drunken death grip. I walked back to my dorm room practically naked (he tore the buttons off my sailor pants…and he tore my shirt and bra in half. I was too scared I would wake him to take time to find my coat and shoes). It was a 10 minute walk. It was dead winter. Snow on the ground. I was locked out of the dorm until my friend Jordan picked up my 4:30 am phone call. Anyways, as of a a week ago, I need another (surgery). I think it would be redundant to say that being cut open and at the mercy of egomaniacal surgeons is my worst and most ultimate fear. I’ve never posted this poem before with such an honest description of what it is about. First time for everything.
I feel it is necessary to discuss the occurrences described above. Any time I tried to tell my parents, their eyes glazed over and they would pretend like I’d never spoken at all. Rape didn’t fit into their ill constructed fantasy of what my life was. And the mutual friends shared by me and my former guy friend ignored me too after I told them a year later.
And I want to let you know, you fucked up, beautiful world, you, IT IS BULLSHIT that survivors of rape or molestation have to suffer the consequences of shaming and external judgment from friends and family. And people often leap to the defense of the rapist “NO WAY I’VE KNOWN HIM FOREVER” “But it’s not worth ruining his entire life over” “but the situation is foggy” “but what if she is lying just for the attention!”
Why the fuck would you want this sort of attention? It makes you feel like a whore. Like a pathetic, whining victim …and a whore. Admitting that you’ve been raped or molested is NOT the heights of cool.
If anybody reading this is suffering depression or trauma related to molestation or date rape (or anything at all really) I will drop whatever the fuck dumb ass thing I am doing and you can talk to me and I will tell you nice soothing things, or plot vengeance with you, or I will tell you the truth if you would like it, which is: It Gets Better, but it’s a hard world. The world is hard. It is difficult for me to talk about this right now, but it was more difficult in the past. I have moments of dark black pit stomach sinking suicidal suppressed raging lethargy. Days when I don’t feel like a human. I feel like an animal dying in a cave. But today, I have no shame and less difficulty sharing because I’ve transcended this particular pain. My knee breaking again a week ago is a reminder of that. It gets better. You are not alone.
on that note, enjoy my poem bitches
one day i woke up alive, serenaded by the white lies of snow music.
lying there, i fingered beads of thoughts. strings of words like
cryptogram, sunflower, star.
the loose ends of silence were woven into a Gordian knot of thoughts
made only for thinking and the loneliness of knowing nothing.
so i drew breaths onto the window pane, wrote my name
in the cloud brambles and watched as it disappeared.
i breathed hard, again, onto the same whispering spot, again,
becoming transfixed by the magic madness
of bringing sadness back.
in loathing, i always thought surgery was placebo.
tacking up the unfixable thing using glue and staples— naïve
to believe in forgeries. These bodies of ours at the mercy of ambition,
stranger incisions, decisions cut by one who knows nothing
of the trauma or its breaking strength. and yet, self will fail
to attach back to hostile self.
she could never look directly at him, but cast two shadows, sometimes more.
sometimes the casting was a dial of dimness, a sunflower star shaped in shadow.
sometimes something breaks for reasons not love, sometimes its lack of love, the unspoken
rip of incision, slow
boiling down of body
to husk, making resin of human heart,
rattling flower, cryptogram, black hole.
body of knots
must be cut.