Thrive: A "Guide" To Survival

it’s my “finsta” where I get real about shit

where I can put everything out there and make it pretty and pose it just right upon on a shelf

I think I’ve convinced myself that the shame of your mistakes will be lifted off of me when I hold you accountable for them. That when I finally let someone else in on your secret, that the burden on my back will be lightened, that I’ll have more space in my knapsack to carry new books and maps for new travels. That I’ll have room in my brain to occupy a space other than your small four-corner room, that I can afford a higher rent now. That I’ve made it out of your world somehow.

But what if I’m just diving in deeper? I run forwards and jump off of the diving board and, folding my hands together in the proper position, I slide into the water at the perfect angle to touch the pool’s bottom with my fingertips then push back myself back up. 

But then I’m caught in the current, the storm has rushed into view in the brief moments I had peaceful respite underwater. The hurricane that took me away from you is back again, to bring me back to you, to return me to my captor. Each drop of rain that falls from the sky is like an anchor, crashing into me and throwing me down to the bottom of the pool. As I make my way back up and break surface, another drop hits me and I collapse into the tide. 

They say fighting the tide isn’t worth your time, especially if you want to have any chance of surviving. Is that I want though? To survive this, again? I barely made it out the first time, and who is to say that I can do it again?

Who is to say that I didn’t bring this storm upon myself for daring to dive into the pool again? Didn’t I see the forecast? Why would you go swimming if you knew it was going to storm?

I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

Why would I surrender myself to your whims seeping into my brain again? Why would I open up my heart to being battered by your hurricane? 

Why can’t I put my hurricane shutters up and protect myself from the storm? Why can’t I wait while it passes by, and not come out any time before? 

I think I’ve convinced myself that the shame of hiding inside is worse than the shame of letting you back in my mind, and who is to say which side is worse. 

I find myself thinking things I never thought I would, like wondering if I’m ruining his life by reporting something that HE DID. Wondering about if he’s changed in the years since he raped me all those times. Wondering about if I’ll be the one to finally end his life. 

Wondering if people in my life will resent me for bringing this storm back over us. Wondering if I should just have the strength to let it go, or is is stronger to hold back onto it? 

I hate myself for having these problems to deal with in the first place. I hate that those around me have to exist in proximity to these issues and not have lighthearted conversations over their dinner plates. 

I wish that I could surrender this problem again to the whims of time and space. That I could forget I read those words and learned again of his crimes, but my dear, what about his crimes against me?

journal entry/spoken word poem/you get the drill by now/ for august 17th, 11:58PM

how do I take care of others when I can barely remember that I exist? to wash the dish that’s been in the sink for a week. My dear, how do I take care of you when I am still fighting to be alive? To put my hand on the wheel and press the gas and fly down the road. My hand’s flying out the window, grasping the air, reaching everywhere and just desperately trying to grasp where the wind went.

when I was a child, I would stand there and let the wind beat against my chest, and I’d hold my palms like little cups, so I could collect its airy liquid in my hands. I’d let the wind try to knock me back, so I could feel like I was flying. I did everything I could to reach Neverland, but I never did make it there. Anyways,

my hand’s out the window, and I’m reaching and trying. the air is flying through my fingertips, in those little crevices that are big enough for ants and oxygen and sunlight to creep through.

so, I close my hand into a fist and I fight back against the elements. I punch the sky, and my knuckles burn, and slowly, I release my fingers one by one until I’ve built a wall cemented together by the will to catch the wind and be fearless again.

so, I reach, I reach again, and I’m not grasping, I’m collecting. I’ve paid my dues and I am fucking collecting. please, God, I’ve done my time, let me have my wind. Let me rise up above all this shit and begin again. the light turns green, I’m speeding down the road again because I’ve spotted her, and finally, she turns around and greets me like an old friend. Says,

I remember lifting you off the sidewalk when you were little, I remember pushing you higher on the swing when you were growing, and I remember tickling your shoulders and brushing your hair away from your face so you could see the beauty all around you.

sometimes, life throws you a summer full of PTSD struggles and healing. it gives you a lot of very hard nights and a lot of long drives around town after EMDR sessions where you question every person you've ever trusted and whether you ever really knew yourself.

(going through EMDR is like stumbling upon a biography in a bookstore and realizing that it's about you but you never knew half of the things in the book. you climb into bed with this very long book and you stay up all night until you’ve finished it. and you’re exhausted when you’re done, and you grieve that the book is over and that you have nothing more to read. but then you realize, you will spend the rest of your life rereading and rereading that book, trying to understand how it could have ever possibly happened to you). 

you struggle with authenticity, especially with the job search -- you're promoting someone that you're not sure exists. you're selling yourself to people in so many different career fields that you wonder if you studied the right thing in college after all. you make "professional" facebooks, twitters, and instagrams. you find it's hard to even spend time with the people you love most, and your ability to even reply to texts requires many spoons. and you know that your inability to communicate effectively and your inability to be consistent is pushing away people -- important people in your life -- and you just pray that you’ll find a way to make it up to them one day. 

but you find things that work for you, that bring out the light in you again and make you feel healed and whole again. you drive towards the rising skyscrapers of downtown, the sun bleeding into the skyline’s buildings -- the rosy pinks and tangerine oranges of sunset mixing with the charcoal grays of window panes. you drive, and it rains, and you imagine yourself dancing on parking garage rooftops, dancing in the rain until you finally feel clean again. you drive, and the steam rises from the pavement, and you imagine that it carries you to a new town where no one knows you or your story or even your name -- and you never have to fear running into your rapist at kroger ever again. 

and you find things that work for you, that bring out the light in you again. poetry, dramatic journal entries, scribbles on page and tumblr text box. photographs of art you found in new york and paris museums. the stories of others. the triumphs of others. the authenticity of others fills you with hope.

you find their words in books and songs, and it begins to be songs on the radio and in your car and on your way home, so in those moments that you’re driving towards the sun and you feel so alone, you hear another woman screaming her pain and you can, finally, scream with her.

it just so happens that you’ve known this girl for awhile. her name is kesha, and you met in 2010 at a meet n greet. you bonded over attending the same middle school, and you admired her free spirit and her ability to embrace exactly who she was. you especially loved her lion mane braid that she managed to pull of perfectly.

you heard her sing later that night, at a benefit concert to raise money for the Nashville flood, and she sang “animal” for the first time live. the concert was insanely short, maybe 30 minutes, and you were disappointed, but you kept listening. 

“warrior” came out your freshman year of college and your winter break was spent driving around your hometown, replaying the lyric “julie’s still a waitress, living on tips” from the track called “Wonderland.” 

the college you attend for your freshman year (syracuse university) happens to book Kesha as their main act for their spring concert. it was the first night you ever got drunk, there was so much confetti, and she screamed, “get inside MY VAGINA” during the bridge of “Gold Trans Am.” 

then, she disappeared. she went to treatment, she got better, and when she came out, you heard the stories of abuse that she suffered. during this time, you also went through a few experiences and traumas of your own that gave you the ability to connect and relate to Kesha in an unexpected way.

there was a protest in Nashville against SONY that demanded they release her from her contract with Dr. Luke. you marched, you chanted, and you raised your sign in the air -- the words “TIK TOK SONY” written in glitter paint. 

you spoke to The Tennessean about your experience and gave them your whole fucking name. you stopped being afraid of your ex-boyfriend coming after you, of his threats to kill himself because of you, and you chose to live your life for YOU. 

("I get my justice through doing rallies, through speaking out about what happened to me, through writing about it," Wilson said. "She's trying to get legal justice and I admire her so much for that, and it's terrible that she didn't get it.")

Kesha doesn’t get freed from her contract, but she finds a way to make music that is about her story and her experiences. It’s beautiful and authentic, and it may be released on Dr. Luke’s record label, but it’s HER music. 

You hear “Praying” on the radio and you cry because it’s such a radical notion to you, to pray for whoever hurt you. and so you start to -- you pray for each person who has ever raped you and you pray that they learn to love themselves so that they will never ever hurt someone else like that again. 

you pray for their other victims, because you know they exist (you recently found an online forum where a dozen women came forward to speak about their own experiences with your rapist). you pray that they find a way towards happiness and peace.

and you pray for yourself and that your Higher Power will grant you serenity to accept the things you cannot change, courage to change the things you can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

you run your fingers through your own lion mane of blonde, messy hair, and you buy yourself one ticket to see Kesha at The Ryman in September because you have fucking earned yourself a trip to church to worship the music that is going to get you through this shit. 

pending the background check, you have found a job you will start in a little over a week, where you will be helping other people get through the hardest moments of their mental health journeys. you have prayed and waited so long to be strong enough to help others. 

and you hope that this is finally it -- the rainbow after the storm.