After my Newport Firefighter boyfriend sexually violated me, I bled for three days. Life moved in slow motion as I tried to make sense of something that the brain isn’t meant to understand.
I was alone. But I knew that from the ugly moments afterwards-when nobody answered my screams. The pain and horror was overwhelming, but I let routine and muscle memory guide me through the days. I showered and examined my bruises. I ate just enough to get by. I ran as far as my legs and my spirit would carry me. I discovered that steaming hot coffee is incredibly soothing. I visited a church. I watched the light reflect through the stained glass, and I asked God “why”. I didn’t receive an answer. I experienced art that was new to me. I watched the light dance on gold. The art was stolen from the original owners. I understood what it was like to have something stolen from you.
He texted me often. I still have these texts although I choose not to read them. It is too painful. He reminded me that it is “all my fault.” That statement is imprinted in memory forever.
He oscillated wildly between reprimanding me for not letting him console me, rage that he was alone, and the anger of having to tell his father that we wouldn’t be joining him for dinner. Each text painfully affirmed that he had no empathy for me, but I guess I knew that already.
Eventually I healed enough to return to the world. When I did, I brought my light with me. He couldn’t steal that from me. It is mine, and it makes me who I am.
I learned to see all the little details in everything. I search for rainbows after the summer rains. I look for seashells on the warm white shores. I share my food with the unhoused. I see art in graffiti, the angles of the buildings, negative space, colors across the sky. I try to capture what I see in photography. I marvel at the phases of the moon. I scour the bins at Goodwill for discarded treasures. I find deep peace in the company of animals.
I returned to writing. I don’t choose the words; they choose me. As soon as I sort and share them, more arrive. I communicate fully and freely with a robust vocabulary and a newfound confidence. Yet I still cry when something touches old pains. These scars are mine to carry for a lifetime. I did not ask for this, but I am pragmatic about my reality.
I delight in the company of children and helping them to learn. I strive to provide stability and consistency so that they form healthy attachments for a lifetime. I teach them to communicate with their hands before their mouths can form all the words they need.
I find peace in simplicity: an orchid unfurling, a ladybug on a window, the quiet passing of cruise ships before dawn.
I understand that resiliency is passed down through our family tree.
I breathe.
I look for another sunrise.
The author is a brave woman who dared sharing her story so more people would realize how much impact this has a on lifetime…
Lots of prayers for her and what she had to endure in silence…
