And I thought I dressed to provocatively,
and I thought I drank too much,
and I thought if I said “no” they’d listen.
and I thought I could trust other people.
But what I didn’t take into account,
is that monsters are all too real in this sick society of ours.
My fists will no longer remain clenched,
there will be no more devilish thoughts of gruesome violence,
my mind will be at ease and my soul pure, once more.
I will no longer live on the edge.
I will not allow anger to control me.
If you don’t feel okay, that in itself, is okay.
Life is a long, bumpy road with no definitive purpose.
So naturally, as human beings, we will have times where there are forks in the road, unknowingly sending you to different destinations.
The important thing to remember is that just because the path you’re on is difficult, it does not mean that it wasn’t the correct one for you.
The key is to keep an open mind, heart, and let your soul flourish with whatever you’re given in life.
When you fight with demons, you must ensure that you take them head on.
You cannot tiptoe around demons, for they are relentless, unmerciful thoughts that rattle your entire being, if you let them.
You cannot run, because they will follow, because they’re your demons.
So fight with everything you have against the demons in your head, try not to let them come out on top. And if they do, take it as a learning curve.
The battle may leave you battered and bruised, but if you do not try, you will not succeed.
Forever drying my eyes,
so no one can see the pain within.
Forever trying to make everything a laugh,
in order to please the ones I care about.
Forever hiding how I truly feel,
to not be a burden.
For tears are a mark of sadness,
and I don’t want to be the sad girl anymore.
I can’t quit. Not now.
I have poured my heart and soul out.
I have gone through countless medication changes, therapy sessions, counsellors.
I’ve had trauma come into play, I’ve had a mental breakdown and I’ve been labelled as a patient that suffers from PTSD, Bipolar Disorder, Panic Disorder and Agoraphobia.
At times, I doubted everything. Hell, I still do.
But not once did I give up. And I don’t intend to any time soon.
I’m not a fucking quitter, and I know I’m going to come out on top eventually.
I did not report my rape. I did not speak of it for years. I did not eat when it happened. Nor did I sleep, shower, or do anything but cry or feel downright numb.
“It’s my fault,” I thought.
“Maybe I should’ve dressed differently. Maybe I should have not drank so much. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened, and my heart wouldn’t be blackened.”
I did not make a fucking peep about my situation for years, because of shame that I felt for something that was inflicted upon me.
So I’ve reached a point where I’ve stopped blaming myself, and I can firmly say, maybe is a useless word.
Now it’s too late to do anything about it. And you know what? I’m fucking angry.
I’m fucking angry that I know to my core that there is no justice but street justice when it comes to rape. And you know what happens when street justice prevails? The heroes get locked up, the victims get more guilt and the perpetrators get a slap on the wrist.
It wasn’t my fault I was subjected to trauma, and I won’t let anger prevail because of that fact.