A Survivors Manifesto
Sweet Angelic Human, You Were Not Born Just To Die
TRIGGER WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF VIOLENCE AND DETAILS SEXUAL ABUSE AND THE LIFE OF A SURVIVOR OF TRAUMA AND PTSD. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION.
Every single one of us stares out of whatever window is closest to us at some point and wonders “why me?” In my lifetime I have seen so much darkness that I really, statistically speaking, should not be here.
If you believe my claims of rape, torture, and cults that have been using children as sex slaves and drug dealers for decades, then by the statistics alone, we should all be dead.
There was a large group of us, and each of us had wants, dreams, hopes, and wishes. But because of a select few men with a disgusting penchant for destroying the most innocent, our lives were thrown off their natural trajectory, and we were spent spinning into a real-life conspiracy.
My origin story has it all;
- Gangsters
- Sex Workers
- Victims of sex crimes
- Crooked cops
- Crooked doctors and “mental health” professionals
On and on the list goes, if there was a movie about my life it would be ten hours long and every adult in it would be corrupted or corruptible in some way. It’s a horrible story.
And Yet, Here I Am
There are many days when I lay in bed all day long and wonder why the fuck I am so special. What is it about me, that brought every rapist and pedophile in a hundred-mile radius to my sphere of existence?
Why was I the one who remembered enough information to prove that several men are innocent of crimes committed by pedophiles deliberately trying to keep us separated so we wouldn’t figure it all out sooner?
There are many days when I wake up and I want to die. I am in a prison of my own making. Traumatic memories and PTSD along with the pandemic and several other factors revolving around my mental health, have isolated me from the world.
The most dangerous thing in the world is a Black woman who has time to think. When we’re dealing with the trauma we go over every single detail over and over again, we check for inconsistencies, and we ask ourselves “does this feel right?” “Did it happen this way?” “Was that a nightmare, or did it really happen?”
For those of us with time to think, and to heal, plot, and plan, the full weight of what we’ve been through starts to settle the moment that we are left to our own devices.
That is to say, when we are alone, when we don’t have other people’s thoughts and opinions in our brains, when we have time to declutter our heads to find the truth of what we’ve seen, done, and had done to us.
I used to often compare my mental health to those who have been to war, those who understand PTSD. I am fighting a battle here, trying to stay alive, while knowing that for most of my life, grown-ass men tried to murder me in a variety of horrid and awful ways.
They messed with my mind, they messed with the minds of the others they abused, and they used murder as a tactic of fear and control so that we wouldn’t look “too closely” at what was right in front of our eyes.
Now that I understand the full weight of what I’ve been through, now that I understand who did what, who said what, who tried to use my friends and family against me, I find myself no longer caring.
The World Tried To Murder Me…And I’m Still Here
Every single one of us is fighting a battle that no one else on this planet understands. And each of us has people whose lives intersect with ours even when and often, especially when, we’ve never met them. It’s the scientific thought stream referred to often as “The Butterfly Effect.”
The universe works in waves, and when one wave is up another wave is done, one of the men who sexually assaulted me once told me that I had to learn to ride the wave. I knew what he meant but I couldn’t fully actualize it because I wasn’t ready to process what I had been experiencing.
The more that I’ve had time to think about what was done to me, the more that I think about this rumor I heard that one of them, one of the biggest, worst, and most mean, is now addicted to heroin. I hope he dies, and I feel no shame about that.
Growing up I was raised to be afraid of God. Good girls were pious, kept their legs closed and their mouths shut. We didn’t burp, fart, or smell. We weren’t very good at sports and we weren’t supposed to be very smart. So because I was all of those things, I pretended not to be, and that made me ripe for the picking.
I was always the girl who wanted the best for everyone, I wanted to protect those I care about and defend their honor with everything I had, but far too early in my life, I was beaten down by society. From school bullies to teachers, from pedophiles to rapists, it never seemed to end, and it was a terrifying journey of “can I please just die already?”
Yesterday I was speaking with Renita from Be Your Own Kind, and even as I write that, I marvel about the fact that “I” get to be the one who says “I know this particular person and they are really special.”
I have spent my life wanting to die, wanting to get off this rock and as far away from the insanity that is child sex and rape cults, away from these people who are so fucking broken that they thought my brother and sister survivors would abuse our own kids one day in order to “continue the cycle.”
None of our abusers could fathom that we would find ways to fight back, but I did, and I regret nothing. Because I’ve had all this time to think, because I’ve wept enough tears to fill an ocean, because I’ve screamed loud enough to wake giants, because I have smoked enough cannabis to kill a horse, I have had time to consider my life.
My Life, Your Life, Our Lives, Have Sucked…But We’re Still Here
If I am being 100% honest I have no idea what comes next. Prayer? Prayer that the good guys find the evidence they need before the bad guys decide to get revenge because I speak out? Pray that I get another day because no matter how much I complain…it’s really pretty here?
Write until I can’t write anymore. That’s for sure. That’s the one thing that keeps me going if I can keep writing, if I can keep thinking then I’m not dead.
I’m not dying today because I’ve already decided I’m not in the fucking mood, so as much as I complain about how hard it is, I’ll still fight for my life if I have to, and I’ll laugh at the morons who think that after everything I’ve been through, I’m still afraid of what white guys will do to hurt me.
I already know what men will do to women, I’ve been through it all. Threats, violence, torture, I’ve seen and experienced it all, and if I haven’t been through it I’ve either heard or seen others who have.
Either because I grew up with them, or because of the internet, I now know there are people who have been things I can’t even dream of, and I can dream about a lot of really horrible and evil things.
But we’re still here.
When we are taking our time to share our stories, we are helping others, whether we realize it or not, and I am really uncomfortable with that part.
I don’t want to be seen as the girl who “got raped a lot and survived over thirty abusive men,” I want to be known as the woman who is well-spoken, and kind, I want to be all the things that make me feel like the woman that I am supposed to be.
Instead, I am an angry, bitter, cynical, bad-tempered bitch, who loathes people and still hopes and prays that somewhere out there, there’s someone who looks at my writing thinking “yup, there it is.”
Maya Angelou inspired millions of fresh voices around the world, and I won’t lie and say I don’t want to do that, because I do…I just don’t want the pomp and circumstance that comes with it.
I want to sit here and write my books, and maybe make enough money to buy a house on the water, somewhere warm, so I can write from there one day. A couple of dogs, a few cats, and for damned sure at least three maids, and I’ll be set for life.
But I’m not going to get that overnight. I’m going to have to fight for it, by continuing to tell my truth, continuing to share my stories, and by continuing to support victims of cult and domestic violence.
I’ve been feeling useless because I am not on the front lines serving meals and helping people get into recovery but I forgot, this can be helpful too.
Your voice matters. Because you exist, because you survived, because you inspired others, because you believe in the same majick that I do, and I know you do, because you know the weight of what you’ve been through isn’t nearly as bad as the weight of keeping it all in.
Let it go, love, it’s time,
Sending all my love
Devon J Hall
