Transverse Process
I holler his name once, twice, three times over the loud music after each of her “What’s?” I halt, and she shouts, “Tell me his name so I can kill him.” But I can’t say his name anymore. Though I do not care for a vengeful air for myself and others, I am exhausted more by saying his name and letting it take room in my mind…when he has taken enough. Taken my breath. Stole my back.
Most days he blends into the amorphous mass of all my past abusers. The faceless monster of many men’s cruelty and disregard lurks and influences my subconscious. I know what my track record is. I know how my childhood sickened a part of me to make these terrible choices of men. Yet, it is hard to go down that path, especially when discussing with others, because it sounds like victim-blaming. I blame myself and others tell me no. But I never said no to letting the monsters cross the threshold into my life in the first place. They don’t hear your later no’s once they cross the boundary and know they can violate you.
So, I retreat. No one is better than being disturbed. My place of safety increasingly became my bed. As my back aches most days, I nestle myself under the covers with heating pad and television dissociation. The comfort is twisted when I recall this is the same bed in which I was raped and beaten…on two different occasions by different men. Oh, my heart screams into quiet tears. How do I get back all they stole from me?
If I could just get my body back. Yin yoga helped me release the trauma in my hips. Now my hips feel paralyzed by the back injury. The violence sits there and radiates throughout my pelvis. I gained so much strength and flexibility when I avidly practiced exercise. It’s infuriating now when I try because of the stiffness in my lower body. I resolved to start again, and then last week I felt the injury site crumble as I stepped into the shower. I don’t think it healed properly. For a week, it felt as it did when it first happened. The pain subsided eventually, but I feel the disconnect constantly. After some online perusing, I discovered some live with it never being healed…just manage it.
I know I should see a doctor and get a thorough assessment, but the trauma of the ER and doctors examining me under such duress for a week stifles me. Being stripped down in front of many in the ER so they can see all your injuries is all part of the being beaten. “Check her neck more.” They didn’t catch the back in the first pass while I repeatedly said something was wrong with it in my hoarse, strangled voice. A radiologist called the next day and gently told me while I cried.
It would help my case if I got examined and it is truly, in fact, permanently fractured. Pending trial after a year, my body has not forgotten just as the court hasn’t. It gets pushed back, and I push my feelings down for another month.
I don’t want to be the victim. Perhaps that’s why I victim blame myself. The sentiment of “survivor” in these instances makes me cringe. It’s just others boxing these traumas into manageable labels. While some need it, I cannot round up the complexities of these abuses into a neat box of triumph despite the facts. That lingers into toxic positivity, and I have had enough of the toxic. It’s messy. There is not a word for me. My mind stretches to find it. Several words may articulate who I am in the aftermath. Reaching for healing. Not dead. Persevering despite being broken. Sometimes sad. Sometimes ambitious. Still me.
