I wish I could write something romantic and effortlessly poetic about today; how the ultrasound was empowering, how 2 1/2 years on, it all feels like a far away dream and how I've changed, healed and grown since then.
But the truth is, looking for damage inside me hurts. Disclosing my status as a survivor in a calm voice feels like a disservice to the violence of the act. Hearing words like clot, vessel and second opinion scare me. Why didn't they take me seriously when I said I thought it might be rape?
I want to be so much more than a suicide survivor, a sexual assault victim, someone living with mental illness. A bisexual women, a person of faith; a fucking list of “disadvantages” as if to counter inherent privilege. Dissociation, blood, trauma. Medication, loss, grief. Therapy, purging, mourning. Sets of threes (OCD?).
I love that my boyfriend is so calm and loving towards me when I leak blood on the sheets, in my nails, through my hair, but I can’t help but think of all the other traumas yet disclosed. Locked toilets, triple zero, psych wards, self harm, loss of friends, loss of innocence, screaming, smashing plates, tracing scars, boundaries blurred, stockpiling pills, thinking my dad was going to kill me, wishing he would...wishing I could.
Sometimes I feel like the person who was raped died and I'm some mangled body pulled together from the ashes. Those who know what happened never quite look at me the same (in fact, those closest to my fault lines were swallowed whole).