YOU DON'T KNOW

**Warning: Mentions of sexual abuse and self-harm may be upsetting or triggering for some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.** 

As a kid, I practiced and practiced being quiet so that I could sneak up on Dad. I perfected this skill creeping down the creaking stairs, sliding around the desk and chair to his computer office. It took time, but eventually, I could sneak up without him hearing me. It was one of my biggest accomplishments as a kid. 

When I was raped, I learned to cry without a shudder. No gasps. No sniveling. My mouth sewn shut. I told no one. Not my sisters, not my brother, not even those who were asleep in the same room when it happened. 

Afterwards my mouth bled, and my fawn spots appeared. My body rebelled, giving me physical evidence of my failure; the inability to speak because I did not speak up while it happened and the pigmented dappling at my bra line because my boundaries had been crossed. Even after my mouth healed, I remained silent. It is no one’s burden, but my own. I will not inconvenience them. It is my fault and only mine. 

Then the fawn spots spread, white blotching across my arms, chest, down my back, and across my thighs. Every time I looked at them, my mind sneered, flawed; soiled; incomplete. 

I wished I was whole. I wished I was healed. 

I gave to crying at night. Adolescent anxiety progressing into what I named “Night Depression.” The ghosts gallivanting like Anderson’s “Grotesque” with their leers, jeers, and taunts. For all my mistakes and foolishness, I held myself viciously accountable: I had made these mistakes. Great wrongs had happened, and I could only blame myself. It is wrong to point the finger at someone else. I must take responsibility. 

Darkness. 

I tore at my skin. Bit. Clawed. I loathed myself. I, who spoke about defending so many and couldn’t –can’t—even save myself. Scum. Flawed. Weak. The venom flowed. Never good enough. I gouged the self-slander into my arm. Not good enough for any employer, not for any romantic partner… You. Are. Pathetic! I bit into my lip. I carved into my skin. Thin hairlines of pain on my forearm. 

I had learned long ago how it was better to hurt physically than to writhe emotionally. “Better to feel than to never know,” I told myself, reciting like a poem in my quiet moments. 

Digging my nails into my scalp, face, arms, legs –they hurt, but left no marks. Helped to soothe the anguish. To calm the pain. No one would ask. No one would know. Even these marks dug with a knife, a tool intended for my protection, would be hidden among my fawn spots. Wounds among deformity. No one will ever know, and I can keep reminding myself of the pain. Penance. 

But I wish they saw. 

I wish they saw, so that I could deny. So that I could be seen fully. And loved. And cared for. 

But I’m not good enough, I remind myself. 

I don’t remember my shift. I had tried to heal my fawn spots through spiritual and herbal methods. Tried to return to normalcy. It was difficult. I gave up. But I still wished. 

I traveled. I sat. I was. 

Somehow my hope was not easily differed. Eventually, I realized that my fawn spots were like the markings on a panther, faint dappling, a beautiful kaleidoscope on the fur. I was a panther. These felines embodied femininity, Yin, the night, power, shamanism, and deep magic. Maybe the night could be good again. I took heart. Blemish to treasure. 

In the process of meeting myself anew, I touched my arm and felt it shudder beneath my fingers. Alarm streaked through me and as I looked down, I saw the thin white hairline scars threading like spiderweb crosshatching my arm. My heart dropped. 

I did this. 

Placing my palm on my arm, tension rose like a bird preparing to fly. My flesh had lost its trust in me. I vowed to never strike against myself again. 

One year later, and I’ve learned yet more about myself; what triggers me and what it looks like when I’m trapped in memories and anguish. There have been so many deaths lately. My heart grieves though I move and work. I push back the tears. I control my emotions. Or so I try. 

Yesterday I fled.

 Leaving our conversation, I receded to the back of the house. Enveloped by the keening of my Soul for the recently departed. You are right. I am afraid of being successful. I deny my worth, because I don’t believe I am. I abhore being naïve and inexperienced despite being only 25. I feel older. I should be excelling. I should know I should do and be -and they should not have died! 

You tell me another truth. “Are you angry, because you feel like that little boy was snatched away from you?” 

Snatched. 

He wasn’t even my son. But that is exactly how I feel. He should not have been taken. He was joyous and smiling and beautiful. 

I withdrew to weep. It is not your burden. You are happy. I shall not disturb you. 

Flexing, closing, reaching to claw and forcing my hands open, flat on my knees again. Patting my thigh, itching to create physical pain to distract from the anguish of my heart. Rocking. Pressing my lips. Hugging my shoulders. Nails curve down. I stretch them out again. Reposition. Rock. Hold. Struggle. 

You find me, shocked at what you see. It’s written in your face. My body limp, hair hung, sticking to my face, knees bent tight. You found me. You held me and my face becomes even more soiled. Un-composed. Loss of control. 

You weren’t supposed to find me. To see and name my truths. Perhaps this is a change in the tide. When you thought it was your fault that I was raped and you never knew. Perhaps it’s karma finally righting itself into the Highest Good. 

Mom, I kept the vow to myself, because you found me. 

I am sharing this piece, because I am tired of hiding, I am tired of concealing the abuse that I have survived and learned to flourish in spite of. I want my experience to connect with others, so that others know that they not only have supportive community with myself and others, but also that they too can flourish. We learn how to embrace what we previously viewed as weakness and flaws, we embrace our emotion and all its raw beauty, and we learn that it is what we DO with our experiences, that becomes our purpose in life.

What we focus on, becomes the breath in our lungs. 

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This is why I share this piece. To continue my promise to myself in Costa Rica, and shed all masks. Living authentically myself and only myself.