I feel as if I don’t know how to express myself today and writing in my blog is a feeble attempt at trying. The last few days have been trying. I don’t know where to begin. Whenever I say that to my therapist he says something to the effect of “That means there are many places you could begin” meaning that I have a whole world of possibilities and the oyster is mine.
I have been crying and thinking about my therapist now helps to ground me. He knows me in and out. He knows everything about me. He knows how to talk to me. I wish I could be with him right now. He tells me that even when I’m not with him I can still hold a part of him in my mind, and in that way, he is always with me. Everything he has taught me, every single one of his comforting words, they stay with me. As I try to grasp onto this concept right now it has its’ way of “sfuggire” or dissipating and escaping me.
I notice that I am rubbing the skin of my neck and chest, trying to rub off the dirt that is on my skin. I have to stop and bring myself back to being present. I am not dirty. But doing that feels comforting.
My period just started. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I spent the last 22 hours in bed. I am having cramping and it’s painful. Normally my periods are pain-free. Why today of all days is my lower abdomen hurting me? It feels as if an elephant is sitting on my intestines.
My thoughts are sporadic and my paragraphs short. I am finding it difficult to reign in my thoughts. I want to tell of the extreme disappointment I am feeling. I heard from the Deputy District Attorney yesterday afternoon. She was so kind to me over the phone. I thought that she would want to just relay the verdict and then get off the phone as quickly as possible but she lingered. She stayed on with me. She told me that she sat with her supervisor for hours going over the case. But that there is no evidence that would convince a jury “beyond a reasonable doubt”. It hurts me to say that. The justice system has failed our country and another rapist gets to roam this earth free.
The DDA told me that the outcome of this case has nothing to do with credibility. She believes my story. The sheriff believes my story. The DDA said she can’t imagine a jury not believing my story, but that there is just no evidence. I am crushed. I feel devastated. I feel broken inside. I feel as if the world just isn’t right. How do I make it right? How do I go on with my life? I want to quit now and become institutionalized. I don’t want to deal with my life. Everything feels like too much. I need my therapist. He is my pacifier. He helps me. I don’t want to help myself.
The DDA told me how strong I am. She noted how far I’ve come since my abuse ended, and that I am financially independent now for the first time in my life. She said she is on a committee that organizes a rally every October for domestic violence awareness month, and that we can honour those victims who didn’t make it out alive, who weren’t so lucky. I forget that domestic violence can be deadly.
I keep taking breaks. I can’t go on like this. I can’t tell my story all at once. I’ve gotten up, spit phlegm from crying in the sink, drank my soy milk, crawled back into bed, have laid down on my couch, all in between paragraphs. I suppose I feel restless. I also feel helpless. How do I get my power back after this? How am I supposed to find my voice? Isn’t that what I’m trying to do by writing in this very moment?
My abuser got to move on with his life four years ago, as soon as I exited his life. He gets to go on to abuse other people. And here I am, four years later, still suffering in this mental prison of mine.
The case doesn’t just end there and get put on a dusty shelf. The DDA said she is keeping the case file in her office, because it’s her case now. And I know she spent a lot of time on it, reading all of my journals and becoming familiar with the details of the case. If another woman ever comes forward in the future, that will be the evidence which is needed to revive my case. Unfortunately, one woman’s voice is not enough.
My TalkSpace therapist has also been helping me. She fills me with encouraging words, pointing out that I am strong, and that I have come so far, and validating that the things which happened to me were awful and that I didn’t deserve them. It’s not okay that they happened, but in order to move on I have to own my experiences and let them become a part of me and be present, rather than dissociating.
My head is in my hand, my shoulders slumped, my back necessarily being supported by a firm pillow on my couch. My legs are cross-legged with my blanket over my lap. I can hear the murmur of the refrigerator in the background. The air is stifling hot. It feels as if no air is being circulated in this enclosed apartment. I wonder if my upstairs neighbour heard me cry? I am glad that my roommate isn’t home so that I could sob as loudly as I needed to.
My roommate just came home. It’s 11 PM and an hour has passed since I started this blog. I am not up for company. I am not okay with this. No one else knows what I am dealing with in my mind. No one knows that I feel dead to the world, that I slept all day, that sleep is a form of disconnecting to life. My family doesn’t know how I struggle because they have their own struggles as well. My mom has to work 6 to 7 days a week for a delivery company because she is unable to find a regular job. She’s constantly tired, stressed. I wonder if she’s depressed. I feel as if I am alone in this little life that I lead. That I am alone and that no one knows how I’m struggling. I just want validation that I exist. I just need to keep making it to the next hour and the next day, day by day, hour by hour. I can do this only because I have to.