The Intersection of Poetry and Healing

“I believe inconvenient survivors. I believe survivors I am told not to believe. I believe disabled survivors. I believe Black survivors. I believe Native survivors. I believe queer survivors. I believe trans survivors. I believe survivors of color. I believe survivors who have been in prison. I believe survivors who are currently in prison. I believe survivors who are homeless. I believe survivors with addictions. I believe survivors who don’t know how to talk about it. I believe survivors who talk about it too late. I believe survivors who talk about it too much. I believe survivors who talk about it casually. I believe survivors who can’t talk. I believe survivors who are kids. I believe survivors who know their abusers. I believe survivors who don’t know their abusers. I believe survivors who were in relationships with their abusers. I believe survivors who stay in relationships with their abusers. I believe survivors with mental illness. I believe survivors who don’t quite make sense. I believe survivors who are men. I believe survivors who have been broken by the news lately. I believe survivors, period, and I want a world that does, too.” – Elizabeth Miller“There is a glint ofsurvival in my eyes thateveryone can see”4/365, e.f.a.I’ve written a lot of posts before about how to support sexual assault survivors, the statistics and public health crisis of sexual assault, my story of reporting and being let down by the legal system. This time, I’m looking through the lens of creative writing to mark the intersection of Sexual Assault Awareness Month and National Poetry Month.For more than 200 nights when I was 21 years old, I wrote a poem to process my experiences from the day and see my personal growth over time. I had no idea that during those days, I would experience the trauma of sexual assault, followed by a drawn-out and perhaps even more traumatic experiences of fighting (and losing) within the legal system and living amidst rape culture that practically provides a blanket pardon for atrocities.These moments pervade the poems. The collection of haikus, tankas, free-form poems, blackout poems and six- and ten-word stories form a living, breathing record of my grief, hope, loss, hopelessness, clawing my way out with others’ help, rebuilding, and reframing my sense of justice. A lifetime of experiences crammed into a year, signed e.f.a. My pencil marks and keyboard strokes are inextricably linked with my up-and-down journey of healing.Though the daily rhythm has ended and the times I pick up a pencil are more sporadic, writing is still something that sticks with me. This poem is one of my favorites. It’s about when I got a check to buy new clothes in return for the ones I had handed over as evidence. Content warning: description of sexual assault.“And All I Got Was”He raped meand all I got was a hundred-dollar checksoaked with rainthrough a broken mailboxa year and a half laterI refused to hold it in my handsand admit to myselfthat instead of a guilty verdictor even a court timeor even a cop’s belief in my storyI got my apology in the formof a piece of paperCovered with numbers instead of wordsbecause there are no words sufficient to say“Sorry you got raped(passive voice intentional)and sorry you had to give an outfitfor evidence (that wouldn’t getexamined until you begged forbasic decency and the fulfillment ofbare minimum job requirements)Your forgiveness and healing can’tbe rushed or bought or covered upbut we sure can trybecause this is all we’ve got for you”The painful symbol expiredstill wavy from waterafter 60 days on my shelfwhen “void” became its valueon the very same day I became readyto step into the glass box of the ATMand appreciate its benefits morethan escape its distressing originI had to beg for a repeatof the same sham of justicean empty and pitiful echo of thebroken, unwanted, time-wastingdream, first deferred, then deniedof seeing my rapist be deprived ofthe ability to walk among usand possibly make another personanother numberon his list of conquestsA year latermy mailbox had another symboltucked within itbecause while it took himone interview to convince my detectivethat he was innocent and I justa foolish girl who “asked for it”and “invited him in”it took 957 daysfor me to get a sense ofpenanceTo the man who forced a “yes”and did not heed my “no”I still pray for youand those around youthe people who know youlonger than a single nightyour parents, shielded from knowingwhat you did to methat night and so many nights sincein the form of technicolor memoriessoured momentsbroken trustand relationships stretchedto the point of breakingby traumas not theirs“The justice system,” the unearned title“You’re our priority,” the unlikely reality“You brought it on,” the terrifying “truth”from my “expert” and “advocate”police officerabout what I “really” meantwhen I relayed that this manslammed my headinto a wall and left mybody, mind, and spirit riddled withbruises and bite marksand the beatings of society on topof the other scratchesI pray for youbut that’s the onlysense of peace I got to pocketWhere did you learn such violence?Was it from the Scriptures you saidyou grew up adoring?O LORD, my God,make him understandthat to treat a sibling of Godwith such disdainis to dishonorYour holy nameand stomp on itwith muddy boots anda cracked-open soulscreaming out pain so searingthat nobody can bear itCan I bear this?I screamed at the skystruggling with cosmic chaos like JobJacob and other giants of the faithwho wrestled with God long before mewondering where (and why)God’s divine interventionmissed the mark andinstead let me drownBut after all this time of tryingto make flowcharts and summary reportsand understandings of howA leads to BGod is gently turning mearound to show me thatI don’t need to agonize about whybut instead imaginewhat comes nextI bought with that hundred dollarsproducts from community organizationsthat support people experiencingoppression and violencebecause I now knowwhat it meansto fear for my lifeand so I will spend my lifecreating spaces for othersto be able to flourishinsteadHe raped meand all I got was a hundred-dollar checkand the priceless strength and empathythat come with survivorshipThank you for going on a piece of my journey with me by reading along.If this piece moved you, I invite you to donate to the organization that stood in solidarity with me during my seven-month battle with the legal system, Network for Victim Recovery of DC (NVRDC). They provided me with advocacy, comfort, and legal advice at no cost.If this piece brought up personal experiences of trauma, I encourage you to reach out to a trusted loved one, call the National Sexual Assault Hotline (800-656-4673), or text the general national crisis line at 741741. I encourage you to practice self-care. I encourage you to remember – always – that what happened was not your fault and you did not deserve it. I encourage you to have self-compassion for yourself on the days that it hits differently. You’re just as worthy on the days when you’re hurting, scared, and angry as you are on the days when you wear red lipstick called “F*ck Kavanaugh” and feel powerful as all get out.You are never alone.