The words still cling inside your larynx
It’s scary being vulnerable like this with the world, talking about it, saying: shitty stuff happened to me and it fucked me up.
Trigger warning: PTSD from abuse and rape
Rewritten from the archives
There’s something terrifying in saying the words out loud. About what happened to you. Sitting beside someone—oh god, or looking them in them in the eye while you face each other—while you explain? Waiting for their immediate reaction? Fearing pity, disgust, rejection, blame— or, maybe even worse, hearing exactly the response you needed that maybe you didn’t realize you needed, and suddenly you have no idea what to say next because what do you do if for once you actually get someone who knows how to talk about this, with you, and maybe you don’t have to describe with more detail or defend that it wasn’t your fault (while there’s still a little piece of you that’s learning to believe that), and you realize that they don’t think you’re weak and maybe they’re even glad to understand you better? You’re not prepared for that, you don’t know how you’ll respond, and unknowns—well, you don’t much like unknowns. Anyway, it’s horrifying. After all, you prepared yourself for the worst. So how do you cope with kindness and even grace in response to you divulging your story? And now you’re closer to them, whether you like it or not, even as every instinct is screaming at you not to let down your guard, though you already did. Because now you’ve given them a very fragile piece of yourself and you’re hoping they’ll treat it with care. And the thing is they might.
Maybe that’s a piece of your fear. You’re so scared of getting hurt and you’re sure that’s what will happen: either immediately when you recognize that they’ll never understand and their opinion of you is forever changed and your relationship is shot, or slowly, by letting them carve a space in your left ventricle, the one that gives you the oxygen you need to survive, and then one day something goes wrong and it confirms all the worst suspicions you had about being nothing more than your damage because you just know that was the cause. But you told them, because there’s a part of you that still can’t help but trust instinctively that people are good, even as another recognizes that there’s still something about you that will ruin things in the end.
You’re so scared right now, but something inside you says maybe it will be worth it, maybe love doesn’t have to hurt, maybe you can redefine intimacy into something beautiful, and you’ve heard that when you’re scared but do it anyway that’s brave, and you like the feeling of being brave, hell, you even rather like the feeling of taking a risk, which has led you down some bad paths but maybe, just maybe, this time, this risk, it could lead to an unknown that gives you something you want to keep—
But that’s not very realistic, not for you, is it?
So you write it down. Pen and paper, because they don’t let you edit, so you only write it once, exactly what you’re thinking and not bothering to reread, and you can seal it in an envelope and not look back. You can tell them without having to carry the burden of remembering how they first reacted because now you’ll never have to know, to see, because after they found out they had time to find their calm again. They could talk to you after they’ve considered what you said and (hopefully) come to terms with feeling any of those things you were scared might they might and might have even said that you would have had to remember forever: what they thought of you in that moment. They might have automatically pressed you for answers to questions you didn’t expect and didn’t prepare for. You won’t have the possibility of breaking down in front of them (fragile and unmoored; are they going to comfort you or freak the fuck out?) or of going numb (what will they think if you appear detached and unaffected?). So you force an intermission.
“you want to be loved if only to prove it possible: …you are not as damned as you think you are. you are not as damned as you think you are.”
-silas denver melvin
I don’t exactly introduce myself with a speech on trauma and healing. Instead, I let myself fall into the blue light of my laptop screen. And naturally published a poetry collection about it, including those ugly, angry, frightening parts that people don’t like to discuss, and I know that this piece of my past isn’t a secret any longer. I know logically, intellectually, that I shouldn’t be ashamed. But it’s scary being vulnerable like this with the world, talking about it, saying shitty stuff happened to me and it fucked me up. Yet I remember all too vividly the poem that made me first admit to myself the truth of what I’d gone through. That as much as I hate it, those ugly parts of my past are part of who I am today today, and they can never un-happen.
There is the possibility that my words could help someone else in the way numerous poets helped me when I was at my most lost, my least myself. So how could I live with myself if I didn’t tell my own story, my own way? How could I stand knowing that keeping silent only adds to the societal sentiment that we should stay silent, that these things are Not To Be Discussed, that despite our lack of fault speaking about it aloud is somehow taboo?
If we keep telling our stories, then little by little and bit by bit, maybe they can lose their stigma. Maybe we can stop being so scared of sharing our imperfect past in this photoshopped world. Maybe we can admit to the devastating, and then we don’t have to struggle alone. Even if now I’m still in the minority, acknowledging this part of myself.
And it makes sense. I hadn’t told many people about this. And now my friends and family know; acquaintances know; strangers know. And I don’t want to deal with the shame and judgment that can come from being someone who was hurt. Who was broken in a way that may allow for recovery, but can never again let me return to the person who existed before it happened.
There are still things I still can’t speak aloud. Things that, unfortunately for me and my conscience, I believe are important to address because we’re constantly told to hide them away and pretend we’re fine and struggle alone but they’re not going anywhere unless we confront them. Pretending they never happened, aren’t still happening to countless others— that isn’t helping anyone. Except the perpetrators. And so I release my not-secrets-anymore into the blue-light void.
I might still struggle to say the words, even to write them, but I am here, and I am better, and I am going to keep getting better, and one day I might say the words that stick in my throat and I might not and that’s alright. I am not going to let fear of how ignorant people may respond keep me from using my voice to say, if any of this is true for you, too, you have no reason for shame.
You are not alone.
You, too, can heal.
You are still here, and that can be fucking hard, and you are fucking strong.
“I don’t want your love unless you know I am repulsive, and love me even as you know it.”
-Georges Bataille
And you’re not an epilogue yet. Maybe you’re an ellipses, an em dash, a semicolon, and if you wait long enough—
Yes, maybe. I won’t lie; there are no guarantees, and it’s going to be hard, and painful, and scary, and exhausting. And I don’t know how long it takes. Or if it ever really ends.
(Fuck, I know you’re thinking.)
Because you worry sometimes that you’re just fragile defiance at this point, and a passing glance might shatter you. But you’re so tired of being haunted, and you’re trying so hard to forgive yourself for the pieces you lost—
You might be more fragile now, but the defiance that got you here is not going to leave you. Your stubborn nature will be a virtue now, because you are not admitting defeat. You are not aceding to the loss of you.
So if anyone who gives you shit for it? Give them hell right back.
What you’ve written captures so much of the raw, vulnerable complexity of opening up to someone. It’s terrifying because sharing something so deeply personal feels like handing over a delicate part of yourself, not knowing how it will be received. There’s that constant push and pull—hoping for understanding but fearing what might come next, whether it’s pity or, even more unsettling, the kindness and grace that you might not be prepared for.
It’s okay to feel unsteady in those moments, even if someone offers the perfect response. You’ve built defenses, and lowering them can feel like a loss of control, but it’s also an opportunity for connection. It’s not easy to trust someone with those fragile parts, but the fact that they’re willing to hold that space for you could be a step toward healing. It’s understandable to be scared, to feel like you’re not ready, and to question how you’ll navigate those unknowns. But you’re also deserving of care, and if someone offers it, maybe it’s worth exploring, even if it feels overwhelming. You’re not weak for needing someone to understand—you’re brave for letting yourself be seen.
Powerful. Sounds like an opening chapter in a book for learning to trust oneself.