Something strange happened today. I woke up, I went to my mirror, I lifted my shirt, and I was shocked to see that my ribs were clear. I was expecting to see some bruises, and definitely at least one cut. It’s weirder because I didn’t have the same kind of nightmares before, which need me to do a full-body check to remind myself that I’m safe. If there were any nightmares, I don’t remember the details. I woke up thinking I didn’t have a nightmare. I woke up remembering not needing to remind myself that I was safe, that it wasn’t 6-7 years ago, that I hadn’t time travelled in my dream, so I didn’t do a full-body check. For some reason though, I felt the need to lift my shirt and check on ribs which when weren’t decorated with cut and bruises, and for a second…didn’t feel like mine at all.
I think this is one of the things of being a survivor. Even when the trauma isn’t the first thing on our minds, it’s still impacting the way we function, what we do. Even when the trauma isn’t what we’re thinking of, it’s still there. It’s like the trauma and the mind become unified after a while. I woke up not thinking of the trauma. It’s an uncommon thing to happen already. I didn’t lift my shirt to check on bruises I was expecting to see. No. I don’t know why I lifted my shirt. I don’t know why I felt that surprise when there was nothing there.
It scares me, having the trauma and my mind be so enmeshed. It makes me wonder if there is anything left of me, of my mind anymore, if I were to magically be able to untangle that union?
This is also one of the things of being a survivor. At least it is for me. I identify as a survivor so much, that I have to wonder if I’m anything which isn’t touched by that ‘survivor’. We all have parts of ourselves which are linked by nothing else except that they’re parts of ourselves. Someone’s favourite sports don’t have to have any links to how they are with their friends… Everything I do, or am, seems to be so influenced or impacted by my identity as a survivor, that I don’t know if there is a me without her being a survivor first, and everything else in tangent.
It isn’t easy having the biggest part of your identity become the worst part of your life. It doesn’t feel sane at times. Sometimes, I hate myself for it. When I walked up to the mirror and casually lifted my shirt and stood there staring at my ribs, running my hands over them, just confused because I wasn’t seeing what I thought I’d see, and then realising what the hell just happened…I hated myself at that moment. Because I woke up not remembering and yet it was still somehow all about it.
I had fight in me when I woke up, I had fight in me when I started writing this. The fight is lessening, the exhaustion is coming closer. Sometimes, I think that all my life is, is a constant battle to not let the abuse win, to not let him win. The abuse ended, he’s dead. And yet, I have been at the same damn battlefield since I was 15 years old.
Yet another thing of being a survivor. Our battles never end, and we’re never allowed to be tired enough to rest. We fight, we write, we sing, we talk, we hide, we run, we swim, we talk, we never talk, we explain, we become silent, we ignore, we tire, we fight, we fight, we fight.