Absent Consent; A story of a broken girl still surviving

            “Sex takes the consent of two, if one person is lying there not doing anything cause they are not ready or not in the mood or simply don’t want to yet the other is having sex with their body, it’s not love it is rape”-Rupi Kaur. It seems simple does it not? Yet there I was saying nothing. Actually crying. Asking for him to stop and trying my best also not to make too much noise causing anyone else in my house to wake up, that would be rude, right? Anyway, I am going to in detail tell you the story of probably the scariest night of my life and not because I really want to relive it as telling it, even on paper may just as easily break me, but as I attempt to use exposure therapy this night I will tell you of. The hope is that by doing this I will one day realize I am as strong as those around me say that I am. In due time, I will be able to tell this story out loud as that will mean it has not ruined me completely as I will have overcome the shame.

“The rape will tear you in half, but it will not end you”-Rupi Kaur. For the last few months I have been engaging in the usual talk therapy and finally have come to the conclusion that my PTSD is in need of something much more aggressive. I understand though, the fear my therapist has in doing this with me as back in January, I overdosed on a cocktail of medications and alcohol in attempt to escape the thoughts that ran ramped, events of that night that were so real to me that my private parts actually felt the pain. Even to this day this still happens, but thankfully not as often. And even when it does, I am more apt to having a major temper tantrum as oppose to hurting myself in the process.

It was week day in October, one of those odd days in which you would forget what season we were in, as it was warm enough to wear a pair of jeans and a light jacket. My best friend and I decided as adults we had worked hard enough and decided to treat ourselves to a good night of drinking and dancing. The two things we do best. Rent the soundtrack was on deck being rewound over and over as Sarah and I sang to each other “Take me or leave me” knowing neither one of us would ever go anywhere. For what may have been the first ever, Sarah was ready to go home but was more inebriated than I. So just as she had done for many times before, I walked her home. Allowed her to lean on my frail body as we walked through yards, cut corners, J-walked and acted as sober as possible. Finally, after a long 25 min walk we made it to her house. Sarah decided to light up and asked me if I wanted a drag of the blunt she had just rolled and my normal response hadn’t changed “no thanks, I hate that shit” she seemed to convince me that actual marijuana was much different than a vape pen and that it wouldn’t cause me to faint like the last time. After saying no a couple times, I gave in just to please her. I choked as inhaled more than one should. What did I know though?, I was not an avid smoker, so I dragged on it like it was a cancer stick. I sucked down some water and coughed until tears ran down my face and then decided to head home.

It was not until I began walking down the street that I realized just how drunk I was. As I swerved towards the road and back at 11:30 at night I found my way to Urban outfitters and stood there to make a couple calls. Who in my contacts wouldn’t kill me for calling them this late at night to drive me home? I decided at that moment a friend of mine whom I had known for many years would probably be willing to come and get me. I was aware of the fact that he liked me, and at the moment, my intoxicated self, kind of liked him too. He answered and made his way to Urban within 15 minutes. My intuition must have been spot on that night because I called my case manager and left her a message with his name and let her know he was taking me home and mentioned that if anything were to happen to me please give the police this information. I’m not quite sure if I really believed anything bad could happen because, without hesitation I got into his car and told him all about my night. He doesn’t drink anymore, but he did ask if I had any weed left. Thankfully I could answer no to that one. We pulled into my drive way and a big part of me was feeling lonely and decided having him come up and perhaps spend the night (just to sleep) wasn’t a bad idea.

My inhibitions were lowered and my sexual desires took over as I removed my clothes and put on my favorite silk cheetah romper. As I sat next to him on the bed he commented on scars from my past, stories of which he had not yet known of. I took the liberty of explaining that numerous sexual assaults along with parents who were uncappable of providing the love and support I so desired had caused me to believe I was not worthy of love and attention. Being the thoughtful person I am whom remembers most everything I asked him how he was doing with his sobriety. Much to my surprise he was doing quite well. I then crawled over him to the side of the bed I commonly sleep on hoping he and I would spoon. He turned me over like a rag doll and began to kiss me. With past memories of trauma, I did not respond, but laid there and allowed him to do as he pleased. I didn’t care either way what happened. Alcohol had given me permission to engage in sexual activity. He then inserted his finger inside me and although my body was saying no, as I found it to be quite painful I allowed for this to happen. Within minutes he began to perform orally, yet still I had no objection. But once again I found his fingers inside me and decided that it was too painful so I got up and find my battery-operated toy, something I had just discovered and allowed myself to use occasionally in attempt to get to know my own body. Within seconds I realized this was not helping and he had no desire to be a part of this interaction. I turned over yet again with the means to go to sleep, but really this time I was ready to go to bed.

He curled up next to me and began to insert himself inside of me. I reached down to remove what I thought were his fingers because I was no longer interested only to find out he had removed his pants part way so that he could have sex with me. Now this is where it gets blurry, I am unsure if I mentioned to him that the other stuff was fine with me, but I did not want to have sex so I placed my hand back under my head and closed my eyes. I then found him attempting yet again to force himself inside of me. As quickly as I could, I said to him “please stop I don’t want to have sex.” He ignored my request and wrapped his arms tighter around my chest making it impossible for me to move. I began begging him to stop and asking him what he was doing as my temple began to ache with pain as he forced himself inside. I cried with hopes that he would understand that I really meant it, I was not interested and wanted to be left alone. Once I realized my tears meant nothing and my words were as empty as all trust I had ever had in men I stared at the wall and waited for this to end. I held my legs as tightly together as possible and due to the excruciating pain contemplated whether or not I should give up the fight. In the past I have done that. Tonight I made myself do something different. I fought which meant I allowed it to hurt because I refused to give up by squeezing together my thighs. After what seemed like forever he pulled out and turned over. I got up out of my bed and ran to the bathroom.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror I asked “what the hell just happened? What do I do now?” I allowed the broken girl staring back at me to cry and then washed my face only to see a beautiful disaster. I returned back to my room and told him I really didn’t sleep well with others in my bed and that I wanted to be alone. With that he buckled his belt and left my room. I ran downstairs to lock the door behind him fearing he would come back. I raced to my room and called the only number I knew that would not judge me and could possibly help. The advocacy center picked up and as I stood in the corner putting on new clothes and collecting my pajamas I told her “I think I was just raped.” She called a cab for me and offered to meet me at the hospital.

Within ten minutes the SANE nurse explained what would occur and although it was for my own benefit I was violated again with a metal speculum and swabs. I laid their as tears rolled down my cheeks re-living what had just happened. Within an hour the nurse had bagged up all the evidence she had collected and told me that I had been torn and bruised, but that it would heal. What do I say to that? I mean yea, I’m glad I’ll heal, but what about my heart, my mind? They would never ever be the same. I had gone into the day a partially damaged porcelain doll with some metaphorical bandages covering prior sexual assaults that had been pieced together with tape, love and therapy only to walk out of the hospital bleeding from inside out.

I returned to my home the one place I ever felt safe only to see a young woman staring back with tears in her eyes and an empty voice. It’s now been 8 months and I have yet to sleep in my bed. I have given up snuggles with my cat to lay in a dark closet where my shoes used to model the places that I have been, obstacles over- come and progress I have made. Many days when the sun goes down I look around my room and become an empty shell of a woman. Staring off into space with my hand covering the area he tore with my legs held tightly together hoping the pain will go away. And when it doesn’t, when I cannot snap out of it, I reach for the nearest blade and watch myself bleed in attempt to feel something other than the pain my entire body has taken on. I am here, but I am gone, you may reach me on the phone, but my heart has taken a leave of absence and as of now there is no return date. Just an arm of bandages caused also by absent consent.

©Kimberly Edwards

https://youtu.be/xnr7SxmHWGc

The Art of Dying

“Dying, is an art, like everything else”- Sylvia Plath. The reactions I received from people when I chose to work at Hospicare was like a metaphorical ying yang symbol, some thought “how wonderful, you would be so great at that” while others wondered if such an empathetic and fragile soul such as mine could handle living fully while caring for the dying. It is this quote that explains how someone such as I and everyone I work with wish we knew how to explain, but Plath seems to have put our feelings so simply and beautifully. Although the passing of a loved one is difficult and the grieving process is beyond excruciating for those who watch bedside, I promise the art of dying is not nearly as difficult for whomever is experiencing it no matter what you believe comes next.

The beautiful thing about my job is that tragedy is not what overcomes the soul when a particular diagnosis has been retained, but rather a light no one else can experience until their time. For some it may take a while to accept the truth, but once in the process or the beginning of the end that light is something they chase. It is my faith in God that allows me to know that with the amount of pain management, love, comfort and stability the wonderful staff and I provide our patients allows our patients to finally experience true peace. “End No the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one we must all take. The grey-rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”- J.R.R. Tolkien. I have often wondered if I am indeed the kiss of death, but have come to a selfish conclusion that many individuals want, but cannot express during those last moments that they need your permission. As someone whom sits at their side when the family cannot make it, I sing to them, I explain what the world looks like in the moment, probably the only time I practice true mindfulness; I remind them they are loved, explain each picture on the wall and art piece that someone has left, I pray for them and most importantly I give them permission. The struggle to take in air is something I believe is done to please their loved ones, but as they take that last breath and their chest rises, their lips part I choose to believe that is their way of saying thanks. And this is the last word.

There is something beyond the Universe and some of us may live a long time to get to know of it and some of us experience it sooner. Whatever the diagnosis that causes one to move on past the green grass and blue sky as we know it, is something each patient at some point come to terms with. Although they may not jump with joy to leave this world, I do believe they find an uncanny peace knowing the pain and suffering is over. I have been blessed to have the opportunity, yes that is what I call my job, an opportunity to give someone comfort and permission to fly amongst the greatest of whatever higher power they believe. And if they don’t have one and simply believe they are destined to rest under glistening snowflakes, daisies or tulips, I know its way better than gasping for air and holding onto something that is no longer meant to be. The best part of the company I work for is that no matter what the staff believes about life after death, they do their best and always succeed to make those last minutes’ matter just as a mother does when she brings a child into this world. No religion, belief or opinion is ever forced, they, we, I respect the wishes of each individual while always wishing them the best as they create a new art, beginning with parting the sky using their last God forsaken breath. I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else than in the company of someone who does not want to be alone. The last-minute counts just as much as the first and I understand if you cannot do it. For some the art of dying is quite the opposite, but until we get there and experience it for ourselves why not just assume that the process is nothing less than magical.

Last, but certainly not least please let me assure you as many nurses, aides, caregivers or friends have told you, your loved one can hear you. It is at this time that one should shower their loved one with “I love you” and know that even though they cannot reply they also love you too. Those who are dying are aware, they too are mindful of what’s going on around them. I know this because I have been in the presence of many during their last moments here on earth. Sometimes they groan, or gurgle or may even try to open an eye for one last look. With each patient, I have seen follow angels to Golden Gates, I have held their hand and told them it was okay. I often wondered “who am I to give someone permission? Did I cause their death?”, but then realized I am the one sitting there doing my best to provide a safe place to receive their wings and if I had to say one narcissistic thing about myself, I’d say that in many ways they would like to thank me. One last quote, rather a question I would like to propose with the hope it will ease your mind if this entry has not already “How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?” -Carson McCullers

©Kimberly Edwards

https://youtu.be/IwU1AZlqN9M

Redemption through anger; Love from hurt

“It has been one of the greatest and most difficult years of my life. I learned everything is temporary. Moments. Feelings. People. Flowers. I learned love is about giving- everything- and letting it hurt. I learned vulnerability is always the right choice because it is easy to be cold in a world that makes it so very difficult to remain soft. I learned all things come in twos: life and death, pain and joy, sugar and salt, me and you. It is the balance of the Universe.”- Rupi Kaur. This year I came to understand this valuable quote on a much deeper level. I had lived many years not fully comprehending that vulnerability is the only way to live life to its fullest and that experiencing emotions is the exact definition of vulnerability. And this year I would have to learn to experience and be comfortable with anger in order to be able to forgive and experience true freedom. In 2016, one of my best friends came home from treatment. There was a part of her that wanted to stay in recovery, but her eating disorder was so loud that not even the hope I had to offer could overcome the torment in her mind. Sadly, the pain Deena suffered got the best of her and she stole my medications to quiet the voices. I became rightfully angry and decided that the best way to get through this was to put a pause on our friendship. I forgot though to tell her I still loved her and that no matter what I always would. During our time not talking, Deena tried cocaine for what was not her first time, but certainly her last. Not yet alerted, I spent days walking by her house telling myself it was time to forgive, not knowing it was too late.

It was 4pm or what I refer to as “Ellen time”, on the 10^th of May, my alarm had just gone off to wake me up for my favorite show. Ellen’s theme song began “Today’s the day I’ve been waiting for, tomorrow won’t come after all, yesterday is so far away, and today is the only day, somebody please stop the clock.” I sang along while scrolling through my Facebook having no idea how ironically true those lyrics by P!nk were about to be when up popped a message, “When did Deena die?”. My heart stopped. Anxiously searching for proof that this was some sick joke I went on to Deena’s page only to find my nightmare come true. In bold letters, someone had written “I cannot believe you are gone.”  My tonsils became engulfed and painful with each short- lived inhale, I cried myself into a corner. I could barely breathe. I cried out “I’m so sorry Deena” which then turned into “I can’t do this, I have to go to heaven and apologize.”

For the next two weeks, I spent all my energy attempting to run from my emotions and after failing to escape the Universe that I had come to believe was not worth being a part of, I finally got it. The only way out, was through. It was time to no longer hold onto this guilt. My body was trying so hard to move onto the next stage of grief, but I was not allowing it to. I was too afraid. Anger was the last emotion I expressed towards Deena and now she was gone. I didn’t trust anger, but I had to learn to feel it. I knew I needed to be in a treatment facility to safely process. I was already severely underweight and malnourished and I couldn’t trust myself to eat while working with an outpatient therapist. I checked myself into a partial hospitalization for eating disorders a couple weeks later. I jumped right in and I was tested. I was forced to face each emotion however it manifested. “People have a tendency to avoid feelings that are uncomfortable. The truth is, feeling uncomfortable can be good; it can evoke change…”- Unknown. In one group, we were asked to write a letter to someone following a particular outline that was given to us. I did not take it seriously at first, but later realized that this is what one endures in order to heal. They do it by authentically writing the letter and allowing it to hurt. When I got home I let the words flow like my tears had when I first found out she was gone.

Dear Deena,

 I was and still am deeply saddened by the choice you made that resulted in your demise. Knowing that your death was preventable, and that you took that risk is why the pain is so much deeper. You were so bright, so funny and had a heart the size of more than two people’s put together. It’s not a matter of what you could have given the world by sticking around because you gave us a lot, but what you could have given yourself would have been extremely magical. I have many memories most of which are intangible, but great, as I can hold on to them forever. Sadly, I cannot make new ones and that is hard for me to fathom. Due to the incidences leading up to your death, I Deena fear anger because you did not give me time to forgive you. After all the disagreements you and I had, and the many times I drilled “I love you” into your head why couldn’t you have at least had the decency to reach out to me? I was mad Deena, but I was still there and I still loved you! As I look back now, it occurs to me how some things we mean in our heart hold more sustenance when released through our lips.

At some point, I will forgive you, but in the meantime, I ask that you love me through my personal grieving process, and that you do not take it personally. I understand your actions were to block out the voices of your eating disorder and the pain of your depression. The horrendous torture that occurs deep within your own soul when in the throes of the most complicated battles within yourself and your body is tough. Although starving rather than fighting against anorexia is easier, I also know the positive feelings that are acquired when you win and that it is so worth it. I wish you could’ve experienced that. I love you dearly Deena Beena, with lots of berries, milk, ensure and just to give it a little “boost” real sugar! - Kim

I felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders having been honest with her, but with myself as well. Each letter and or conversation thereafter in which I needed to communicate uncomfortable emotions became much easier. I then realized I had been experiencing anger my whole life, but had been directing it towards myself and confusing it for sadness. This was a tough lesson. I mourn Deena’s loss every day and may for the rest of my life, but even though she is gone, she is still teaching me. 

Take Back the Night

Last week I attended the Advocacy Center’s annual Take Back the Night rally. I’m not in the minds of everyone there, but as I know from personal experience I assume that a majority of the people were triggered. I can’t speak to why perhaps I wasn’t upset by the rally as it was a reminder in so many ways of how rape culture is an organic and continuously growing epidemic. My guess as to why I didn’t melt into a puddle of tears by hearing stories upon stories is that I was blessed with the opportunity to perform a lyrical dance in front of this large audience. To me I had found a way to give back to the center whom has supported me day in and day for many years, as well as remind all the survivors in the crowd that despite being the victims once of horrendous traumas our bodies are still beautiful and capable of doing so many things, and for me that was dancing. I was able to tell a story, to lead by example and enjoy my body in a way I have not been able to for many years.

Ironically enough I had run into the man who raped me a week before this event which catapulted me into a vicious cycle of flashbacks, nightmares and what is known as hynogagogic jerks aka involuntary muscle spasms. For weeks now I have been sleeping in my closet as I cannot yet bring myself to sleep in my own bed due to the fact that my bed is the exact place in which my trauma occurred. The night I performed was so therapeutic that I finally followed through with the baby step of sleeping next to my bed. The first night went well, I even managed to sleep there a second night, but the third night I had recently come from dinner at the exact same restaurant and even sat in the same booth as I did months before when I told my mother that I had just been raped two days prior. For some reason the memory of informing my mother of this 4^th trauma haunted me more than hearing other people’s stories.

Each day I take a nap before enjoying my favorite daytime talk show Ellen. Lately I have fallen asleep around noon and despite it being daylight I am haunted by various nightmares which is commonly accommodated by sleep paralysis. Mind you, the paralysis also occurs during my night terrors as well. This past week I have woken myself up after spending which is easily the longest ten minutes trying to will myself awake only to realize that although my screams were not real, my tears were. I cry in my sleep and then thrash around the closet as I work myself up into a frenzy over the fact that no matter what I do and how hard I try the only control I seem to have is what the hell I put into my body. So, when I sit in my counseling sessions every week and feel interrogated by my therapist I can no longer accept this as her way of advocating for my recovery, because as much as I want to get better I also am extremely exhausted from fighting. Nightmares or not I sleep an average of 12 hours a day and typically more because all sleep is not restful. I can’t stop the memories nor the nightmares. I may have danced at Take back the night, but I can’t take back the actions that I did not commit against myself this past October, a night I will never forget. And with that, I will say to my readers, my friends, family, strangers, all humans; eating disorder recovery is not a straight line. Sometimes the people fighting the hardest are the ones losing the most. A wise woman told me last week, that “just because you are weak doesn’t mean you can’t at the same time be strong”. She is right. Right now, I am weak in every sense of the word, but despite my eating disorder I am still dancing, writing, advocating, reading my work and being the change I wish to see because I am just that strong. My disorder is strong as well and yes if we compare it to me, it has the upper hand. My therapist would question my motivation and how it is I plan to change these eating habits so that I do not stay sick, and to keep her happy I will without thought tell her that it is my desire not to feel sick, to continue my daily activities of life without fear of fainting and my hope to return to work and not be a liability. And although all of that is true, my sanity which seems to only be somewhat clear when I am starving is more important. I know continuing therapy with a person still using symptoms is just as bad as a counseling session with a drunk, but I believe there is still something I can get out of showing up and at the very least talking about what keeps me stuck. That right there is my strength, my desire to recovery, showing up and talking is my fight.

https://www.facebook.com/kim.edwards.5811/posts/10213295272484158