Writing is Healing

When I stopped writing when he broke me, It wasn't too big of a deal. My writings weren't very good back then anyway, It really was just “emo poetry” like he called it. Still yet, It was one way of coping It was one thing to do besides cut It was one thing to tear ink across paper rather blades across my skin. But honestly, When he was in the business of taking things from me, My writing was of the least importance. Much less important than say, My privacy When he told my sister things I'd said to him Or My ability to trust When I found out my friendship with him was just a joke Because he Quote “Thought it would be funny to see what would happen” And consequently had me realize that I'd also lost So many pieces of my body To someone who only ever planned to hurt them. You see, I thought we were friends. I thought dealing with the harassment and assault was easier Than dealing with not being friends. He treated me this way when I was nice to him How could I face what would happen if I stopped? His words and his hands already scratched every surface of my body and heart Pushed away any coping skills I had Or sense of self Or hope of having friends. Why even try to win when I've already lost everything? But stop This poem is not about him. I've already written those poems. I even thought I already knew how to write something called “I Feel My Body Is Not My Own.” Oh, I was so wrong. This poem is about the person who I thought saved me from him, But really ended up making what he did seem like child's play Seem like preparation For her particular brand of hell That healed every scratch he left Just to leave burns in their places. The first thing I wrote when I started writing again Over a year after his “emo poetry” jokes Was about him Was about his hands and his betrayal. So this one Will be about yours. It was you That helped me start writing again. That's undeniable- From the poem I wrote about your light helping me bury his ghost To the beautiful ones I wrote about you That you never Bothered To acknowledge. Never bothered to appreciate the love I poured out for you, The scars I forced myself to heal in order to write the beauty of your name. You knew You knew how important writing was to me And you knew how hard it was to start again, Hard like convincing myself it's okay to eat on bad days, Hard like do I really deserve to do this? But just like with him, The writing issue is the least important battle here. You knew how he affected my writing was important to me, But you also knew that how he touched me was an even worse trigger And you chose to ignore that too. Not only that But you chose to ignore me when I told you to stop When I told you I wasn't ready When I told you he was the reason why I couldn't do these things with you yet You didn't care. Just like when I told you writing my expressions of love for you was extra special because every single time I had to battle all that I went through with him just to write one poem and you didn't care to read them, You didn't care to read my body language When I became too scared to verbally tell you I was uncomfortable. Your poutting when I pushed you off Your coming back anyway Your constant questions Refusing to understand Your belittling Humiliating Dehumanizing remarks About what I wouldn't do About how miserable this was for you About how you just want to feel loved About how it's my fault for still letting him affect our relationship All made it so that I couldn't tell you Without feeling unsafe. You made me feel like I was doing something to you if I said no Like I was ruining our connection by being uncomfortable Like you deserve more than me Like you deserve more from me. I'd go further than I wanted to just to make you happy for one day Just for you to expect more the next time Just for the cycle to start again. More reason to believe it's all my fault, right? And the worst part is I told myself you loved me. I convinced myself it wasn't abuse. No, never over anything sexual, But in the moments when I'd question if something you did was emotionally abusive- The jokes about my eating disorder, The lack of care when I said I wanted to cut again, The ignoring me for hours or days after hanging out So that I was constantly wondering if you were mad at me Which led to me constantly trying to be perfect so that you wouldn't be mad at me- When I wondered if any of that was okay Of course it was “She loves you” I told myself And carried on Until eight months after it was all over During the #metoo era, Everything came to the surface. What you did What you are What you made me And I haven't written since then. What did I have to write about when I apparently can't even identify the things that are hurting me while they're still going on? And I could keep saying that part of it isn't that big of a deal But again, It was one way of coping It was one thing to do besides contemplate death It was one thing to do besides swallow handfuls of pills. It sent me to the hospital because I didn't trust myself alone. It sent me away from an innocent, pure relationship because I didn't trust someone could want to love me without hurting me. It sent me away from a relationship that was not-so-innocent, not-so-pure, but still one that was healthy and consensual because he saw that my anxiety wasn't worth his temporary pleasure. It sent me into panic attack after panic attack because though it's over, I relive it in my mind every day. But those panic attacks often happen in her arms And being held by her make it all worth it. Because though it sent me through all these things She understands all of it. So yesterday I saw him for the first time in a year And I was fine Not because he's nothing in comparison to you, But because I was holding her hand. And today I decided That if someone like you could help me heal from him She can help me heal from you too. And nothing Will make me stop writing again. Because writing isn't everything. But it's one way of coping. It's one way of healing. It's one way of surviving. And it's the one way that I don't want to live without.