Images 47

Pieces of me....

  • By girly-d
  • On 10/07/2017
  • 0 comments

He'd put it in my drink. 

I was on a night out. I never went out; I was too busy working. I was having a good time. I cancelled my taxi so that I could stay out longer. He seemed nice. A  friend of a friend. He bought me a budweiser....with a little added extra.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. He helped me into a taxi and took me home. I remember us being in the living room briefly. Nothing after that.

I woke up semi naked on the living room floor. He hadn't stuck around. My stomach hurt and I felt sick. I was late for work - my boss was on the phone. I lived upstairs.  Bizarrely I actually did what was left of my shift - albeit mostly on autopilot. It takes me a while to process things as you will see if you follow my blogs.

I knew what had happened to me. I just couldnt begin to process it. So I tried not to. I refused to acknowledge it. I'm good at glossing over things - I should have been a painter.

It refused to go away. A monster appeared every night when I was trying to sleep. It was on my bed pinning me down, over and over again. I screamed and screamed but nothing came out of my mouth. I could feel him on top of me but I couldn't move to get him off.  I couldn't move a muscle. I slept with the light on and a knife under my pillow, protecting myself from something that had already happened.

I couldn't get clean. No matter how much I tried. I showered and scrubbed myself relentlessly. It didn't make the slightest difference.  Not even bleach could shift this stain.

I couldn't bear the thought of running into him again. I needed to get away. I dyed my hair black and moved hundreds of miles away to a small cornish town to get my head together. I found out later that it's a common reaction. To change your appearance. To want to run away.

I rented a tiny cottage, so tucked away that I struggled to find it. I called a taxi in tears after my first 45 minutes of fruitless searching. I bought cases of lager and bottles of lotion designed to kill the (imaginary)  pubic lice I was convinced I had caught from him. God only knows what the owner of the cottage thought when she emptied the bins after I left. 

I didn't eat. I barely slept. I cried a lot. I was a little ghost, scared of her own shadow.

I caught chickenpox years later in my early thirties. I'd managed to dodge it as a child, even when my brother caught it and I had to share his bed in the hope that I would get it too. It's bad when you catch it as an adult. I was covered in scabs. They were everywhere. In my nose, my mouth, all over my face and body. Inside me. I looked horrific. My face was swollen and sore. I was glad. Finally how I felt on the inside could be seen. It made me feel better.

It took weeks to heal. I didn't think that I would ever look the same. I'm still covered in scars but now, all of these years later  they don't tend to bother me. I've learned to live with them and what they represent.

I went for counselling when I felt better. It helped. It broke it all down and stopped me from blaming myself. 

I studied holistic medicine and Shamanic teachings.

I learned about Soul Retrieval and how pieces of your soul can literally flee your body during trauma as a means to protect the whole person from complete destruction. I hadn't been whole since it happened and I needed my pieces back. 

I went back in my mind to the living room to try to find them. The room was exactly as it was when I lived there. Apart from the walls.

The walls were a horror movie. They were covered in what looked like chopped liver. Big bits, little bits. They were everywhere - as though someone had left the lid off a blender after the start button had been pressed. I knew that  they were all pieces of me and that this was the aftermath that had been left behind after the assault.

I picked them off the walls bit by tiny bit and put them in a basket. I had blood on my hands. I didnt want to be there but I knew that this was the only way that I could draw a line under what happened and hopefully get the aftermath out of my head once and for all.

 There were no pieces on the ceiling. It was only later that I realised that I wouldn't have been able to reach them if there were, and that  I needed each and every one of those pieces back if I was ever to recover.

There was a cupboard in the room. Some kind of cubby hole. It's where my cat hung out when she'd suprised me with kittens one time.

The door was ever so slightly open and there was a young girl cowering inside it, petrified. She'd hidden there when the attack happened. She couldn't bear to watch what he was doing  and so she'd crawled away and sat there cowering in the dark.

I told her that everything was ok. That he had gone and that we didn't need to be scared anymore. I picked her up and gave her a cuddle. Then we left. Stronger me and younger traumatised me and our basket full of liver bits. Closing the living room door, not looking back.

Getting the fuck out of dodge....

 

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