To My Niece On Her Birthday

This is a letter I may never show you. This is a story I’m not sure I will ever share with you. This is the story of your birth, but not in the usual sense. This is the story of what came after and the memories that are intrinsically linked.

Four years ago, while we were getting ready to take our Spanish midterm, your uncle received a call that you were on your way. We both finished that midterm in record time, speeding off as soon as we were done to come welcome you into this world.

We got to the hospital just after you had arrived. The first time I saw you was through a window into the bright room where the nurses were cleaning you up and checking you over. After chatting with your mom for a bit, they brought you into the room. You were so little. The first time I took you into my arms I filled with warmth and love as I looked down into your tiny face.

I saw you often in the following days. Even as a wriggly, crying newborn, you had captured my heart. However, this is the point where the story turns dark. Nine days after you were born, two days before Halloween, I went out with one of my best friends to dance the night away in our costumes. What started out as a night full of excitement, ended with my rape.

The following days, for me, are a blur of police, doctors, fear, and shame. Your uncle was by my side through everything, reminding me again and again that it was not my fault. However, I still felt dirty, out of control, and guilty. I had chosen to go out, so I felt that it was my fault that this had happened. It certainly didn’t help with the psychologist I went to see at school told me that it was at least half my fault.

My world felt as if it was crumbling around me. Only a few months prior, I had ended a two year, abusive relationship. When I was raped again, this time by a stranger, I was already a mess from the trauma of abuse by one I had loved. To me, the world seemed dark and dangerous. Life felt hopeless.

Yet, in the midst of my horror, there you were. You had no idea of the violence that occurred, no way of understanding the pain the wracked my being. You were this small little bundle of warmth that cried and smiled and snuggled. For the first several months of your life, we spent a lot of time together. I cared for you several nights a week. I rocked and bounced you, fed you, changed you, and helped ease you to sleep. I would hold you for hours as slept. Even when your grandparents told me I could just lay you down and let you sleep, I kept you close to me, drawing comfort from the warmth of your small body in my arms.

When it was just you and I, and the house was quiet and calm, I would whisper to you as you slept. All that I was too afraid or ashamed to say poured out of me. I would tell you about the pain and confusion that filled me to breaking. I told you about the shame and guilt I felt. I told you about how disgusting I now thought myself to be. As tears streamed from my eyes, I would pull your sleeping form close to my body, as if the protect from the possibility of trauma in your own future. Though you could not speak or understand the tales I told you, you were one of the best therapists I ever had. Having someone to talk to who did not judge me or try to give advice was invaluable for me at that time. It allowed me to find the words to express my thoughts to others.

On your birthday, four years later, I am unable to ignore the pain that lingers still. I am still plagued by the darkness of what happened. But I am also filled with joy as I look into your beautiful face. My love for you fills me to bursting when you wrap your arms around me and tell me that you love me. Watching you learn and grow has been a pleasure for me and I look forward to seeing the person that you will become. Four years ago, you became my beacon of hope in the midst of seemingly impenetrable darkness. Though I already gave you your presents this year, there is another I would like to leave you with, though these words will not be shared with you for several more years.

If you ever find yourself the victim of rape or abuse, which sadly there is too high a chance of, know that it was not your fault. It doesn’t matter if you went to a party and got drunk. It doesn’t matter what you wore. It doesn’t matter if this was a person you welcomed into your life and maybe even loved. It matters not what you did or did not do. You are not responsible for anyone else’s choices and actions. I hope that you carry your strong will with you as you grow, for it will take you far. Know that even if you find yourself a victim, you are still strong. You are still beautiful. I hope that you will never have to know this darkness, but, if you do, I will always be there for you.

Much love,

Aunt Bina

Beautiful Contradiction

We find beauty in the destruction. We watch as they fall to their death, marveling at the exquisiteness of their demise. We gather around, some travelling miles and miles to watch this colorful mass extinction. As October presses on, we stare out at the multi-hued leaves breathing their last.

October is a time colorful splendor. It is the month of pumpkin spice and apple everything. It is a time of hayrides and haunted houses. It is friends frolicking through the fallen leaves. It is the beginning of snuggling under blankets and steaming cups of cocoa. It is running through the streets in costumes and filling bags to the bursting with candy.

October is a time to become something else, someone else. It is a chance to transform into a favorite character or person. It is an opportunity to be whoever you want to be. But what is inescapable is the intertwining of destruction with happiness. The beauty we seek comes from the dying leaves and fading of the seasons.

October is my favorite and most dreaded month. It is a month of contradiction. For me it is a time of joy and sorrow, simultaneous and intertwined. It is friendship and laughter, apple picking and pie making, birthday parties and celebrations. There is palpable magic in the air and the mists. It is also trauma and pain. It is bitter nights spent chain smoking alone. It is violation and destruction. It is dreaded memories that leave no peace. It is Halloween, both my favorite holiday and anniversary of the last time I was raped.

I love and hate this month of beautiful demise. October is who I am, contradiction and conflict, pain and beauty, destruction and rebirth. It holds both my most horrific memories and my hope for what can be. It holds the pain of the past and the power to drag me deep into the hell of my own mind, but also the hope of what can be born of destruction. It holds the discord of incongruity caused by such polar extremes, much in the way I am always torn between the depths of depression and a hope for what can be.

I dive recklessly into the busy of the season. I flit between harvest festivals, apple picking, time spent with friends, costume making, party planning, baking, and so much more, striving to stay occupied. I love this month because I must. I cannot allow myself to fall into the flashbacks and depression. I run through the corn maze of celebrations and expectations, attempting to outrun my own mind.

October is the month of beautiful destruction. As the leaves transform into things of great beauty in their destruction, so it is that we may find ourselves in our darkest moments. Four years ago, I reached a point of desolation I thought would never be escaped. The bitter nights still well up within me the darkness that once consumed me. But out of this anguish and loss, I have grown anew. Over four years I have let my leaves fall, parsed away the parts of myself that no longer belonged as part of my being. From the barren branches that remained I have slowly grown, and continue to grow, into someone I want to be. Out of my destruction, I have found myself.

What a beautiful contradiction.

Fighting for Positive: The Journey Towards Body Positivity through Rape and Disease

“The body is a temple.”

Throughout childhood I heard these words thrown about, often in a religious context. The message was intended to be that our body was made by god and we should honor him by treating our bodies well. If this were the only message carried in these words, it would be a lovely sentiment. However, more often than not, this phrase comes dripping with meaning and judgment. Though the words originate in religion, this phrase has gained a greater cultural use. Some use this to decry tattoos as blights upon the temple. Others use the words to bring shame to those whose size is outside our mental image of “health.” Still others hurl these words to condemn those engage in sexuality outside of the strict boundaries they perceive around sex. No matter which form of shame is invoked, the idea of the body as a temple regards a person’s form as a sacred space unto them that needs to be protected. But how does one find solace when the temple has been invaded?

Learning the Art of Letting Go

Swirls of white cascaded around outside the window to give the illusion of seclusion. Inside we were warm and safe away from the blistering frost. The scene was unknowingly perfect as together we nestled into a mound of blankets to watch the movie I had heard so much about.

Do You Want a Hug? An Exploration of Consent

The question has been brewing in my mind for the past few days. Over the weekend, my husband and I went to visit my family for the first time since we were married. As was inescapable, I ended up in the church pew Sunday morning next to my grandmother after a hearty dose of familial guilt (It will mean so much to your grandmother! Who knows how much longer she has left?).Though I no longer attend church or follow the faith, my parents’ church was a huge part of my childhood. Growing up, I spent most of every Sunday along with several evenings throughout the week within those walls. Though at least seven years have passed since I last attended with any regularity, many of the same faces remain. As we drove up to the church, I braced myself for the unavoidable questions and comments from all of my parents’ friends. What I had not adequately braced myself for was the amount of physical contact I had to deal with throughout the morning.

On Surving

I am a survivor.

These words resonate through my being dredging up recollections of times past that have led to this epithet encompassing my being. Memories of swirling darkness, a loss of control. My body taken from me, not once, but many times.

There are echoes of chaos. Thrashing limbs in the dead of night trying to fight off an attack living on only in my mind. Wracking sobs ripping through my body as if I might just rip into a million little pieces, shrapnel from the internal explosion.