There's No Beauty After Tragedy

I know the five things you'll say.

You'll say that it's not fair.

You'll say that it would be better.

You'll say that you get it.

You'll say that counseling would be any easy fix.

You'll say that it was my fault.

I'll tell you my stories.

They're pieced together like this.

It's not fair that I didn't lock them up because your daughter could be their next victim.

It's actually not fair that I have nightmares with their faces embedded in my brain, their voices raise louder than my screams, and their physical actions took something away that I'll never get back.

It's actually not fair my parents had to find, I carried both secrets flawlessly for months, both times, and now they feel like crap parents because they never had a clue.

It's actually not fair that every guy I like has to second think the kiss he was gunna give me out of the blue, as a show of affection, because it may cause hyperventilation.

It's actually not fair you opened your mouth on my trauma still only thinking about you.

It's actually not fair that the first time happened because I babysat for a guy so he could "run an errand quick" and that the second time because I stayed home from school since it was exactly one year later from the first time and mentally I was scared to leave my room.

It's actually not fair that I was a victim, their victim because rape shouldn't exist and we shouldn't be having this talk.

It would be better if you locked them up, you would feel safer.

It would actually be better if people could learn to keep to themselves when a person said no.

It would actually be better if I wasn't terrified of being home alone.

It would actually be better if I got to decide when I got to be done being a virgin.

It would actually be better if you just let me handle this on my own because you didn't care about it too much until I told you that they didn't end up in jail.

It would actually be better if you understood the scary part isn't that they are out there, it's the question of if there's another on their way.

It would actually be better if you listened to the pile of shit coming out of your mouth like I can go back and change anything now.

It would actually be better if you realized I wish I could and not for the sake of saving your daughter I would go back farther so I could save myself, but you didn't think of that.

You get it.

You actually don't.

You actually have no idea.

My mom has to think ahead every time she leaves the house so I know when she'll be back.

She texts me when she is on her way so I don't grab the gun when I hear my back door open.

We have to coordinate and make sure I have someone over I trust so I'm never home alone.

She leaves her phone on high because sometimes I have panic attacks at night.

I can't breath and she has to calm me down.

She was to watch her kid not breath.

At the minimum of a weekly basis.

She hears me scream at night but knows that waking me up will just make it harder for me to sleep so she stays awake.

Staring

Listening to her baby girl scream.

My mom watches her daughter twitch and cry during a nap that should be peaceful on the couch.

Or laying alone in her room for weeks due to mild depression.

Mixed with anxiety and terror it's a hell of a monster that's shackled her precious child to blankets of safety and pillows that hug without human contact.

My heroic mother sits on the sidelines watching a her bright bulb child flicker down to candle light.

Her beautiful rose wilt and lose most of its petals.

While silently keeping track of whether or not it should be a night of terror filled screams.

Go tell my mom you get it.

Look her in the face.

Tell her you get it.

And don't get mad when she laughs in yours.

Counseling will fix, give it a try.

Counseling actually won't because this kind of damaged isn't fixed with glue.

Counseling actually brings more nightmares.

Counseling actually brings more faces, and voices, and screaming.

Counseling actually brings me more things to be terrified with.

Counseling actually makes it ten times worse and my screaming, scratchy, overused vocal cords and tired pissed off oxygen lacking lungs can vouch for it.

Counseling is actually a dark sad place that making these lived nightmares somehow even darker.

Counseling doesn't help worth shit. I know. For the sake of my loved ones. My mother. I fricken tried.

It's my fault, I could've done better.

You're right I could've screamed louder as if the Windows weren't already open all the way the first time.

I could have said no one more time the second time because maybe 101 does the trick.

I could have told my parents and locked them up because that just makes everything automatically rewind.

I could've stayed home or gone to school.

I could've tried harder to get them to stop even after they almost broke a bone or at least I was sure 100% they did and it wasn't worth the risk.

I could have tried to see the future.

You could tried to offer something that would have meant saving myself but you won't.

So that's just fine.

That's my story.

Or my aftershocks.

My aftermath.

I won’t take black and mix it with white.

To make 50 shades of gray.

That give you a beautiful picture.

Because for me this is torture.

And honestly.

Everyone need to learn that there is nothing pretty about it.