All to often, we get lost in the we’s and they’s, awash in anger and blame, mix in a little shame, and you’ve got humanity tongue tied and twisting. See how the poetry attacks me, insidiously, every time I speak to you of rape?
The poem rescues me. When I follow an idea (rising like a wave atop a sea),broken free of the bodily sensations that bind me, I can rise. Above powerlessness I rise, suddenly Shaaman. At will I fly (even now) above whatever chaos rages around me.
Problem is, when all the bits and pieces of me start to crave the closeness of each other, they’ve got no center point, around which to come together. That’s when I breathe, remind myself integration is overrated anyway.
There were points in my experience where I felt that I would certainly disintegrate. Suddenly, I knew self as illusion, yet I did not care. For all attachments were at once released because the worst thing possible (at least for me, then) was happening, and so there was no need for any kind of cling. I made the best of it, which wasn’t much, but ended up being everything.
Nothing I have been through defines what I am. I create what I am in every moment. I celebrate myself. I am at peace. Part survivor’s story, part erotica, part intellectual inquiry, I hope you enjoy sharing in the creative exploration that is this blog, Segments of Self: An Intimate Journal of Rape and Healing.