I cannot continue to compartmentalize
Each aspect of my life
Individually
Separately
In cardboard boxes on wooden shelves
Waiting to be moved into one house.

My existence does not work in cubicles
Sectioning off each area of who I am
One by one
9-5 jobs
Some work overtime.

And yet, I do this so frequently
I continue to store things away
In the back ruins and corners of my mind
They go into storage units.
I guess I picked up the technique after being abused
So I could dissociate from the experience.

But I cannot keep putting on different identity hats
Sarah, the child abuse victim is a black beanie
Sarah, the ex-cutter and ex-bulimic is a red bandana
Sarah with daddy problems is a knit cap
They are all mutually exclusive
They cannot occur at the same time.

So why can't I continue to shelve these things
Intricately and one by one?
Because I am Sarah
The whole person
The individual
The human being who deserves recognition for her progress
Not her vices.

Talking about your assault
As if you are removed from it.
When someone apologizes for his unforgivable actions
Even though he was always unapologetic
I calmly reply
"It's okay"
And sometimes even with a smile on my face.

But it's not okay
Or rather
What he did to me will never be okay
And I always feel foolish after that response leaves my lips

You lie to people a say you hate him
But really
If I'm being honest
I never did

Although, my situation is different than most
Because this wasn't some vicious act of ******
But rather, a game my teenage cousin with Aspbergers
Told me to play.
Looking back,
I was fourteen once too
And I wasn't even close to perfect
I can't incriminate him based on one dire mistake.

I never wish to minimize anyone's experience with abuse
Except, of course, my own
Because making it smaller
Makes me feel more in control
Just as blaming myself used to do.

Granted, I have dealt with it
But now I remove myself from the situation when I discuss it
As if I am talking about someone else.
That way, I do not have to vividly see it in my mind.
That way, I don't have to explain
How I have to fall asleep to music
That way, I don't have to explain
How I can't have *** with the lights on
Or else I see his face.

When I say I am perfectly comfortable talking about it
I don't know if 'perfectly comfortable' reflects it as well as
I am just used to it
And I feel as though it is necessary to discuss.
I am not one to shy away from challenging topics.

While he made me stronger
Some days being strong is just too hard
And I give in to old habits
Or at least to the temptation of them.
I haven't bled from the result
Of a self-inflicted razor blade or kitchen knife
In nearly two years.
And my bulimia is better
Though I have only rid myself of that vice
Three months ago.

And yet,
Talking about my molestation seems
So routine, so standard
Which is scary
Because something that heinous should shock me more
But it doesn't.

Maybe it's because
He started an avalanche
When it came to boys using me for ***.
Maybe it's because
I share the same blood
As a child-molester.

It seems as though **** culture has permeated me for so long
That it's in my DNA
Woven strand by strand
So it doesn't scare me anymore.

It all comes down to perspective
And talking about my assault from a third person perspective
Keeps my battle scars under wraps
And my mind well guarded.

When people are shocked when they hear
About the things you did to me
I am always met with a strange level of surprise
For many years
I led my life believing this is normal
That everyone faces some form of abuse
At some point in their life.
Maybe it's because my normal
Has always been feeling stranded
Feeling empty
Because I don't know how to feel anything else.
Maybe it's because my normal
Has been for over a decade
That this is just how things are
As though it has been viciously branded to my body.
Maybe it's because my normal
Includes me proudly exposing my scars
So I can help others heal theirs.
Maybe it's because my twisted normal
Has made this everything I see.
I cannot say that the way he touches me
Does not bring up memories of the way you violated me.
I cannot say that the smell of mushrooms
Though vile to most people
Does not bring up a specific image in my mind of your bed.
Then mixed messages tell you
"It's your fault"
"It wasn't abuse"
"He should be in jail"
"Why wouldn't you prosecute?"
"You should hate him"
And you just want to shut out the noise
So you can soundly make a decision on your own
But they keep hounding
And you lose the ability to cope
So you take a knife to your arm
And a handful of pills
So maybe you can just have silence
For once.
Parents find you
And therapy becomes crucial
In which she tells me
That I am safe
I am okay
I am fine.
However, I will never be fine
Because I can never accept what you did to me
But I have moved on because I am worth it.
Letting you control all of me
Thoughts, behaviors and actions
Is like letting you get away with this atrocity.
It's like letting you tell me this is my fault
When it's no one but your own.
Although, when people ask me why I don't hate you
It's because you do not get the satisfaction of any of my strong feelings.
However, it is also because
You were a teenager
If people knew everything I got into at fourteen
There would be some pretty incriminating details there as well.
But the main reason why I will never exert anger toward you
Is because I got over this traumatic event not by hating your existence
But by loving my own.

Am I even breathing anymore?
I can see
Hear
Smell
Touch
But to breathe,
That takes energy.

Your body on top of me
Made me feel like I was drowning.
I mean
Clearly you did not **** me
But I ****** you out of guilt.
And what does that say about me?
That I am extremely weak.

I went home that night
Speeding even though snow was pouring out the sky
Feeling like I could ***** any second.
I haven't eaten since.
I quickly washed my clothes
And changed into something baggy.
I wanted to hide from everyone
As if my scarlet letter was branded on my chest
Carved savagely by a butcher who skins the weak.

So take your poison back, dear
I don't want your trace on me.
It triggered every memory I have of ****** assault
Sadly, the number is higher than it should be.

Lose me from your body
So I can be *alone.

How to have a healthy relationship with your razor
A guide, for the ex-cutter:
First, take her cover off
Let her slide out of that shear plastic coating
Then, just look at her for a few seconds
Stare at the shiny pieces of metal that line her core
But also look at the things that aren't so pretty
Like the gooey gel that surrounds her plastic parts
She'll like that you take the time to notice each and every one of her blades
As well as all of her.
Don't touch the sharp parts though
As those used to have a hold on you.
See, your relationship used to be very manipulative and abusive
When you first met
You were vulnerable
And she played off of that like she was a huntress
While you were clearly her prey.
She would lure you in with the luster of her kiss
How it felt when the metal dug into your pasty skin
And almost instantly, you would regret the sensation
The momentary high that you got
From your evil queen
Your sweet escape.
You would throw her away
The garbage became her home
But there were many like her
And like the devil, she kept appearing
In her many manifestations.
Plus, you needed her for housekeeping reasons
To keep you looking your best
And your sister and mother kept her around, too.
They really liked her
And she never harmed them the way she harmed me.
You really couldn't live without her
But learning to live with her
So you two shared mutual love and respect
Is an uphill battle.
Why did I want to be with someone like that?
Therapists blamed in on the fact that some man
Had unjustly touched me at seven
And sleeping with a knife under my pillow
(Her close relative)
Could have led me to having a volatile romance with the razor.
Some believe it was my daddy issues
That he had dropped the ball in so many areas of my life
Had he taught me to love myself
And not that I was just a fat, sick ******
I wouldn't need to turn to her sweet bliss.
But now, regardless of why we initially got together
We are in a good place.
I run her up my leg and she touches it
Making it smooth
And then I run my fingers along her work
Loving how it feels to be soft and feminine
She no longer suppresses that side of me
She no longer causes me to be callous
Because I put her in line and said
"Enough is enough!"
She will not take advantage of me anymore
Because I finally value myself enough to ditch
My attachment to her abusive nature.

One in eight boys will be sexually assaulted this year
One in eight of our brothers, coworkers, fathers, boyfriends
One in eight will be told "men don't get *****"
One in eight will be feel their masculinity being stripped from them
One in eight feel as attached to it as their muscle is to bone
One in eight never expected this to happen
One in eight will unjustly be told to question their sexuality
One in eight will hold it against themselves
Their shame is a blanket
One in eight are told they are defenseless
Eight in eight have experienced overly sexualized culture
In which they are told they must be strong, bold, *****
All the time
Eight in eight are told lies about their own bodies
About their own minds
Eight in eight are expected by the media
To be promiscuous and want *** all the time
So when that one in eight experiences unwanted touching, kissing, fill in the blank
They feel weak
They feel defenseless
They feel "unmanly"
To my brothers who have been sexually assaulted
You are not weak
You are not merely a statistic
And you are not alone.

You ignite me
Like my cigarette **** against the velvet midnight sky
The northern lights in the summer
The sunset in Arizona
In the middle of November.

You excite me.
Like a good ****
A roller coaster ride
My stomach is doing cartwheels
Broken glass against my hand
I fall in love all over again.

You make me drunk.
You are my shot of tequila
You are my cup of coffee
But with you
I need one more sip of whiskey
Or ten.

You make my body feel everything.
My feet feel like bubbles are encasing them
Fireworks light up my gut
My skin is drenched in a sheer screen of sweat
Electric currents shoot through my veins
They are carried from your lips as they connect with my neck
My bones shatter in the best way possible
And it reminds me that I'm still breathing.

You are the only thing
That makes me feel alive.