A fragmented story of feelings
Table Of Contents
- A Collection of Memoirs and Poetry
- Memoir I - Abused
- Poem I - The inner feeling
- Memoir II - An angry child
- Poem II - What begins with lies
- Memoir III - The wrong girl
- Poem III - The internal
- Memoir IV - You belong to me!
- Poem IV - I wonder
- Memoir V - A feel of belonging
- Poem V - The moon
- Memoir VI - And so we are here and now
- Poem VI - Value
- Memoir VII - The monsters in this world
- Poem VII - Don't care to speak
- Memoir VIII - Something died within me that day
- Poem VIII - Pause mode
- Memoir IX - The kid in the basement
- Poem IX - Queer goth
- Memoir X - Finding a special gift
- Poem X - Words spelled in silence
A Collection of Memoirs and Poetry
I’m not writing this book to gain sympathy from anyone. I am simply writing it to 1) tell my story to help other survivors of trauma feel less alone, 2) to make an impact on this world and 3) because I don’t have a hand covering my mouth trying to silence me anymore… Because, yes, once I did have a hand trying to silence me. And the people who abused me told me to never tell. That’s why I’m now telling you!
I won’t write anyone’s real name in this book, any real city or location, or something else that can make the people I’m writing about to be found. I respect everyone's privacy, even my abusers.
This book is a collection of both poetry and memoirs, and that is because I use both memoir writing and poetry writing to tell my story. To give the full picture. Sometimes I give a clearer picture in a poem. Sometimes I prefer telling just what happened in a personal essay. It depends on what I need to tell, and also what topic I’m writing about. Some things can’t be said in a personal essay without giving me some bad thoughts about myself, and in these cases, I write a poem instead. And I can’t deny the fact that I’m a big fan of both poetry and memoirs, so why not combine them both?
This foreword won’t be long, probably it will be the shortest foreword you’ve ever read. Because I want you to start this book now, and read it without me talking in this foreword for centuries…
But I guess here is where I should put a disclaimer. Read this book with caution if topics such as abuse, sexual assault, gaslighting, and other dark topics like those are triggering to you.
I hope you find this book helpful, interesting, or maybe give you some insight into the mind of an Autistic person.
This book is not professionally written, and English is my second language. That means that it might be some grammatical errors in between lines. I don't have the budget in which I can hire a proof reader. Because of that, I have decided to make this work public and free for anyone to read and download. Please don't use my poetry or writings for anything other than personal use though. Thank you for your understanding.
Memoir I - Abused
I felt so incredibly sad. I was thinking about old memories, old non-fiction tales which was floating in my mind. Not even tales, it was more like fragments of an ancient event, and it wasn't even that long time ago. But it felt like it was coming from another period.
The grip around my neck was sudden, just like the punch in my face. He had convinced me to make love with him, and I agreed even though I felt a bit awkward. Maybe he noticed I felt uncomfortable, I don't know, but the harsh grip and the sudden punch made my body completely frozen and I couldn't even move any longer. I stopped to move out of fear.
When my body reacted in that way he seemed to be even madder. Several more punches in my face and when my tears started to flow, his moves just became more aggressive. I just tried to hold back my tears and was taking whatever he made me do.
A year later he tried to contact me again. I had been struggling to sleep at night, had terrible flashbacks, and was reacting like a wild animal on certain moves that were similar to the incident a year ago.
I pushed the "block user"-button and decided to move on. Although he did apologize, it would never cure my fears.
Tonight was one of those nights again, and I got up to tell one fragment of my story. And I hope I won't regret it.
This was only one fragment of what kind of life I was living at the time.
Poem I - The inner feeling
The inner feeling
In which they are hidden
There’s no power of healing
The things that are forbidden
A little, tiny, very small
Peeking through the wall
Short, not very tall
The most whimsical of us all
Power we cannot see
The ghastly things are up for a walk
The prisoners are we
Suddenly we’re not able to talk
A dried fiend,
A false end,
At least it can make us understand
All the faces we won’t see
All the places in which we cannot be
For all, we can’t make ourselves free.
Memoir II - An angry child
Sometimes I was the one I wanted to be, and that felt awesome. I was creative and smart, joyful, beautiful with dark brown hair and smiley eyes. Sometimes I had a big heart, wonderful self-esteem, and talents others dreamt about having. I was the little sunshine. Sometimes.
I was Trix, for short, the bright child who was polite and eager to do what was right. But I was also Trix, a child with a dark secret. An unnamed condition, a horrible mistake and she were not yet aware of her even darker future.
I was sitting alone a few steps from the playground. Watching the other children carefully. Took a handful of some dry leaves and threw them at the ground in an angry manner. I was angry. A girl looked at me from the playground and she was standing up on the swings right in front of me. She grinned, but not in a friendly way. I looked down at the ground and I heard the other children laughing about something. I wasn't able to talk to them, even if I wanted to.
"Look, it's that girl who can't even speak", I heard one of the boys saying and pointing his finger towards me. I threw some more leaves and rocks at the ground, sitting in my pants with braces to hold them up because they were too big. I was a short little thing. I reached out my tongue and moved my whole body in the opposite direction from them.
"What did you say, you little freak? Oh, did you say something?", the awful boy yelled at me, loud enough for the teachers to notice, but they didn't do a damn thing.
I, Trixibelle Moore, was able to talk physically. I just didn't do it in any other place than in my own home. I refused to speak at school or in the schools arranged activities afterward, which I was forced to go to because my parents felt I had to "socialize" with other children. I just psychologically couldn't. I wanted to, sometimes, but I just couldn't. I was terrified every time my teachers were making attempts to get to me, to force me to speak in front of them or my classmates. Speaking was a terrible fear of mine.
But I was quite a good learner and I learned to write and read books. The writing was easier because then I could do it at my own pace. I could think for a long time before the message was read by anyone. The writing was my passion.
I lived in a small village in southern Sweden. Everyone talked about everyone and was gossiping about everything. Well, yes, everyone except me, of course. I kinda was the target of all the gossiping. But I didn't care too much. My self-esteem was like most other children. They couldn't reach it by participating in gossip about a nine-year-old who chose not to speak. It was a small village, and I guess a child like me was pretty rare. A different child. I guess that was why I was an interesting topic of gossip. Even the adults were talking, yes, the children were just small copies of the bigger picture.
"Trixibelle! Are you listening?"
I jumped up from the chair and looked up at my teacher.
"I expect an answer, young lady!" She said with a harsh pitch in her voice, and her glasses were very ugly from this angle, I noticed. An answer? From Trixiebelle? She could just dream about that.
"Well, I choose to ignore this behavior... because, well, we have a new student in class" she continued and I looked up.
In front of the blackboard, a small, blonde, green-eyed girl with round glasses, stood and looked deeply miserable. I smiled because I could see she was another freak. I smiled for the first time in school that day.
"You have to at least try to hurry up!"
She stared at me. I was holding my jacket, and couldn't move. The sun was burning my skin and the clothes felt weird and funny. My shoes were too big and my socks too thick.
My teacher looked at me. She was annoyed. I was naturally slow in my moves, but honestly... I didn't want to go out with the other children. I didn't want to be either alone in a corner or treated like an animal at the zoo. I wanted to interact genuinely but at the same time, I didn't want to speak to anyone. What a weird feeling, I felt stuck between the need to feel like I was likable, and also to be left alone and just be.
I finally got out when it was about ten minutes left of the lunch break. I stared at the ground to avoid other people looking at me.
Already as a child, I noticed how different I was. Who are you? I asked myself as eight years old. Why is everything a problem for me? Problems that other children - and adults - barely notice?
I felt confused and scared.
"Am I a monster?" I asked my mom one day. She looked at me with both a surprised and terrified expression on her face.
"No, of course not, honey!" she replied. "Who told you that?"
She looked at me. I looked at her.
My brain told me that. I wanted to say that to her so bad, that my mind told me that. But I didn't dare. Not even my parents understood me in the way I wanted. Was it their fault? No, it certainly wasn’t. But yet, it was the truth.
Poem II - What begins with lies
It begins with lies
prepared with flaws
The spaced thoughts flies
what's left just dies.
was, unfortunately, the end
I wouldn't spend
with no chance of winning.
The eternal pain
is gone by wishing
I can't complain
I'm held back with a chain.
Back to the start
the beginning of lies
But even if it dies
I will remember in my heart.
Broken and gone
Trashed and wrong
I won't wait too long
To hear the spaced thought's song.
I wish I could end
what begins with lies
Thoughts; they always flies
I don't want to spend
The eternity in hell,
all the partial smell
I can already tell
this won't end well.
Memoir III - The wrong girl
I tend to find myself in the wrong company.
We were making love, me and this wonderful, brilliant, but yet naive girl. She was wonderful and we had so much in common. But she slowly started to hate me.
We kissed, we talked, we had sex - two insecure females with a tragic backstory - we were around each other all the time.
I liked her, even though I may not have fully loved her. She was my best friend for a few months. I taught her stuff. She hadn’t finished school, so she had a lot to ask. I was studying at the moment, and am still to this day I write this story, and I love reading books about science in my free time too.
But her behavior changed due to drugs and a disorder she had too. And slowly, she started to complain about my Autism diagnosis. I couldn’t understand how to behave in certain situations, and she took it out on me when she got mad.
When one day I woke up from a dream, I thought she was only a part of that dream. But she wasn’t. But she removed herself from my life one day completely. My Autism was too much for her.
She left me, screaming that I was a horrible person and that was the greatest thing that could happen to me at this time.
Poem III - The internal
The internal conclusion
of what’s happening inside
and I’d be the dying bride
the names it throws at me
the fact that is obvious to see.
I’m not me, but still not you,
I’m not free to be compared to what you do.
I’m not the one, and you cannot choose it
We cannot run, and you will lose it.
The conclusion will be.
The internal emotions,
for the sake of feeling
I despise it, why not put them on the ceiling?
I do wrong, I’m confused,
I’m just held, beaten and used.
The internal conclusion,
of what’s happening outside,
Is the inner confusion,
which I’m forced to hide.
Memoir IV - You belong to me!
Everything was turned against me. The entire world. I wasn't even a part of it nor my own body. My soul was a free spirit. It sounds good. But it wasn’t. It had nobody attached to it. Because that body was destroyed.
Could I get away from this? No. If I didn’t fight back, it felt like I was giving consent. I didn’t want to give anything, I didn’t want this, so I was in a panic when I realized this was happening. Again. I physically tried to run away, do what I had to do to get away, to fight, to scream. He didn’t care at first, just did his thing, but now he was frustrated about me fighting back.
”Do you need the belt? Is that what you want?” He whispered, close to my face. My whole body went completely frozen when I heard that word. But soon enough I started to fight back again, trying to scream. He had his hand around my neck and was moving it up to my mouth. Placed it on my lips and whispered again.
”You need something, right?”
He took some cable ties, pushed me down to the mattress, and tied them around my wrists. I screamed so loud I hoped the neighbors might call the police. The grip around my neck was harder this time.
”You scream, and I’ll… You know I don’t feel anything. I’m cold as ice, you know. I know you like being helpless, just admit it. These may help you stay still in the right place and shut the fuck up. After all, you belong to me.”
I knew he was cold, I knew he didn’t feel anything of what he did. No bad feelings at all. I wasn’t scared, my soul had already left my body when he did what he did.
I decided to close down my brain. He had already started to abuse me in all ways possible. I didn’t even react to the rape anymore. My body couldn’t feel anything, but at the same time, it could feel everything.
The next morning I found blood everywhere when I woke up. It wasn’t my period, because I didn’t get any periods due to medication. When I went to the bathroom I saw a big injury down there. I didn’t dare to go to the doctor to check it, and I decided to tell him.
”So what? Girls are so sensitive”
That was all how he responded to it. And I thought I was going to bleed to death. It might not have been that much blood, enough to die, but it was painful and it wasn’t right. Nobody should do that to another person.
He seemed to read my mind.
”Well”, he sighed. ”You belong to me”.
I didn’t agree with that. I didn’t agree on anything. But who cared about what I wanted? I reminded myself of my childhood and the golden moments which sometimes happened. I was in a children’s home taken away by the child protective services. But I liked that home. I made friends there and I liked the adults who took care of us. One summer we did everything a child loved; big road trips to the water, movies, going to the beach… I was trying to remind myself of that wonderful summer.
It’s easier to live if you collect golden moments from life. I tried to think that way, that morning, in that internal and physical pain. But soon the golden moments were over.
“You are smiling, why are you smiling? Tell me! Have you cheated on me?” He turned around and stared at me with eyes that I can’t describe as anything else than just crazy-looking.
“What? No!” I yelled, scared to be punished again. And I was right.
“You need this, you’ve just proven that you can’t do anything right if it goes just one day without it” he was shouting and I started to cry.
He was pulling me back to the mattress and tied my wrists behind my back. I was crying loudly. He took his belt and swung it towards my body. I felt immediate and intense pain in my back. Crying louder.
“Shut up, or I’ll kill you! Don’t make me angry, you stupid slut”
“B-but I haven’t…” I didn’t even finish the sentence before a new slap made it across my back.
“I-I s-swear…” I tried to explain that I haven’t cheated at all.
“Shut up, don’t make me hurt you even more!”
A couple of more bruises and I didn’t know what to even do with myself anymore. I couldn’t handle the pain any longer.
He stopped for a moment.
“I think that’s enough. For now”
I did dare to breathe again, but only for a short period. I knew this wouldn’t last for long.
We sat in the living room and watched a Disney movie. He held his arm around me and we were wrapped in a nice and warm blanket. That evening he also brought me flowers and made dinner for me. My favorite dish was all vegan homemade sushi. I smiled.
“Thank you, honey”
He smiled. How could this creature be both my abuser and the love of my life? Now, afterward, I certainly know he wasn’t the love of my life at all. But yet, when I was twenty and he was almost thirty-two years old, I thought he was. Many people ask me why I didn’t leave sooner. Or why I didn’t report the abuse to the police. This is the reason why. Because I truly thought I loved him. I was so brainwashed at the time and I was also gaslighted to some extent. I questioned my reality and sometimes I didn’t even know if what he did was right or wrong or even true anymore. The brain filtered some of the details and suddenly it wasn’t clear what had happened to me.
I could recap the moment of abuse and speak to him about it, but he always denied my memories. He had another version of the story and it always convinced me entirely.
“No darling, you are hallucinating. I didn’t do that. You must have had a bad dream” he just answered. I was confused because there were signs in the form of injuries on my body after the abuse. He didn’t even notice that or mention it. Now, afterward, I understand that he was lying and gaslighting me, but at the time he was very convincing. I almost forgot why I had a problem in the first place. Why do I always blow everything out of proportion? I asked myself. Why do I feel sad? I have nothing to be sad about!
And I believed it, for almost two years, before I was able to leave after that last thing that nearly got me killed.
Poem IV - I wonder
what you're going
When my ghost
is in front of you.
what you're going
When my ghost
suddenly blocks your way.
what you're going
When the odd one
is over me.
what you're going
When my ghost
is in front of you.
what you're going
what you're going
When you'll realize
the ghost isn't me.
Memoir V - A feel of belonging
The whole family was united for this trip to the beautiful, yet scary and foreign country my mother spent the first seventeen years of her life in. It was the country of India, and we were going there to see my grandparents because they still lived in Mumbai. My entire childhood I had very little contact with them, I barely knew them. I desperately wanted to make them proud, to feel a sense of belonging in my mother’s country. But I didn’t.
“Hello, Trixibelle! How do you do?” my grandfather nodded and asked me with an enthusiastic glare in his eyes. I didn’t answer. I wanted to, but it was like with the children in school, I just couldn’t make myself do it. Even if I wanted to. Now in my adult life, I understand that I didn’t speak to people I didn’t know. And even though my grandparents were blood relatives, I didn’t know them. They were strangers, so therefore I did not speak.
“She hasn’t learned English yet?” my grandfather asked my mother.
“I don’t know…” my mother replied, “She’s very quiet. She doesn’t talk at all in school”
“That’s kinda strange, isn’t it?”
My father all of a sudden broke in the conversation:
“Well, children develop at different speeds. Give her some time” he said. I could sense the frustration in his voice, like if he wanted to believe it but didn’t. I’ve always been my father's daughter. Always been close to him. He did everything for me, and we did everything together. He was my best friend. But this was a subject that I felt bothered him quite a bit. He was probably just worried. But I took it as something that was a defect in me and my personality.
We walked inside my grandparents' apartment. It was late in the evening and I and my cousins were immediately put to bed in the spare room that was the new guest room. All of our parents borrowed the apartment above, from a family that my grandparents knew was on vacation and was kind enough to let us live there while staying in India.
“Good night, Trixibelle,” my grandmother whispered in my ear. I grinned and cuddled up in the bed, but didn’t answer more than that. My little body was exhausted after the flight. My grandmother sighed and her eyes were shiny in incipient tears and left the room.
My cousin Christine, who was the same age as me, was changing the position in bed and looked directly into my eyes.
“Why didn’t you answer her Trix? Didn’t you see how sad she went when you didn’t talk with her? Haven’t you learned any English yet?” she said in Swedish and stared at me with eyes that didn’t really cover up her ill-mannered tone. Her eyes looked sad, but her voice had that annoying pitch. I hid under the blanket.
“Alrighty, goodnight then”
Christine turned her back to me in the twin-size bed. My other cousin Jackson laughed in his bed which was placed near the door on the opposite side of the room.
“You really are a little freak,” he said while I was still under my blanket. I fell asleep and didn’t give it much thought. I was used to being the freak, it was now part of my identity.
The next day we all sat around the table eating breakfast. The food tasted unfamiliar and I was not sure if I did like it or not. Some of the food texture felt funny on my tongue, and I was careful with every bite of it.
“Trix, this is called ‘chapati’ and it’s a type of Indian bread”
My mother pointed at the piece of bread and smiled at me. I tasted it very carefully and I nodded enthusiastically and after a little while, I decided that I liked the bread.
“Mmmmmhmm! This is nice mama” I grinned and my mother looked at me kinda relieved.
“That’s good sweetheart, now, can you tell your grandma that you liked it? She would be very happy. I can tell you how to say it in English,” my mother asked me and I became pale, almost transparent as a ghost by just hearing that. I moved my little body in the opposite direction. I know how to say it in English, I could just not make myself do it! My mother placed her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay, we don’t have to do it, Trix. Maybe next time”
I didn’t hear her disappointment, she was disguising it well, but I could sense it. I finished my breakfast and I left the table and went outside. The air hit me like a lukewarm and compact wall and I sat down in the garden and collected small rocks with my little hands. One of them was pink and was shiny on one side and glittery on the other. I put it in my pocket. That rock will be my lucky charm! I told myself. I sat for a long time beside the little banana tree with my rocks in all different shapes and patterns, while my grandfather and mother looked at me from a distance. My grandfather shook his head and I could see that he was saying something I couldn’t hear to my mother. It did not matter, I was happy in my own little bubble of joy, with my rocks and the banana tree.
Poem V - The moon
The barely visible moon
A misty, dark night
the extraneous light
is slowly coming to sight.
I'd look at it
with an interested mind
Only one of a kind,
Oh, I must be mentally blind.
I'll carefully hit
the bottom line
It's fully mine
The moon is now lit.
I cannot sit
here and define
What's up with what's mine
I fell asleep, this is it.
Memoir VI - And so we are here and now
This collection of personal essays is intended to tell my story, but it’s not intended to be like a novel in the sense of writing. Because the chapters are telling my story in a not very chronological way. It jumps from the past to the present, and from ten years ago to only like two years ago. Why? You might ask. That’s because this is how my mind goes, it reflects my memories. I remember things, jumping from one memory to another, from twelve years ago to one day ago. And I wanted that in my memoirs. Because that’s the only way I can tell my story.
But that doesn’t mean that this story doesn't make sense. Not at all. In fact, this is like talking to me face to face. Except that you read it. I will do my best to write in a way that will make it readable and understandable, even though my story isn’t chronological.
I was laying in bed, trying to focus on the bedtime story which I had chosen for this particular evening. It was a fascinating story of a man trying to climb a mountain in Japan, and on his journey, he was getting closer to an old Japanese man who told him amazing stories. But I couldn't really focus on the bedtime story. I listened with just a half ear, and my mind was trying to reject all the memories of the assault. I don’t want to think about that, not again, not now!
I was crawling around in the bed to avoid the demons in my head, and the sheets got sticky from all the sweat that came from just another panic attack. And so I stared at the ceiling, frozen like a cube of ice. He was in my mind, again.
What happened? I woke up the next morning with just a little sense of what happened last night and just a tiny grasp of reality. I could feel in my body just how it felt that night I was raped by the man with the fakest smile on his face. A fake smile I was mistaken for a genuine and friendly one. I was so wrong about him. So so wrong, and so so ashamed! My grief was taking a huge turn and now I just felt emotionally drained and angry. I threw my pillow across the room and started to cry.
I couldn’t eat, and I couldn't sleep. The emotions were on standby, but the memories were looping in my head. His arms around my body, holding me down on the mattress, pulled me closer to him while I tried to turn my body away from him. Earlier that evening he had pushed himself towards me against the wall and forced me to kiss him and touch him. I wasn’t interested at all. Now I was trapped in the bed under this man who was laying over me and forced me to make love, even though it wasn’t exactly love. It was a power dynamic from his side, and he used his genitals as weapons against my body. I cried and I moved from one side to another, but he just grabbed my wrists and was holding me down.
I remembered it all. Just in this moment. I was terrified that I would run into him on the street or in the grocery store or anywhere else. The angry eyes were stalking my mind. I was scared.
I turned around immediately.
“Trix, are you alright?”
The voice belonged to my best friend, Emily. I looked at her with a confused facial expression.
Emily was worried and it was clearly shown by her wrinkled eyebrows and wide-opened eyes.
“No need to worry… It was just another flashback”, I lied.
Well not exactly lied, it was a flashback. But I wasn’t really in a state not worth worrying about. I felt like an imposter in my own life. And I couldn’t really enjoy things I used to love. I was going to play the viola in church the next Sunday, but there wasn't really any meaning to do so anymore. I wasn’t even good at the viola, I was telling myself. Why did they want me to participate? Imposter. Stupid stupid imposter. You’re nothing at all.
“Come on, heads up, are we going to the cinema tonight?” Emily asked and I nodded in a very subtle movement, which caused Emily to ask me again about the cinema.
“Yes, I think so?” I said and forced myself to smile.
“You have a really negative attitude today” Emily pointed out and I looked down in my very damaged sneakers. Should I tell her about what happened? I was too disgusted about it to try to tell someone else. I felt nauseated only by rethinking any part of the evening.
“I need to go home”
Without waiting for an answer I turned around and left. Emily sighed and closed the door.
I was pushing people away from me. More and more and I suddenly became aware of that. I felt frustrated by the fact but too exhausted to do anything about it for the moment.
I was trying to focus on my school work. I studied Behavioral Science at University and I needed to focus. Although I had some special needs, my school had taken care of all of that. They had aids for people with Autism. It was, however, a private school and very expensive. But it was totally worth it for me. And I sat there for hours and tried to concentrate on my assignment, but my head was empty. I could only think about the abuse. About the traumatic event. I slammed the hardcover of the book against the table. I’m useless! I’m not worth anything! Every bad thought came into my mind and I started to scream internally. Just as I did the night I was raped.
Poem VI - Value
Anything for you
There is nothing
compared to you
In our eyes
There is nothing
We were kissing
I held you
In the universe of
Anything for you
It doesn't mean anything
In the end
the only of value
Were the feelings
Which were never
Memoir VII - The monsters in this world
I tell myself that I'm happy, that this is the way people like them - in other words 'men' - behave. I'm just a regular female person. I don't know how men work at all. But I know that I was mistreated, and I know that I basically let it happen to me. I have found out that I'm 'demisexual', which means that I'm basically asexual - meaning non-sexual - until I meet someone I experience a connection to. I don't feel regular attraction to any gender, but I can feel attraction to a person when I have fallen in love with their personality.
I think that's a beautiful thing, but it's also something that puts me up for dangerous situations. Because men don't get that I don't want to be with them in a sexual way until we have connected properly emotionally and we have a bond. That is why I was assaulted so many times.
I partially blame myself. Why can't I just enjoy sex with a random man? Or woman for that matter... If I'd said yes, I wouldn't have been sad and so broken. Yes, I hear how stupid it all sounds. It wasn't my fault at all. I mean, I shouldn't say yes if I don't want to just to please him. And it still isn't my fault. Men just are different. And that's not my burden to carry. Not all men, but a big portion of them are violent because of how society is raising little boys to become monsters. Like him. Like all of those, I spent time with.
I’m not one of those women yelling “all men!”, but I can’t help to realize that I’m now whispering “many men”. Because many men are behaving like monsters, at least in my standard of what a monster really is. Not all, but many. I have good men in my family, good friends who are men. I’m in a relationship with a man. So I’m certainly not hating them. But I've come to realize that I’m scared of many men out there. Most of them actually. I’ve been hurt so badly, so is it really my fault that I’m scared? Some people are fast to say that I’m judgemental. But who’s fault is that? Isn't that all the monster’s fault who makes it worse for all the good men out there? Not the woman who’s getting hurt?
You should blame the monsters and not the survivors. Many ‘good’ men know that. That it’s the monsters who are destroying people's lives. We should be scared in this world. It’s only natural. If we weren’t, we would be doomed. And we would probably die.
I sat in my bed, looking at the beautiful man who’s sleeping peacefully beside me. He made some sounds in his sleep and started to reach his arms towards my side of the bed. I fell in his arms and started crying. He immediately woke up and pulled me closer to him.
“Another nightmare?” he asked, and I nodded and was crying like a little girl.
“It was horrible…”
He told me it was okay to cry if I needed it.
”It’s alright, baby, I’m here. It’s just me and you in this room, no monsters here…”
He was exactly what I needed at that moment. His words calmed me down immediately.
”It’s alright. I’m here”
And I slowly fell back to sleep.
I’m so lucky I found him. That night I was dreaming about a beautiful future with a home and our future children. It was an odd dream since I had never been dreaming of having children before. Not with anyone. Maybe because I didn’t think it was possible with all the trauma and the fact that I only pulled bad men into my life and my territory. Like a magnet.
Until now. I wasn’t worth it, was a recurring thought in my head. I shook my head as if I would try to shake the thought away. I tried to rationalize everything by thinking more light thoughts about myself. But I couldn’t really believe in them. I was so confused by all the hate that I had received, it was almost like being gaslighted. But not almost, it was gaslighting, when I was actually thinking about it. Because sometimes I began to doubt my own sanity. My ex-boyfriend rarely confirmed his actions.
”You must have had a bad dream” or ”Are you sure you remember that part correctly?” Was ongoing themes in his responses toward my attempt to have a conversation about what he was doing. And he started to feel more and more trustworthy, and I started to feel more and more like an intruder in my own head. I was hurt so badly I could no longer function in my new and normal relationship.
Poem VII - Don't care to speak
I know I'm cold and weak
Cold, and I don't care to speak
I would like to fly
but not like a bird
No, that's not a lie.
Speak up!, you'd say,
do yourself a favor,
just in any way.
I know I'm cold and weak
wherefore I don't care to speak
like playing hide and seek
If this game wouldn't be
in a total of an internal streak.
that will gain
a serious amount of shame
Out of the blue
due to the two.
Do yourself a favor
do not play hide and seek
because in hide and seek
you're not supposed to speak
Memoir VIII - Something died within me that day
I finally had decided that I needed to report what happened to me to the police. With a voice drained in both anger and grief, I told the carer who helped me at home due to my Autism, about what happened the day before.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told Emily too. I told everyone close to me. I won’t hold his secret! It’s not my shame to carry. I will tell the entire world because now I’m angry!
My carer studied me thoroughly after I’d finished my last sentence.
“So, do you want to.. report it?” she asked me because I hadn’t really started that fact yet. I had just told her what happened. But I immediately went silent.
“Trixibelle, I’m so sorry. This shouldn’t have happened. I can go with you to the police station if you want to report it!” she said.
After a few moments, I nodded slowly.
“Yes… I said. Yes, I want to do a police report. This is enough. I’ve had enough”
The following day we took a walk to the police station. There were not many people there, and I started to get nervous. My carer tried to calm me down.
“It's going to be alright, Trix,” she said.
My long, black hair was covering my eyes when I sat there with my head turned down. My carer sat right beside me and stroked my back with a gentle and calm movement in her right hand.
When it was my turn to say what I was there for, the officer looked at me in a friendly manner.
“So what are you here for?” she asked me.
“I want to do a police report,” I said with a low voice, barely noticeable.
She looked at her computer for a while and then she told us to sit down again because they wanted to talk to me in another room immediately.
They showed me to a small white room and the officers told me several times to be clearer with my words.
“You have to tell exactly what happened, you have to use exact descriptions of what he did”
So I tried. It was hard and I felt pain in my entire head and soul. My carer stroked me on my back when I started to cry.
“And who are you?” the officers asked my carer.
“I’m from the county, I’m her carer. She has Autism”
The two officers looked at each other.
“Well, that makes this case more serious,” one of them stated with a facial expression that expressed that she felt sorry for me. I didn’t want anyone to pity me. I felt a wave of intense anger I never felt before. But I didn’t make the officers aware of that of course. I just wanted to finish this and go home.
But no, they sent me to the hospital for an exam I didn’t want to go to, but I did because I thought they would help me. At the hospital, after a long while of waiting and with the police officers driving me there as if I was the problem, the doctor literally forced me to spread my legs open for the exam. I told her I didn’t feel comfortable with more than one in the room, or even doing it at all, but it felt useless to complain. I tried to close my legs, but she opened them again and finished the exam. It felt like another assault.
A few weeks later I got a letter in my mailbox that they dismissed the case. The guy who raped me said that I “enthusiastically participated” in the act so they couldn’t prove anything. Even though they documented bruises and internal injury at the hospital a few weeks earlier. On my second meeting with the police officers, they also told me that I sent out signals to the guy. I ripped the letter into pieces and I swore to God to never contact the police again ever, no matter what! Not even if my life was in danger.
So now I’m going, to tell the truth. I have until now just given anecdotal fragments of what happened that night, but know I’m going to tell the whole story. It hurts, but I refuse to be silenced. My story, as so many other survivors, is constantly silenced. Constantly taken away from us, and we are never the ones who get the support. Nobody believes us.
Do I sound angry? That’s because I am. I won’t protect AR anymore. I won’t write his full name, because I don’t want to get in legal trouble, but unlike the other people in my memoirs, I won’t make up a fake name for him. Like Emily or Christine, they are made up of fake names. AR is the real initials of my rapist. Why I do that is because I refuse to make up anything regarding him because that would give the impression that I belittle what happened by doing so. Like it was just something worth protecting! And it isn’t. I won’t sound neutral or professional in this. Why? Because I’m still angry, exactly as when I was a child.
You can’t exactly sound professional and delicate while talking about rape. It’s a deeply traumatic and dehumanizing experience, so why would I?
My story began on May 24, 2020. It was the worst year of the pandemic, so I and my date AR decided that we shouldn’t go out for our first date, instead, it was better to meet at my apartment. I felt safe at home, and I was naive, so I thought at the time that this was safer than seeing him at his place. So he was showing up outside my house and he had a friendly smile and dark eyes that looked very kind and for a moment I was drowning in his beauty.
As soon as we entered my apartment he sat in the coach and he was telling me to sit next to him. I did just that. I didn't get long before he tried to kiss me, right into the middle of a conversation about our favorite musical artists. I remember feeling a bit confused because we were talking and he just interrupted everything in an awkward way. I immediately started to feel pushed into a corner and a red flag was waving at me in my head. But I didn't want to break anything. He looked so kind, maybe he was just socially weird, and therefore I really should look besides that and give him a chance. Oh boy, I was wrong!
Whenever it was any little pause or break in the conversation he tried to kiss me or lay himself over me. I told him no. Before we even met that evening I told him that I wasn't interested in just a one-night-stand or in casual sex and that I didn't want to make love with anyone until I knew them better. He said it was fine. Apparently, he lied because now he didn't respect my boundaries at all!
"Can't we just talk and get to know each other?" I sighed. "Why are you making things go so fast? I like you, but I don't want to do this stuff so early on..."
"Okay, I understand" he responded and smiled with the friendliest smile in the world. I smiled too.
After a little while, I went to the kitchen and he followed me to help me with the tea. All of a sudden, really out of the blue, he pushed me against the wall, took a grip around my neck, and started to kiss me. I went so shocked that I didn't do anything to make it stop. I felt betrayed and not respected at all, since I already had told him I didn't want to go further. When we got back to the coach he had a whole new attitude towards me. He was complaining I didn't take any initiative at all as if I hadn't told him earlier that I wasn't interested to do such stuff in the beginning and when we barely knew each other.
It's like the concept of having boundaries didn't exist for him. I was okay with some things, but not others. I thought I could choose what I wanted and not want to do. But no. Apparently I couldn't!
And then... of some reason I have suppressed, we appeared in the bedroom. Perhaps it was cozier there and I was okay with the cozy part. I had nothing against hugging him and just being in his arms. And I thought I made that clear from the beginning. One or two kisses could be alright too. That felt comfortable in the beginning, I told him.
Out of the blue, and with a very quick movement he was suddenly over me with his entire body in the bed. With all the weight from him, a human being that is bigger and stronger than me, I could literally don't move. Because he had placed his body over mine, and now he was also pulling down my underwear. I got flashbacks to my ex-boyfriend and his torture and I had just healed a little bit from that so almost in a panic, but with a very weak voice I told him:
"No, I don't know" and "No, I don't want to do it".
He didn't respond at all on that. With a fast move in his hands and a slightly annoyed facial expression, he pulled down my underwear. I started to panic.
"No..." I said with a rueful, quite pathetic voice.
He didn't listen at all. He was laying over me, throwing my panties on the floor and now he opened my legs and when I tried to stop him from doing that using my hands, he just grabbed my wrist and hindered me from protecting myself. He was over me, held me down, and penetrated me with his penis. I felt the immediate burning and excruciating pain between my legs. I almost stopped to breathe, I felt tears in my eyes but were holding them back. He used his genitals like a weapon against my body, it felt like a knife was cutting me wide open.
It felt like he used my body forever that evening. I was breathing rapidly fast and I was constantly holding my breath due to pain and I felt frozen and pain in my entire body. His motions were angry, rapid, and violent and my poor body was just taking it. I cried in silence while he enjoyed his power over me and also had some sexual pleasure at my expense.
After, what felt like many hours, but I guess it "only" lasted like one or one and a half hours, he stopped hurting me. He had just finished the sexual act and I just broke. I cried loudly and tears ran down my cheek. He looked mad, angry like I was done one who had done something completely wrong! His eyes were crazy and he stared at me for a while, then he got out of bed and out to the living room. I was still in shock and my body was frozen in fright. My legs were hurting and still placed wide open. I cried and cried and I hoped he had gone out from my apartment. After a few moments of laying completely frozen, I pulled myself out of bed and painstakingly I put my pants on. I limped out to the living room and found that he looked completely normal again.
And finally, he went home. It didn't take long before he disappeared. I didn't know what to do and I didn't dare to recap in my brain what had just happened. I didn't dare to think about it for the next couple of hours.
Poem VIII - Pause mode
The cabinet is half-open
Perhaps not open to its half,
Perhaps just somewhat opened;
Like a solid part
of what mostly seems insane
Opened enough for you to notice
I'm not here
Probably I'm in the goblet,
in which the souls of the dead creatures are
Created out of weakness
Not in those words
But close enough my flaws
The defect of the soul;
Like it's sold to this stranger
The one - that one
She's singing - the voice is the hymn
of an insane
Wouldn't help me out
The mind is set on pause mode
The cabinet is closed
Very closed; barely unspeakable
Every secret thing
Wisdom - thoughts worth repeating
What you'd do in a case of this sort
They'd show their faces
even to the most fortunate!
Memoir IX - The kid in the basement
She was the kid that felt neglected by the ones who should have loved her the most. She was sitting in her bedroom, but it wasn’t really a bedroom, and she just heard the machines in the other room of the basement destroy the silence around her. It was a big engine that sounded awfully high in volume when someone in the world above was flushing the toilet. And she was just sitting there and felt like the loneliest creature in the world. She was separated from everyone. Nobody wanted her. At least that was her feeling at that moment.
It had gone a long time even for her to get a "room" in the basement. She didn't even have a bed for several months. So she stayed with her dad most of the time. When she didn't was at the care home for children and adolescents of course. Yes, she spent a lot of time in a care home in her teenage years, and in her opinion, it was the psychologist in the school who was to blame for that. She told that psychologist about the abuse. And ever since, her life had become even worse. She didn't belong anywhere. Not even in her head.
She was also mixed in ethnicity and that caused a little - or exceptionally big - identity crisis. She was Swedish and Luso-Indian because her parents were from different countries but somehow were able to meet each other. Sometimes she wished they never had. In her adult life, she started to learn Portuguese due to her heritage. It was like therapy for her. Like a way to cope with her identity and the fact that she didn't feel that she belonged in any country. Or any home even!
And who is she? She is Trixibelle Moore. Yes, that's her. Why didn't I just write that from the start? Well, I guess I just wanted to experiment with the mystery of only using a pronoun.
Oh no. Oh, dear. I did something again.
I went up on the stairs and looked her in the eyes and so we started to scream at each other. Our family was in such a dysfunction it was ridiculous somehow. But I threw a flower at the floor and ran out in the snow in just my socks. And he went after me, dragged me into the house, and threw me at the floor, just as I did with the flower. She yelled at me and he pushed me against the floor with his entire weight. He was about to move away from me, but suddenly she got upset again.
"Do something!" she yelled at him and he came back and just was holding me down with no mercy. I screamed and tried to bite him.
"You do not even dare!" he yelled in my face.
And no memory left to be told. Except I got my own so-called room in the basement after a while.
Poem IX - Queer goth
I'm still the same
Still that curious thing
Still the same
Called by the name
Of a queer goth
Clearly the one
That whimsical thought
Distinctly dark and somber
Still the same
The one to blame
Wherefore I'm called by the name
Of a queer goth
It's me, you'd see, even before
Peeking through the door,
It's me you are looking for
I know who I am;
I'm aware of it all
Still not very amusing
Still the same
Called by the name
Of a queer goth.
Memoir X - Finding a special gift
Just when I was looking for a change, the change came right into my face. But not in an immediate manner, but rather in a slow placed, but certain manner. My mom was ordering stuff online, and I had no idea that one of the items she ordered was going to change my life forever. A few days or weeks later, I can’t remember, a deck of oracle cards was shown in front of my face. My mom asked if I would like to use them with her to try them out. My mother had always been spiritual, but until that, I just thought it all was a bunch of nonsense. Until we used the oracle cards to find answers. I felt a warm and fuzzy feeling, very peculiar and odd. And so she did divination with the cards with some help of the guide book which was a part of the gift box in which they came in.
The odd thing was, that everything the cards said was so true. They were so accurate. It was like they knew me as I knew myself. Or perhaps even better. That was the moment I became spiritual. That moment was the journey towards a better life and a spiritual practice.
So I started to explore religions. I was raised Christian but had left it behind since the church despised my tattoos, piercings, dark clothing, gender identity, and sexual orientation. I was a member until I couldn’t take their hateful and arbitrary rules anymore. And in that moment of confusion, I picked up two kinds of books: one about Buddhism and one about Wicca. I took courses online and I explored them. I was a little bit familiar with Wicca since I started to study that religion in my teenagers. However, I always felt like I was doing something wrong since I was a Christian at the time. When I now had left Christianity, I picked up some books again, and after a while choosing between Buddhism and Wicca, I finally came to the conclusion that I had always been a Wiccan witch.
I started to explore spirituality and the craft. I found a community on the internet and I felt seen and heard for the first time in forever. I started to heal. I still have some bits of Buddhism within me and agree with many Buddhist teachings, but I rather call myself a Wiccan who also chooses to follow some of the Buddhist teachings, because that feels the most genuine thing to do. I can be both, but I’m more Wiccan.
I started to think in a whole new way after my Christianity was gone. I found it more logical that there were many gods and goddesses and not just one god that was male. It just made more sense to be Wiccan, and with that my spirituality started to grow. And so also my abilities to use tarot and crystals, oils and herbs. I became a fully capable witch, and I was finally proud of myself for the first time in my life.
It felt like my spirituality saved me. Because I was at the edge of taking my own life all the time before the day when I and my mother for the first time used the oracle cards. Those cards I now have as a gift from her. I don’t use them, because they only speak to me, for some reason. But I have them, as a reminder, that I’m a spiritual woman who knows what she wants!
Poem X - Words spelled in silence
Out of the blue
Able to think about blue eyes
And blue water
Able to hear
Words that were spelled in silence.
No matter what you can see
Listen to yourself
Towards the belief
Of the words
that was spelled in silence.
Out of the blue
Completely out of place
My character, the spirit slowly changing
Because of the words
that was spelled in silence.
The end of this first glimse of this book. I'm currently working on the entire book which will include self-help sections and my own teachings and philosophies too. This is like a first "teaser" or "sneak peek" of the book.
Published by Tricia Johansson 2022.
All rights reserved.
The writer would really appreciate some feedback. Anything is welcome, no matter how small - You will get feathers for every bit of feedback!
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