Alice Valentine

The Truth. is a new blog series I’m starting. It gets personal, it gets raw, it gets heavy. This is a series that some may have to pass by, and understandably so. I’m not offended if you do. This series is therapy for me, but I really do hope I can help shed some light on what sometimes happens in the thoughts of survivors and why coming forward isn’t always as simple as outsiders would like to make it seem.
This is part 2.

Haunted.
That’s how I felt. Nightmares haunted my rest, memories haunted my wake. There was no break, no pause, no sigh. If I could scream to make it all stop I would. Just to slow everything down. Just to turn it off…
But there was no escape. This was my new normal.
Acceptance.
There was no real way to accept this as truth. There were still days when I would wake up wondering if I had imagined it all. But there was no way to escape how I felt. There was no way to escape the feeling of wanting to unzip my own skin and climb out. That very tangible feeling of being coated in something slimy. Now anyone/anything that touched me felt gross…wrong. I couldn’t wash it off enough in the shower because it wasn’t physically there. It felt like something was tacked on to my skin and was slowly weaving itself beyond the surface. How do you escape being touched in a high school of 1600 students?
Fear.
What if it happens again? Why does it feel like it’s always happening? Why does it feel like it’s still happening? A hand brushes me accidentally and I’m back in that room, stuck, suffocating, needing to scream but frozen.
A push, a shove? I’m back in real time temporarily, but with the sudden need to cry, run, throw up, disappear?
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
A war disease, as most refer to it. They were right. I felt like I was in the middle of a war zone and my mind was a landmine. My body was a crime scene and my thoughts were a courtroom – and I was judge, jury, witness, and executioner.
How long will it take for me to get over this? When will I be able to move on? When will I be normal again?
Never.
Never? I could almost hear my own voice respond to the silent questions of my mind. This is you now, remember? You’re one of them. They’ll never be free so neither will you.
But he’s free. He had his fun and he walked away scot-free… How is this fair? Where is God in all of this?
Silent.
In those moments I couldn’t recognise God within my friends who tried to be there for me. Or God in those short moments of quick release that kept me from going completely crazy. He felt distant, silent…nonchalant. And I was …
Alone.
Nobody around me understood. I guess there was a small blessing in that – in knowing no one else understood the trauma and the suffering I endured. However, it meant I was alone, and no one else could understand the trauma or the suffering I endured… there was no use in trying to explain how I felt or what I was battling. There weren’t enough words to scale down what I was going through. Words felt insufficient, like a mockery of my distress. So, I had to figure out how else to cope.
Self-harm.
Where did I ever learn that this was an answer to my emotional problems? Maybe a TV show? Maybe the internet? I can only recall that less than two months post incident, this was my new revelation. And so, I quickly became best friends with a razor. At first, I would only do it when I was home. Then that wasn’t enough and I started hiding it in my purse so I could do it when the environment at school became too overwhelming. It was a temporary release, but in those moments temporary fixes were enough to keep me afloat. It was as addictive as any drug and it was my little secret weapon against my emotional turmoil. But I quickly learned that my little secret couldn’t keep quiet enough, as the bright red marks on my skin screamed the truth to those closest to me.
Helpless.
How I felt. How my friends felt.
“Why are you doing this?” I can’t tell you. “Just talk about it.” No. “It hurts me to see you do this.” Sorry? “Are you gothic now?” lol… “Christians don’t cut.” Hmm… “Please stop.” I can’t.
I couldn’t.
I was already sinking and these words weren’t enough to catch me.