by @SaltyAboutIt and @TheWordForThis
[Every survivor is different. Every conversation is different, and I'm letting it take shape organically, creating freedom within the framework, for myself as much as for those who participate. This TWFT52 Prompt 1 response compelled me to weave my thoughts - presented in italics - into hers, and so I asked her if it would be okay if I wrote them in, then shared it with her. We decided together to publish as is.]
"It is a noun, it is a verb, it is a mental state. I see you, my friend, balanced precariously on the needle-fine edge of our right to exist. To question, can be innocent, childlike curiosity. Do you remember feeling innocent? I wish this for you, for all of us, those moments of spiritual purity and joy. To question, can also be horrified strangled pleas of terror, like the sounds one would hear during a brutal, or sadistic, "Bundy-esque murder." (I have a pointed reason for using this term here, I'll circle back to it at the right time.) I’ve felt my questions as primal scream too. When the time is right, you’ll tell me more?
There are no bad, or stupid questions, there are only humans who obfuscate the answers. Hold tight to this thought, beautiful survivor. You are not the problem; you are never the problem. Questions are my world. Questions are my voice, my eyes, and the weapon I carry for protection. I feel your vigilance; I would carry it for you, if I could, just for a few minutes, just so you could close your eyes, quiet your mind, rest for a spell. They are my friends and family. Questions are all I have left. One of my first questions is "how do I find myself left with nothing but these questions?" You have us, my friend. We are your friends, your family, your safe space in this world.
Some questions feel so weak and pathetic. You are not these things; I promise you this. You are strong; you are a force in this world, and nothing can change that. Hopelessly sputtered through snot and drool, which puddle disturbingly fast, on the cold bathroom floor. You are not alone there, not now, now that I’ve come to sit beside you, shoulder to shoulder on the tile, knees pulled to my own chest; I hand you a tissue, tuck your hair behind your ears. Desperate, confused, immature cries of "How did this happen?" "How could this be real?" "How could they all turn away and let it happen to me?" "Why am I not good enough/why doesn't anyone love me?" You are not immature, love. You are wounded; these things happened because Someone Did Something Bad To You. You are good enough. You are loved. I love you.
Or even worse, my internal voice in almost nostalgic harmony with the voice of my abuser: "Why should anyone love you?" You are inherently worthy of love, simply because you exist, simply because you are. "Are all humans this pure evil?" They are not – this I can promise. There is Good in this world. You are proof. "How can I ever survive this?" and most painfully whimpered to no one but myself: "Can you ever begin to forgive me?" You ARE surviving, here, now; you are alive; you are breathing. There is nothing to forgive, because you’ve done nothing wrong, yet I know how easily this logic can slip away, and so I forgive you, in every moment when you struggle to forgive yourself.
The well-intended voice of suicidal ideation doesn't ask questions. It has all of the answers. I understand how compelling it must feel, the voice of this ultimate act of regaining control, of freeing yourself from the hurt, the emptiness. There is hope; there is always hope. I want you here in this world, here to experience what the voice promises, on the other side of the pain. You matter, and I want you to Be.
The question I would ask of the dear soul reading this email, is how can I begin to tell you about how I allowed my abuser to use racism to hurt me? How can I choke through my own white guilt and shame, and ask you for understanding and direction? Begin wherever it feels right; you have my open mind, the same open mind I’m exploring to understand my own participation, to examine the ways I too have benefited from my whiteness, caused harm through carelessness or ignorance or both, the facts of my complicity simply because of the skin I’m in. It would be wrong of me to direct, but I would – and I will, just say the word – walk side by side with you, move forward with you, seeking to relearn what our roles have been, changing our perspectives, our perceptions, our actions. I’ll take a first step, ask this question: did the person who abused you suggest that your refusal, your reluctance, your non-consent was because of the color of HIS skin? Did you feel you had to prove yourself an ally, an accomplice in anti-racism? Coercion is not consent. Coercion is NEVER consent. And even if you were indeed racist, even if you are, in ways you’re perhaps just now beginning to understand (just as I have been, just as I am), this is not what you owe. Your body is not your reparation.
Most significantly I would ask of my abuser – nothing at all. He would gain too much pleasure, knowing that I wanted even one question from him. He would get a sick boner from withholding anything substantive, and replacing it with something that hurts me. I feel your soul, refusing to give him this power. You are strong. I see you, valuing yourself.
The question I have for the rest of the world: Why are you so comfortable, allowing the unspeakable to occur, when only a speck of effort on your part could save people, could save ME? The complacency around us, even now, is heartbreaking, infuriating, and so deeply dangerous. In doing the hard work to become actively anti-racist, we learn that to be complacent is to be complicit. Tell me, if you would, what someone – anyone – could have done to save you. Just one person, just one thing. And then another, as many as you wish. I want you to articulate it, to see the words. Because each answer takes you one step closer to the truth: THIS WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. You did not deserve it.
The final question that I have for myself: What will it take, for you to find your own damn voice? Since they sure as hell are not coming to speak for you. You’re doing it, my friend. You’re finding it, you’re using it. And for as long as you need, for anyone who needs it, I will speak for you. No matter how my own voice may shake, I will speak for all of us."