A Good Victim
The police had called. They said someone has to decide if my case deserves a court date. Or not. More eyes are needed to dissect the details. Pull it all apart. Review the evidence. Question if what happened to me is something that can be proved.
They told me that they are also wondering if I would be a good witness.
Eyes are needed to pry into my life. Dissect the details. Pull it apart. Review the evidence. Question if what happened to me is something the defense can disprove by attacking who I am.
I don’t know how to be a good victim. I barely know how to be a survivor.
I think about deleting all traces of my art off the internet. I wonder if someone will point to my words and use them as reason why what happened to me can’t be determined as what happened to me. I curl inwards. I look both ways before leaving my house. I always want to go home. I think about visibility daily. I think about my feet in stirrups in a sterile room with a nurse who is responsible for capturing traces of violence on my body. In my body.
I try to tell my body that it can stop fighting back. My doctors keeps diagnosing me with maladies. A year later my doctor refers me to a pelvic floor physio.
People tell me to go to therapy but my last therapist said I can’t tell her about what happened in case we go to trial. That was six months ago when I had my twelve free sessions. I’m on the waitlist for another twelve sessions where we’ll talk about anything except for the obvious. In case we go to trial.
Life goes on even though mine ended. I wake up from nightmares and tell myself this is real. I don’t scream. I don’t cry.
I remember I’ve been told not to say that .
Or .
And I’m definitely not supposed to utter .
Also, .
Because I’m being dissected and pulled apart and reviewed.
Someone is trying to decide if what happened to me can be proved.
