His Hand Was a Gun

Most mornings, I write out my “Morning Pages.”

According to Julia Cameron, Morning Pages are three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. *There is no wrong way to do Morning Pages*– they are not high art. They are not even “writing.” They are about anything and  everything that crosses your mind– and they are for your eyes only. Morning Pages provoke, clarify, comfort, cajole, prioritize and synchronize the day at hand. Do not over-think Morning Pages: just put three pages of anything on the page…and then do three more pages tomorrow.

This is an excerpt from November 28th 2011

I understood love from a broken place. I experienced everything from a broken place. I didn’t even understand that this brokenness was  happening. Even after the event was over, what happened lingered. It’s dark spirit kept me cursed and debilitated for years long after it occurred. That’s the killer. The act of sexual abuse won’t kill you. The lingering spirit will haunt you and seduce you further into darkness. It will entrap you into a broken place where delusions of tainted-ness become your reality. I thought I was poison. I literally thought this. It wasn’t a metaphor that I identified with. It was my reality. My perception. My understanding. My truth. I was poison. I believed that touch morphed into ME being the problem.

Trust issues. Intimacy issues. Authority issues. Sexual issues. Safety issues. Anxiety issues. All kinds of issues. Mental defects. Outward expressions of that hurt.

All from touch.

Every survivor suffers from PTSD. You don’t remain the same. That is, unless you deny it or repress it. Even still it will eventually come out. That is what sexual abuse does.

It seems the after effects are only similar to those who have gone to war. They’ve seen people die. They themselves may have caused it. They saw bodies become red mist. They become physically disfigured. No one understands what war really means unless they’re on the front line with the gun or a gun is pointed at them and the trigger was pulled.

His hand was a gun and he sent energy bullets of darkness into me. It seemed those metaphorical bullets disfigured me. At times they still float through me. There are flashbacks of the gunshot touch. I jerk in pain, anxiety, and fear reliving it. That’s called flashbacks. That’s called PTSD.

Nothing is the same after. You don’t go back to the same. I wouldn’t want that anyway knowing what I know now.

But it should be noted, sexual abuse is war. A war enacted against the body of the innocent with the bullets of inappropriate touch still lodged in their body. Only surgery will remove them; whatever “surgery” means to you. It’s never a through and through. It NEVER is. That touch…those abusive bullets, are always close to the arteries and the heart with several lodged in the brain.

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