The Lighting Of The Candles

Every year, as part of their Sexual Violence Awareness Month (SVAM) campaign, the Centre Against Sexual Violence (CASV) runs a Candle Lighting event to honour survivors.

Last year was my first time attending it, and although it was very powerful, it was also a very difficult experience. I had been invited to include some poetry to be read by my ex counsellor, and by the time the poetry reading occurred, I had completely dissociated. TJ, I believe, saw far more of the event than I did. I do remember lighting the candles towards the end, one for Myki' and one for "all survivors", but most of the day is a blur to me.

This year, they held the candle lighting at the centre. It was a much smaller, more personal, gathering, and (despite recent misgivings), I am in a more stable place with regard to this sort of topic.

This year there were two survivors who gave a short speech; another woman who gave a longer talk and spoke about how she came from being a victim to a survivor to a "thriver"; a poetry reading by me (!) and two young ladies who performed a song they had written. There were also speeches given by the CASV staff and Margaret Keech, the Labor state member for Albert.

For me, there are no words for the experience of hearing another survivor share their story. It is both heartbreaking and inspirational, and the courage of all of the women today astounded me and gave me hope; for myself and for every woman who experiences SV. That said, it is hard to hear. There were tears. I did dissociate some. It did bring back memories of my own. But it was worth it.

And, d'you know what else was worth it? Standing up there, facing my fear, and reading my own two poems to that room of people. It wasn't the public speaking part that bothered me - if I didn't have to write it, I could fairly easily deliver a speech. That taps into my love of performing, reminds me of dramatic readings done in English in early high school (and I always performed well). But to stand there and read something that I wrote? Who wants to hear that? And, the biggest thing for me:

Reading my own poems about SV meant announcing, albeit indirectly, that I had experienced it.

I was terrified. I doubted my ability to do it. I was so afraid that people would think I was pushing my writing on them when it's not really all that wonderful. I was horrified at the idea that everyone in that room would know my "dirty laundry", and I was frightened that word would get back to my abusers. (Actually, to be honest, I'm still afraid of that!) I was afraid that this room of people wouldn't believe me, and I was afraid that they would.

But I faced those fears. I prepared myself as best I could and when Rachel got to me, I walked to the front and stood at that microphone. I opened my paper and I read the words that I had written. I read the way I had written, from the deepest part of my heart, and I read well. (That's not me big-noting myself, that's what I was told afterwards! The words "confident", "composed", "powerful" and "commanding" were also used.)

True, as soon as it was over I practically flew out the door to get some air, but that's okay. I gulped at the air like it was... well, air, but for a drowning person.

Later, when we lit the candles, I said quietly to myself,
this candle is for my friends, and this is for all of the survivors everywhere, but most of all, this is for you, Myki, and for that little girl who wasn't ready to be your mother.



(For those of you who haven't seen them, these are the two poems I read):

At Least It's Not A Revolution

On your first birthday you reached
forward, you used to tell us,
leaned forward and held on
though the candle burnt your fingers.

Your father comforted you
but he wasn't interested in his sons.

By the time you were 3
his hands were turning the nights to secret places
and painting you into a desert.

It was in that year your Daddy walked away
and you knew (in the way that children always know),
the glue that was you wasn't enough.

He wasn't interested in his sons,
and that, too, was down to you.

Where are you now?

When you were 18,
on your niece's first birthday,
she reached forward,
leaned forward and held on
though the candle burnt her fingers.



Dissociate

Your body on the bed, his silhouetted,
above. Your only avenue for escape
is this - pull back.

Slide away, let the scents recede,
disappear. Forget the terror -
leave it behind when you go. You are
no longer the girl on the bed.

Unattached, you are genderless -
no longer a girl, a woman, you are
invulnerable.

You are not what you were, you are
something but nothing; you
are that speck upon the wall.

Strange to see the detail in
the husk beneath the silhouette;
blank, unfeeling.

Strange to feel nothing, but those
are not your wounds, anymore. Those
are not your limbs, are not your breasts,
are not your bruised lips.

When it is over you will return to that body,
you will scrub away the skin left behind. You
will turn yourself inside out trying
to turn yourself whole.

Let yourself return. Let yourself feel
what it means to have a body
again and maybe,
just maybe, you will slowly reclaim
what it means to be a woman.



Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Learning To Fly

For a long time, I wasn't ready to fly. I didn't have the tools. I didn't know how to use the tools. I was afraid. I had reason after reason, and sometimes I believed that I didn't even want to fly. In DBT, I was given a harness and a parachute. They taught me how to operate them; which levers to pull, which buttons to press, which skills to use at which point. We did trial runs which sometimes were nothing more than bunny hops along the ground.

And then we walked, together, to that cliff. We stood there, us and our instructors, and we looked over the edge. I backed away. I wasn't ready. I was still afraid. "It's okay," they told me. "It's normal to be afraid." I wore my parachute and harness as I climbed down the ladder and fell to the ground. I had told myself I wasn't ready. I practiced more. Little jumps with soft landings.

As we climbed that ladder over and over, I watched as more and more of my peers took that step. I watched them swoop and fly. Their laughter drifted back through the wind, and I stood closer to the edge. One by one, my peers took that step I couldn't manage, and I watched them fly. Sometimes they stood where they had landed for a while, sometimes they climbed the ladder again for another dive. "Give it a go," they'd tell me. "It's the most wonderful feeling in the world." "I'm afraid," I'd reply, and they'd show me again how they did it. "You've got all of us to catch you," they'd tell me, "but you won't need us. You can do it!" And still, I wasn't ready.

I watched and I took small steps closer and closer to the edge, but never would I take the one step that would leave the cliff behind me.

I imagine my instructors despaired of me, at times. This wasn't a cliff they could push me off, to prove to me that I could do it. I had to take the step myself, but I wasn't ready. I had the equipment, now. I had the knowledge. I had some practice. But I didn't believe I could do it. I watched my peers do it, and it taught me that it could be done... but I still didn't believe that I could do it. They couldn't force me to take the step, all they could do was remind me time and again that they believed in me, remind me that even when I bit the dust on a bunny hop, I could get up and try again.

I didn't believe I could do it. I was still too afraid. I still believed, too often, that I didn't really want to fly; that I didn't need to fly.

Eventually, my instructors moved on. "This is as far as we can take you," I was told. "The rest is up to you. Either you'll step off and fly, or you won't, but we can't do it for you." Still, I wasn't ready.

My instructors left and in my sadness, I failed to notice the ladder they had left. At the top of the cliff, I tiptoed to the edge and looked over. I could see my peers in the air below, circling and waving, and their support echoed in the air. "I'm not ready," I wept. "I can't do this on my own." In my desperation, I clung to my parachute, to my harness; so tight that they began to rub and fray, so I removed them. The earth shook around me and I lost my footing. Without the parachute, without the harness, I began to fall and I landed, hard, upon a ledge I hadn't been able to see. My landing knocked the breath out of me, and I lay winded for a while, but I had learnt something valuable - I didn't die.

When I got breath back, I put my harness and parachute back on, and I stepped over the ledge.

My flight is errant. I stop off at a lot of ledges along the way, and sometimes I forget what flying feels like. Sometimes I forget what wanting to fly feels like. My parachute is still frayed, my harness chafes and I sometimes take them off for a little while until I remember again how much I want to fly.

My peers have their own flight patterns. Sometimes their flights are errant as well. From here, their flight seems so much smoother, but whether it is or not, I can't judge, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is that I'm finally ready to start flying. It's okay that my flight is errant. It's okay that it took me longer to take that step. It's okay that I'm still practicing. Maybe I'll always be practicing, and maybe I'll never really fly with the freedom others have, that's okay. I'm finally ready to fly, and I'll fly at the pace that is right for me.



Today's cheer-leading statements:
I made a mistake - so what? I don't have to punish myself forever for one bit of bad judgement.
Just because something is right for someone else doesn't mean it's right for me.
I am choosing to make healthier choices for myself.
It's important to take time to look at the positive things, but that doesn't have to mean pretending that there are no negatives.
Just because I caused my wounds myself doesn't mean I don't deserve proper medical treatment for them.



Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.