Trigger warning: There are some awful themes in this story which some people might find unhelpful to think about (PTSD, rape, torture, depression) Please look after yourself in your choice whether to read on. I think I steer clear of anything graphic
After it happened I was alone in the dark and felt nothing but my wounds. I wondered if I was weeping tears, or maybe blood. I wondered if the thing that had been taken from me was my soul. There was an emptiness, soulless…something was missing.
“I am a worm and no human,” I knew the words. Suffering was meant to bring me closer to God. I heard them laughing, feasting, the hum of their machines and the clink of their coins but I was spent. I had no energy. I was dryer than the most barren wasteland. I lay there, trembling with anger and disgust, unable even to swoon into a sleep. They kept the lights on all night.
The doctor of course tried to help me. He said I needed to stop talking about it, or thinking about it. I was dramatising instead of forgiving and healing. I had to give the tablets a chance to work, after they had fixed me so that I could speak without all the hysterical crying then he would let me talk – in a controlled and therapeutic way that didn’t encourage all these self-indulgent tears.
“This’ll do the trick!” he cheerfull prescribed six of the gigantic, lavender coloured tablets, “This is much more than an ordinary dose, but sometimes if a patient is very resistant to the therapeutic effect, that is what we need to do. I will just ring up to get permission to prescribe the overdose.” My stomach felt like it sunk into my feet. Even for a deeply depressed person I was “abnormal” and difficult.
Even though I wasn’t to talk about “the event”, the doctor did ask me a lot of questions and drew charts about my parents, my children, my relationships to the ones who had raped me. All my history came out – that time in Pompeii… “Sounds like anger management might be a good idea once the medication kicks in..” he pondered.
I really didn’t enjoy his manner, but what I hated more was the determinedly cheerful and infantilising television shows I had to endure in the waiting room, especially once the medication made me too dizzy to read. It was unfortunate that I hated the experience so much, because I founf I had to come back even before my three week appointment was due.
“The pills give me a stomach pain,” I explained
“You’ll get used to it,” he said heartily, “it’s worth it to feel better!” It was easy for him to deem my pain “worth it” for his goal. I sourly told him I would not continue on the pills. He talked section 2, said I could be detained for 28 days if I didn’t comply. I nodded obediently, intending to do the opposite in the privacy of my own home. He must have guessed because he talked me into trying another medication to minimise side effects.
I left with a prescription for 2 small, round, white tablets to stop the stomach pain caused by the 6 large purple ones.
I did try going off the purple tablets, but I found I couldn’t do it without support- the voices came back and the intense fear. I couldn’t sleep. I took the purple ones again although under them I felt dull, drowsy as if I had to fight even the simplest movements through a heavy ocean of cotton wool. I took the white tablets to control (not completely eliminate) the gut pain. I felt like I wanted to die, but now I was so drowsy that I lacked the willpower to act on it I guess that is how these things save lives.
I lacked willpower for other things too, like answering the phone. My beloved called but I was heavy and apathetic and distantly felt an anger for her anyway. Where was she when it all happened? But I didn’t want to talk about my anger, the purple pills had dulled it into a distant feeling of complacent despair. Whatever. Hives broke out on my dry and colourless skin. Whatever. But they were pretty itchy so I realised I better make another appointment with the cheerful poisoner, my doctor.
He prescribed three yellow tablets to counteract the side-effects for the two small, round, white tablets which I was taking to manage the pain from the six purple tablets. Even with government subsidies, the pharmacist demanded nearly all my measly pension. I had to give up breakfast and just eat toast for lunch and dinner (I had to have two meals as the purple tablets needed to be taken with food or I was told I wouldn’t keep them down.
I couldn’t sleep now. The yellow tablets seemed to get my mind stuck on a repeating track that kept me awake. Seeing the bags under my eyes and hearing my monosyllabic answers, the doctor prescribed two long white capsules.
These gave me an intense headache so he prescribed two green little tablets.
He kept asking impertinent questions, such as how was my sex drive. I told him impatiently that even though I didn’t have one, I didn’t want one that I was more concerned that I couldn’t even summon up the energy to answer the phone. He was angry, said I was being unfair to my husband by not having or wanting a sex-drive. I told him to look at his stupid little charts of my relationships. I didn’t have a husband. He said no wonder I couldn’t get a husband if I didn’t even take my lack of a sex drive seriously.
He tried to write a prescription. I tore it in half and shoved it in his not-any-longer-cheerful mouth, gave him a glass of water and patted him on the back gently to help him swallow.
Of course he had me detained for that and God only knows what they medicated me with when I was “away”. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. I had nightmares, reliving the rape…or did that actually happen?
I am told I was loud and badly behaved and that they “had to” sedate me. I remember cruel voices and even the odd laugh, cold faces and a spark of will deep within me which they didn’t quite extinguish.
Within the spark of will, I wandered until I heard a bird singing. I smiled and pretended to agree with them so that they discharged me. Once out the door I closed my eyes, hearing a rainbow parrot’s friendly scolding. I remembered my beloved, still faithfully trying to track me down. I opened my eyes and fixed them on the red, green and every other colour plummage of the bird and walked off the edge of the tiny contsricting world the medical people had built for me. I wrote a song about my beloved. I kissed a rose petal and it released fragrance and softness.
My beloved sent me a parcel, she had been keeping my hopes- shrivelled little things- together for me. I tucked them into the folds of my skin, between the cracks in the corset they had stuffed me into and welded shut. I refused despair and grew tiny grass blades, exploding through microscopic gaps. Incredible saplings shot up where the despair had a fault line.
I heard my beloved’s voice, carried to me in the breeze.
“Beloved,” she whispered, “I want you to be free. Why do you still let them move over your skin and take what is not theirs.” They were her children and mine but she was filled with anger at them.
“They said they will fix me.” I told her, “They will do more research. They will find a way.”
“Is that really what you want?” my beloved spoke a cloud of endangered butterflies onto the flowers she and I had just tenderly grown in one of the few places where my skin was still mine.
“It hurts” I was ashamed to admit it, ashamed of my tears which the doctor had said were nothing but weakness and manipulation. My beloved had not listened to the doctor and she bent her face to me and kissed my tears.
“All of this must stop.” she set her stern face against them, “no more talk of fixing now or in some later time. You are not one of their machines, you are a body and a soul. You need to rest, breathe, heal rather than this mechanical ‘fixing'”
“I want to rest” I admitted
“My Gaia” the beloved’s face was kind to me but I fear that they do not listen to Her. They have fixed themselves with new gods- Scientific Fact, Reason and Efficiency. They are accountable to the greatest god the Economy. Mere lives and souls are as nothing before such gods.
And so the pain hasn’t stopped…