Five Years Survived

I hate this photo. My favorite jeans. They’re lost to a lost evidence box. He made fun of my scarf. It had been my beach towel in Croatia. I try not to hear him too closely anymore. I want his voice to grow muddy and murky until it’s unrecognizable. The university hoodie on top of a soft Gray long sleeved Eddie Baur shirt that made me feel like I looked like my mother so it became my favorite on top of a worn in tank top on top of my comfy bra. We all have a comfy bra. The way they let me keep my shoes. We don’t need those for evidence. They still reeked of urine. I wore them home. Months later they would serve as the man who would become my fiancé would teach me to tie my laces. I lace them to my feet most days. Some I think of him. Some I think of them. Always I think of that smell. I resent it. Greasy hair. Matted to my forehead even as the day started. Unwashed far too long. It smelled too. I hate it. The smile. The joy. The freedom. The sense of adventure and anonymous living and safety. I hate this photo because it is beautiful. And he took it. And then he took her.

The way they mourn. Sometimes it breaks me open when they ache for her. Now I ache for her too. The disembodied memories of a life removed return in flashes. Tomato soup in bed in college. The playground. A hurricane on the top floor in a beach hotel in middle school. The anger in my mother at the words of a high school teacher. I’ve grown to know her as of late. It makes me ache all over. I grieve her. Her brightness. Her boldness. Her undying faith in the people of this world in the face of anything. The last photo of a taken soul. I hate it. The sobbing. The crawling. The begging. I hate it.

I hate all the ways I can and can’t connect. I hate the way my mother cries for you. I hate the way my girl kept searching for you in my eyes. I wish you were still here. More times than I can say, I wish I wanted this life. I stay alive to honor you. I stay alive so they don’t break wide open again. I stay alive because I don’t know what else to do. This life is survival instinct only. And striving for more always. And aching whenever I learn something about you. I’ll never not walk with your ghost. To some, I’ll never not be a ghost.

Flashes of the before must mean I’m getting better. Sometimes I look up and I’m amazed at where I am compared to where I’ve been. They said five years. They said five was the stopping point. They said brains don’t heal much more significantly past now, beyond today. I’m quite proud of where I am, of the life I maintain. I don’t know what time holds for me. I never have. I know it’s five years since that photo was taken of this body by the men who would mangle it. I hate it. I’m still here though.

Please find the link below to read my mother’s words, to donate at least $5 and to share with 5 people today. Happy Survival Day, Happy 5 Years!

GoFundMe Link: https://gofund.me/69934e06