Brown Girl Art

I’m not sure it’s getting easier

Every time I deliver a package of love letters to a new place, I have to explain why I write them. It usually starts with…”awhile ago I was gang raped…it’s my way of undoing some of the damage.

I am not sure the letters are having the intended effect because I don’t honestly think I am getting better. My mom says I am less angry, but she’s wrong…I’m like the Hulk, I’m always angry I just deal with it in quieter tones now than I used to.

I am still angry, I still have nightmares, I still have daymares and I still have a Psychiatrist who tells me that it’s all a dillusion that I am making up, he doesn’t actually help in any way, that pushes me towards a healthier me.

In a few months I am hoping I can start seeing a different Psychiatrist who actually listens to my story, instead of just assuming it’s made up because that’s the easy solution.

I have twenty plus years of sexual abuse in my timeline, in my story, that’s not easy to listen to, but to chalk it up to all being a dillusion is just lazy, in my humble opinion.

I’ve all but stopped smoking weed, I smoked last night for the first time in weeks, and it felt good, but not as good as it used to. It used to make me really quiet so I could just sit back and listen to the thoughts rolling through my head, now it just gives me this uncomfortable feeling of being completely buzzed that I immensely dislike.

I used to dance and sing and paint, I’ve stopped doing all of those things because they don’t give me the same pleasure they did last year. Or at the beginning of this year, for that matter.

I cleaned a little bit today, and tonight I’ll take all the stuff I no longer need and throw it into the trash but I still have a huge problem being outside, being around people. I haven’t allowed any of my old friends to come in contact with me because I am still dealing.

I reached out to one friend recently, to apologize for not checking in, to apologize for not attending her wedding or showing any interest in it…she was gracious and kind, and understood…I still need time, to come down from what happened. From what they did to me, that night, those eight men.

Maybe nine, I can’t really remember how many any more, but I am starting to remember their names…someone called me a goof when I was at the mall, which made me angry.

I’m the goof for talking about being raped, by gangsters who have no credibility, who go after children and threaten to murder and rape children. I’m the goof? Really? Okay, I mean I guess if you want to stand up for a man who raped me while threatening to rape and murder children at the same time sure I guess I can understand that you enjoy being lumped in with the trash.

Some people look at me and actually bow their heads, and smile, and I know it’s because they’ve seen the site, they know who I am…they’re showing me respect, or at least that’s how I choose to take it.

I choose to believe that there are good people out there who see what I am doing and respect it, and honor it by acknowledging me. I choose to thank those people with a smile and try to remember that any man willing to call me a goof…under his breath, is one step away from probably being a rapist himself.

I know that there are a lot of people who love me, who respect me, and who know what happened and have taken steps to make sure that I feel safe, but the truth is that without a twenty-four hour bodyguard I don’t know that I will ever be safe, because I am becoming this whole new person who has to live with my past. I am learning what it means to be a survivor all over again, in ways I never expected and it feels like I’ve been slapped until my face turned red.

I am still in a state of complete shock, this happened to me, regardless of what the Doctor wants to claim, I went through this. I remember the way it felt, I remember the terror not fear, terror. Of being raped, beaten and tortured, drugged and abused by a group of men who convinced themselves they were just trying to make sure I wouldn’t rat them out.

I was told to blame innocent men, in lieu of telling the truth and I’ve told the truth instead, to the best of my abilities, I am still learning what those truths are, if truth be told.

I’m trying. I’m not giving up.

That’s why I do the love letters, they remind me that if I have the courage to keep putting my name out there, then I have the responsibility of continuing to fight against the darkness.

So do you.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

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