flying spaghetti monster

[trigger warning: sexual abuse, rape]

At this point, I’m used to it. I’m used to being a survivor— at least, as comfortable as I could be considering all the years of fucked up memories. I’ve dealt with this for most of my life, whereas other people haven’t. For a lot of non-survivors, the truth of my childhood would be one of only a handful of moments when they were actually aware of such problems, if ever.

It’s like when you’re in the middle of a meeting or a class, and that one huge wasp flies into the room and starts circling heads, refusing to go away— people can’t help but stare at impending doom. Some will subconsciously hold their breaths and stay as still as possible to reduce unwanted attention. Others will laugh, or cough, or fidget as they fail to focus on the lecture. And some just sit there, not knowing what to do, as they stare into a void and pretend they don’t exist.

That’s what we do to other people— I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s there. With just a few words, I could mentally and emotionally vacate a room. I want to laugh at the concept of having this reluctant power, but it’s more sobering and melancholy than anything.

Survivors are symbols of impending doom, of collapse in society and the bursting of safe little bubbles. We are the harbinger of discomfort. We make people aware of how fragile their tiny lives really are.