STANDARD RAPE VICTIM

What does violence towards women look like? What does a standard rape victim appear as at 3AM in the morning, when the world keeps on revolving long after mine got shattered? Can you tell from my face, that I recently got a miscarriage as the result of assault, conducted by the father? And no, these are not even all of my prescription painkillers to treat the internal physical damage. By now I already know how it rolls - the whole world has taken the liberty to be my jury, because the criminal is such a nice person. Trust, me they always are.

Some women who know him claim I am psychotic. Publicly, that is. It is easier to believe that I am lying than accept a co-worker, ex-spouse, a lover, casual acquaintance or a friend would do such a thing to a woman because he's such a great fella. Without even a hint of doubt other people have decided, what is the adequate measure of pain I should feel. How I should act or react and especially, do.

It never seizes to puzzle me 5 rape cases out of 6 (in Finland) proceeding to a verdict in court favor the rapist - in other words, 5 women out of 6 are liars and our police force useless if you ask the judges. No case is even passed on to them, unless the evidence or reasonable doubt is missing. It is clear who pays the price.

The time when I could even cry is long gone. The temptation to die, instead of face the world like is massive and comes in waves. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I am too tired to talk. I am just keeping up the shell that has learned to flash a fake polite smile by now, to isolate my pain and keep on carrying on. I keep thinking and praying for those who label me instead of seeing the stigmata, because I need at least someone who I can forgive, simultaneously not only turning the other cheek but tossing my whole body to the wolves, battling with my own sheer humanity hoping they'll never know what it actually feels like.

The sun is coming up. To me it only means just another day on planet earth.

But I try. Even in my deepest, murkiest despair when all I want to do is scream in agonizing pain and disappear, stop being, vaporize into air like a balloon that never comes back I choose to give it a go. From moment to another; from an hour to the next. I don't want to forgive so I could forget, because it isn't possible - but because it eventually makes me a human. It distinguishes me, like a gentle flow of a river between shores - but I don't even know what from. Each day I choose not to swim, let the tides carry me, float away and let go from the one thing that keeps me here and that is a purpose. In fact I want to remember. Not the hell, not to hold a grudge but the faces I will never meet and whose smile is authentic because someone somewhere, long time ago believed in love and didn't stay silent in front of an army aiming their guns at me only having the truth as my shield - and that's something worth dying for.

I went for cigarette. I smoke like chimney. I didn't hear the birds sing. From the budding tulips and green leaves I determined it's already spring, an isolated butterfly wobbled past me maybe only to be ashes to ashes just for a few days in the sun that glimmered like a tender fire trying to kill me across the horizon behind birches I had never noticed before. These details are meaningless to me. It is trivia. All I could hear is the void, like no one else would be living here but the world - in all its cruelness - is still there. Life goes on with or without me. Whenever it has broken my heart, I repeat a line I memorized decades ago from Sophie's Choice - and I choose to believe it isn't the judgement day. Not today.

Perhaps this is more realistic portrait of my pain. Not up to changing a pyjama into more appropriate outfit, walking in circles smoking fags to the extent of it being categorized as a slow suicide, barefoot on my yard so I can even pretend there's ground under my feet and it is worth living, being, staying here. It is funny how those, who have absolutely no clue about what it feels like to be me, with my history are the most eager to classify me as a drama queen or just faking it. Every time my security camera notifies a car passing by, my heart skips a beat. I have no energy to brush my teeth unless I really push it and then collapse crying on the floor because I was made like this without my consent. I haven't glanced at the mirror or put on make up for weeks. I don't care. There'd be no one anyway. I keep track of the weekly meals, the target goal being able to eat even a banana in a day and a dinner every other day. My head hurts, my body hurts, my heart bleeds and every little bit of willpower and stamina left I use to not remove myself from somewhere, a place where I am clearly not wanted or needed. Life. Just in case I reach the point where I no longer can make it, I want you all to know this. It was not your fault. None of this. It. Only those, who have raped me and abused me are responsible for their actions. And so am I. So again, I go for a smoke, glance at the sky where even the God is asleep and pray him to take me back, so I would no longer have to be me. He never answers, he speaks a language I cannot and the time when I was sort of able to see beauty has expired like an unopened can of milk someone bought out of a habit and tosses into the bin. Long time ago I made the choice to dedicate my life solely to benefit other victims, and I am failing miserably. Now I am just someone I don't know is present. So please spare me from small talk-like emotional "get well soon"-cards, diagnosis conducted by non-doctors, have a little faith that there's not a single thing I haven't already heard or know when it comes to being the victim of rape. Assault. Miscarriage. Being broken. Instead ask direct questions in the circle of your friends, and don't walk away if one out of those every 3rd women in a relationship who get abused (in Finland) tell you the truth. Don't bother asking that from the guys - and still. I just... feel like deserting the sinking ship and exiling from planet earth. But I can't, and won't. At times I just don't remember, in fact I can't remember what it feels like when existence isn't a painful experience. I could be angry, I could be pissed, go livid - all those things that are quite normal stages of shock and grief - but I don't have those in me anymore. All that is, is silence. Just silence. The evening is on its way, the world is going to sleep under the tiptoeing darkness. The day might come, when I am remotely okay again, but it isn't this one.