Tag Archives: survivor

I Don’t Like the Word Survivor

I fuckin’ hate when people say “I am an incest survivor”.   Or “I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse”.  The word is like nails to the chalkboard of my mind.

Survivor is so….it’s like getting a C on your report card.  It implies the bare minimum, or at least to my ears it does.

Granted, I get that sometimes surviving is the best you can hope for.  Yes Siree, I sure  ’nuff can put my mental paws on that critter.

But when the word is used, it most generally always is used to refer to something that has occurred in the past.    And a phrase like…

I am in incest survivor…

if you really listen to it, the balance of power in that sentence belongs to the word incest.  The word survivor seems pretty neutral in comparison to the ‘taboo’ word.

And that, boys and girls, is why I don’t like it.  I’d rather people say that they are a victim of, rather than they survived.

Survival is like….I dunno…you are here, you exist…but nothing else…like a world of vapid blandness and some mushy food like oatmeal, except that I like oatmeal.  So let’s say grits.

It’s bland and it’s grits and it’s that white paste used in elementary schools and it is the smell of wet newspapers.

It is a word that


what happened.

I think the word “triumph” is much more apt.

Because if you lived through incest or another form of childhood sexual abuse, and you are around to tell the tale today, then you, my friend, have triumphed.  I don’t care how fucked up in the head you may be, I don’t care if you’ve got 23 Sybil personalities, I don’t care if you have such a skewed view of your own self that a cockroach has more value in your eyes, I don’t care if you are unable to trust, love…anything…

it doesn’t matter.

The simple facts are that something in you so very strongly wanted to overcome your reality.  Something in you wanted desperately to live.  If not, you’d have found a way out.  Suicide is an equal opportunity employer, after all.

But you didn’t.  Whatever coping mechanism you developed, you played the cards you were dealt.

So fuck a whole semi load full of being a “survivor”.

The fact that you are here today means you triumphed.

Disclaimer:  If you have grown up and become a molester, then none of the above applies to you.  You did not triumph or survive.  You became the monster that consumed you.  I’d like to be able to have pity for you, but I can’t, so fuck you.  There are always choices, and you made the wrong one.


Sitting on the Edge of the Moon

Sitting on the Edge of the Moon

Slipping under a pink ruffled bedspread
Cocooning blankets tight and close
Always but always turning away from the door
Pulling as far into herself as she can
Breathing as shallowly as possible
Wanting to make no sound
Wanting not to exist
Small body tense and alert

Ears straining…listening
for sounds of the monster

Vigilant until the need for sleep
sings a siren song of false security
Of a safety that has never been

Drifting off, muscles slackening
breaths becoming deeper

And while the moonlight streams
in a nearby window
Bathing her face in the violet kissed beams
The monster stirs and arises

No one to warn her of it’s approach
No one to fend it off

Jerked out of sleep that is always uneasy
Like a fish dining unsuspectingly on a hook laden worm
Heart in throat, as adrenaline floods the world
Scream swallowed as a hand rests on her hip
Silent and still
Playing possum as if her life depended upon it

Silly girl, doesn’t she know
That she died a long time ago?

Termite ridden paneling
so frail in places
you could poke holes in
it with your fingers
Like probing man fingers poked
holes in her soul

Mind a caged animal
Not daring to move
to breathe
to be
she steps through the wall
and disappears
leaving the monster behind

And from the edge of the moon
Another girl watches
Lightly perched, legs swinging back and forth
As a soft diamond dust breeze gently blows

She watches as the dead girl lies so still
A show she’s seen many times before

Yet she watches anyway

The defiler doesn’t touch
Outside of a hand to the hip
His work..the murder…done long ago
Yet he is compelled to return
To the place where she died

A tribute paid to her demise
He brings not roses
But strokes his dick
And splashes commemorative  funeral cum
On the hardwood floor

His property marked
the defiler quietly goes
leaving the girl behind

Except she is really no longer there

And the girl
sitting on the edge of the moon
glances at the dead body
still wrapped in the pink flowered bedspread
a small lift of her shoulders
having lost interest in this oft repeated play

She rises and walks along
the curve of the crescent moon
Humming a song
Moonlight reflected in her black patent leather shoes
As the diamond dust wind lifts her hair

The dead girl…