Once Is Enough: A Survivor's Ephemera | CW
"If you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it." - Zora Neale Hurston
I have heard this story so many times. In one way or another, it’s been repeated back to me with things missing. My own story. Retold with hard, sharp consonants where vowels should be. Placid, politely smiling faces where sharp concern might have been.
Direct messages & texts, asking for confirmation of things they already knew to be true. Seeing the tumult and calling it transition. Resting in complicity & calling it grace.
Because surely, a man
With a “servant’s heart”
and a voice like gold and a
somewhat-reserved-and-shy demeanor couldn’t have. (Could he?)
And so vocal about believing & protecting Black women. Always adjacent to activist movements. Always volunteering at the church so he couldn’t have. (Could he?)
Once upon a time, I wrote “Churchy fuckboys have origin stories steeped in spiritualized misogyny masquerading as theology.” It would be years before I realized the fullness of my own experience with one. Years of therapy to unpack the fact that I’d dated one for five years. Thousands of dollars worth of Prazosin to stop the nightmares. (And that is just one of the medications). Then there were the years of texts from others, filled with stories that are theirs alone to tell.
I’m telling mine.
(A content warning is applicable to the piece below for mentions of abuse, medical trauma, & more)
Post-traumatic stress disorder creates fractals of memory. Trauma is not processed in the brain as a linear experience. Its time-traveling capacity in the form of dreams, nightmares, flashbacks, and dissociations creates a timeline within a timeline. A “fuck you” to chronology.
I was diagnosed with PTSD in 2017, after putting one V. Wilson on a plane to Philadelphia in a last-ditch effort to keep myself safe. (And if I’m being honest, under the delusion that this might be a way to keep him safe from himself as well). I’d already called a few hotlines, hoping they’d do anything but put me on hold again. No luck. Calling the police was out of the question both given my politics and the reality that we were two Black folks in crisis while living in a predominantly White neighborhood. In a soft voice, I coaxed him into the car & said that we might try the local hospital for help.
I didn’t have much money and I wasn’t sure how much time I had until the next outburst. I called my mother in the parking lot, stressing that I’d need a plane ticket from Chicago to Philadelphia (if it could be spared). Two minutes later, I saw him walk out of the hospital & into the street. By then, it was the early morning hours & I hadn’t slept well in days.
I’d fall asleep in the middle of the day in the weeks to come. Then, I’d lose sleep because of the nightmares. It would take a short term disability to learn how to cope with bright light, loud sounds, and intense sensations again. To retell this is to recall facts.
It is my hope that sharing this collection of “survivor’s ephemera” - these pieces of art & narrative - might translate the feeling of it for you. If you’ve had this kind of experience, I hope you know you’re not alone. I hope you know that your experience is valid & that “once was enough.” If you’ve been complicit in this kind of experience, I wish you clarity, truth-telling, & bravery. If you’ve perpetuated this kind of experience, I wish you the fruit of those actions, the willingness to change, and the accountability/support systems that can empower your change.
But since I’ve heard so many different versions of my story, I figured that it might be time to give a crack at telling it myself.
Image Description:
Mama Staff (aka the Queen of Wands), Dust II Onyx: A Melanated Tarot Deck by Courtney Alexander. In the top right corner is a box of handwritten text that reads “Once is enough”
Picture taken 8 / 5 / 20
“J: I’m sure that what I went through was not as bad as what others have gone through…”
Therapist: ”That isn’t the point.”
J: (frustrated) ”What IS the point…”
Therapist: The point is that ‘once is enough”
How It Began. Alternative Title: How It Ended.
I did not send the following message on my own accord. I was asked.
I knew that V. was building community in Philly after our split. At the time, I felt a sense of relief. I truly believe that the deepest healing can come from a healthy community that keeps us accountable.
Then, I was approached in my DM’s by someone who was “concerned about who their friend was dating.” Why? “Their demeanor had changed.” Something that a good friend could sense. A different look in the eyes. And well, they’d heard…
A month passed and I was contacted again. This time, it was someone else…
I wrote this as an iPhone note in March of 2019. My hope was that I’d only have to recount it once (ha). I gave my permission & consent for this to be shared with identified helping professionals & spiritual practitioners that might be able to rightly use this information to reduce future harm. I have no idea if it did. Just a sinking feeling.
Now, I share it more broadly because it is in my own voice. I simply don’t have the stomach to be silent anymore if the dominant narrative is, “She enjoyed it.”
Names and identifying information have been edited, of course.
A Memory, A Memorial.
I took the ring to the pawn shop when it was all said & done. I pored over Yelp reviews as if somehow that would make it a 5 star experience. The White man asked too many of the wrong damn questions but he was nice enough. “Eh… you probably won’t get much for it. Sure you don’t want to sell on eBay? A lot of folks like to do that! Might get a little more.”
I’d just picked the ring up from my best friend’s house. They offered to hold onto it until I was ready. Until I was eating regularly again. Until the tactile memories faded a bit.
”I’ll take what I can get. I’m leaving it here.”
“I can only give you about $40.”
It was just enough for my solo fare home in rush hour Chicago.
Symbolic, indeed.
Personal Collage, JTP, 2017
I was first struck by the mannequin heads, pictured at the top left. I was half-heartedly waffling through my art therapist’s magazines when this image found me. The article was about the different parts of the brain. The heads of the mannequins were labeled with them.
I did my own labeling too. Each day, for about 3 months, I used a bullet journal to log:
- Mood & severity
- Physical symptoms & side effects (e.g. brain fog, chronic pain, GI upset, hives, etc)
- Notes & questions
“If you want to ease a chronic health problem, see a pro & go slow,” the magazine read. I cut the words from it and affixed them to the canvas. The first person I’d seen was a Black woman. The room was too bright & the coolness of the table made my legs shiver. I knew it was PTSD. I was raised by a medical professional who worked primarily with veterans. But seeing it on paper was an experience I still don’t have the words for.
Back at home, I’d created an easy-reference page for Drs. appointments. With approx two per week to identify & manage symptoms, I was too fatigued to keep on explaining the same shit. I opened a fresh pack of colorful pens, divided the paper into quadrants, and labeled them with:
- Diagnoses
- Medications prescribed & taken
- Prior Medical interventions, Year, & Outcome
- Questions & Concerns
Micro-data:
A question googled: How much time do I have to take a Plan B?
(Answer: Take 72 hours after unprotected sex)
A question asked: Did you remember… I’m off the pill?
(Answer: Unclear)
Unanswered questions: Error 504: Too numerous to count.
”This is real complex estrangement.”
Red
There are three people wearing red in the foreground of the collage. They are facing a red door with no discernible doorknob. The subject of the piece, a Black woman dressed in white & red, stands at the doorway underneath an arch of flames.
The collaged images of seemingly-endless white pills are interrupted by red bursts of pigment. The house itself is accented with streaks of red (oil pastel). And in the left window is the word “Sorry”, cracked in half, and surrounded by red, red, red.
In 2020, I meditated with the tarot on an element I should remember in the telling of it. I pulled Mama Staff, the Queen of Wands. Open the guidebook for “Mama Staff” in the Dust II Onyx Tarot Guidebook & you’ll find these words:
”We have to stand firm in our walk and our intentions - but there are times when that weight feels too heavy, feels like a load that I just can’t bear that day. I try to work through that in my art, whatever medium that might be. My live performance is based around the color red… fiery, really vocal, present, almost a kind of stubborn color - and redefining it as being very complex.” - Solange Knowles
Photo captured during “Reclaiming Your Sexy” tour by Rashida KhanBey Miller, Oct. 2017
Snippets from “Trauma, Time Traveling, & Resilience”, originally written in 2018
Metadata:
”Recently, I was one of the featured readers Whine Club #14 , described by its co-founder Keisa Reynolds as "a monthly storytelling series for women and non-binary people who enjoy writing, whining, and drinking wine". Our theme was "Resilience", and as you can see from the timing of my previous posts, it had been quite a while since I'd written anything for public consumption. During that time, I was navigating a medical leave, a significant trauma, and re-entry into the various points of work (higher ed, Mystic Soul, #EmbodiedRitual project, etc). In this piece, I explore the concepts of:
Trauma as undoing the illusion of time
Navigating trauma as similar to "time-travel"
"Sexting" & nudity as building viable senses of possibility outside of trauma while providing various tools within trauma
Sauna baptism, strip class exorcism, and charismatic Christian spirituality
This piece happens in Three Movements.” The following snippet is from Movement II.
“Go back to the body’ is what I heard in my dreams. I rolled the towel onto the large heated stone and placed my aching body on top. The phantom aches pulsed and throbbed. My muscles tightened, then quivered, then eventually relaxed enough to allow the memories a bit more room. My body held memory back for me most days so that I could shower, journey to Walgreens to get my medication, receive guests when they came, and get groceries on rare occasions. The heaviness of the heat and the structure of the rock grounded me. It had been a while since I felt this kind of stillness. Memory seeped through the pores in my skin and created hybrid forms of tears for the times I felt that grieving was too inconvenient. Memory exorcised itself in small doses through my skin, my hair, and my fingertips. A few moments later, I stripped off my clothes, paying little attention to the soft hair that now covered most of my body.
In part, nudity saved me. I kept the house dimly lit, heavily scented, padded with sound, and kept my body barely clothed. My skin needed access to breathe. Shortly after, I began a sensual strip dance class - also dimly lit, heavily scented with sage and incense, padded with dense music and heavy backbeats. Slapping my ass, pulling on my breasts, grabbing my hair became the sieve I shook to find an “underbody” - a core pre-existing purity culture, years of monogamy, and transcending the good sex that I performed for others. No clothes exist in a womb space. And this was a rebirth.”
An image from 2018. Revisited 2020.
The 5 of Cups tarot card from “Our Tarot: A Guidebook & Deck featuring Notable Women in History”, created by Sarah Shipman. On the left of the card is a sweet note from Sarah that reads: “Heloise is your card. Any loss you experience must be acknowledged and processed - but you are also able to use your grief as a transformational energy. <3, Sarah”
a prayer whispered, remembered:
“God, if you don’t show me a way out, then I won’t get out.” And then, everything escalated. Then, the new attempt. Then, the rush of fear. Then, the small, still voice saying, “NOW.” The voice that changed my life.
And then, the (continual) healing…
Two small kittens
Friends with platters & plates & time to spare
Art-making & story-sharing
Hard conversations and boundaries set
Falling in love without the red flags
Family members, flying to my doorstep
Head scratches & greased scalp from my Mama
The thin muscular hug of my brother
My father, packing the remains of his things into a car, driving the reminders away
Physical therapy (grateful to Dr. D. who knew how to ask the right questions)
Delighting in the taste of food again
Regular therapy & medication
Meditation, reiki, & energy healing
Black folk healing & spiritualities
Moving across town
Kink & BDSM
And the ability to tell my own story.
Da Fourth | An IG Story Exploration in Two Parts, posted 7 / 4 / 2020
The text in White has already been explored above. If you’d like to re-read it, please feel free but know that it isn’t necessary in order to understand the digital art below.
My intent in creating this art was to explore the relationship of Black women & domestic violence, mapping my own lived experience (the personal) to the larger experience (the political). My intent was also to further process, heal, and offer gratitude for everything that was life-saving & life-changing.
WHY INSTAGRAM STORIES?
Discussing the Medium
IG Stories expire after 24 hours. So, that felt like a container for some earlier ideas I was nursing on art, ephemera, & memory. Then, there was the act of creating.
Creating an IG story is a very tactile experience. It’s interesting if you apply mindfulness to it. You’re moving text, color, and images around with fingers & parts of the body. There’s a lot of pinching (to make things smaller) & pushing to enlarge images.
Each slide in an IG story automatically transitions after approx 15 seconds. You have to touch the screen if you want to linger on any text. In a sense, active listening can be expressed through touch.
In order to read the text, you’d have to zoom in & zoom out of the different portions. You would have to decide the order of the paragraphs. You’d have to turn your phone sideways or tilt your head. Then, if your hand slipped… off it went. To bring it back? Tap the left side of the screen.
Reading this IG story would likely take a bit of commitment.
(And forreal forreal, I couldn’t believe when I’d gotten a DM in response! Shout-out to you, boos <3)
I used these images to explore the act of pushing, pulling, naming, & reframing of memory on the road to healing.
Part One
Blue text: “On Da Fourth, (the fourth of July, 2017) I’d find myself shuddering and sobbing in my best friend’s arms. I was sleep deprived and perplexed when the fireworks began to tax my overtaxed nervous system.
Red text: “Black women & femmes save my life everyday, in every way”
Blue text: “On Da Fourth, I’d find my world rocked by both misogynoir & empire. It was not the state who assisted me - in fact, they’d never been an option…”
Red text: “Second wave women’s movements taught us that the personal is political”
Part Two
Blue text: “And every Fourth since then, I go about the work of re-membering. Calling my self back to my self. And to this present moment.
Black text: “I remember that I am here.” (blush emoji)
Blue text: “And I remember that art and ritual are deep practices of healing. (Not just convenient words used en masse for the 2020 Zoom workshop blitz.”
Red text: “And I oop.”
Blue text: “I give thanks for those who do not practice coddling, enabling, harboring, entertaining, or being entertained by abusers. I give thanks for those who believe survivors the first time.”
Red text: “Black women, femmes, & gender expansive folk save my life everyday, in every way.”
Light red text: “I give thanks to and for the ancestors, the advocates, the bodyworkers, the medicine-makers, the energy healers, the tongues talkers, the seers & the spiritualists & the supernaturalists, and the folk.”
Dark red text: “Alice Walker writes that being a womanist (Black feminist) is about loving the folk. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens. She also writes that a womanist “sometime loves individual men, sexually and/or nonsexually […] Not a separatist, except periodically, for health.”
Black text: “In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens, 1983”
Black text: “And I continue the work of healing…”
And I continue the work of healing.
Learn more about intimate partner violence in social justice circles & alternatives for survivors
Read The Revolution Starts at Home Confronting Intimate Violence Within Activist Communities, AK Press
Learn more about spiritual abuse within the container of domestic violence
Read To Anyone Who Has Ever Dated a Churchy Fuckboy, JTP
Support “A Long Walk Home”, a Chicago-based organization “empowering young artists & activists to end violence against all girls and women”
Post-script
It is not my goal to solicit personal donations or funds for the re-telling of this story. (My trauma nor my healing are for sale <3. And I have already outlined my “why.”) However, in the age of finance-sharing apps (lol), I want to be clear about the variety of ways that I’m open to receiving support and open to those who want to share resources as a form of expressed reciprocity.