The Joy That Is Coming

Alter Ego

Speak! Open your mouth! Speak!

My throat is dry. It hurts. I’m giving the mic to my alter ego. Welcome, Cassie.

I am that shy girl cradling herself in dark corners. I refuse to speak.

Why so shy? Speak!

My mouth forms voiceless words. I tread through life in fear.

But this timid girl isn’t afraid to vocalize.

These inspiring thoughts fill my mind. Rather than verbalize,

I write. Empty pages overflow with unspoken memories of that ice-cold word: abuse.

Seven years of history take a long time to repress. They won’t vanish. These violations.

Chapped lips and stiff vocal cords prevent speech.

But open wide the door to silent memory. On Middleton,

There sits a vacant house to most. But to a survivor, a custom-made lake of fire.

A small, gray bungalow sits in the shadows of that hollow, empty road.

A quiet street that stole my right to free speech.

Ten years spent there, in the Heights of Cleveland,

But I can’t bring myself to return for a moment’s glance. MIDDLETON

Reads the green sign with thick white letters. This place is also home to my confidante.

A tiny square room with windows bleeding light from the outside world. This home

Never felt genuine. A large attic filled with drafty rafters and pink insulation. Middleton.

Night sweats. Walking with a scream in my lungs. Overtaken by a panic,

That cannot be shaken. Satan plays tricks with my mind. I’m beyond dismayed.

A cold basement with dim light. Welcome to hell, to the left and up the stairs is ‘home.’

Building beach sandcastles or terror-filled nights of being touched against your will.

You tell me; which memory is normal for a child? Play or assault?

The unlawful use of compulsion to force a person to have sex, molestation,

Isn’t easy to see on paper, let alone hear in speech. He kept things quiet at home,

Fearful that one day the sirens would be in pursuit of his illegal freedom.

I’ve lost touch with the notion of justice.

I’m full of stories to tell,

But my voice has a new master; its name is abduction.

Intensity. Drama. Longing. These three words describe the life of a survivor.

Intense is the level life now exists in for the character of my mind; Cassie

Knows nothing more than the drama created by her past. Cassie

Is defined by the longing in her heart to forget this terrible trauma.

Greater than these three is the desire to vanquish the fear;

To demolish the overriding trepidation.

Someone controls this marionette; he goes by the name of anxiety.

I’ve forgotten what life is like outside the realm of ‘that poor girl.’

Three years since the enlightenment and yet I still dream in nightmares.

This padlock in my chest lacks the key to free me from my worries.

These anxieties stem from that wretched house on Middleton;

The birthing place for the worst kind of agitation.

Thoughts that stampede through my mind are determined by my heart’s uneasiness.

I’ve written a book full of the words I would proclaim

If I had the courage to rise above these frightful fits and make a decision.

The dissention I face on a daily basis makes me hate this ongoing terror.

Why can’t I learn to be more like Cassie?

Why can’t I face these fears like her?”

Why can’t my reality be as strong as her fictional existence?

I envy Cassie’s ability to conquer my demons.

I regret that I was able to make her stronger than myself.

I covet her ability to stand up as the strong individual I crave to find within.

I wish I possessed the ability to overcome seven years of being attacked.

The same way as Cassie.

I find myself admiring the strength of character I created in her.

Despite her upbringing in the same city, and same house,

She refuses to give herself over to the control of her past in that abyss.

This figment,

It has changed something within me. I’ve been fearful on my own to speak

And let the world know my story. But I’ve found a new voice.

My brittle vocal cords have a fresh sound.

The turmoil of silent suffering has given birth to Cassie;

The remedy to my fears.

I can now form the words out loud: I. was. Raped.

What began in that small bungalow will end where I truly belong.