E is for Emily
Dec. 12th, 2012 09:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorcyressSo here is a story that I haven't gotten around to telling, but I promised myself a couple months ago I would when a certain photo of me got posted to a certain blog. It is the story of a small purple elephant, patterned with jungle animals.
Her name is Emily.
***
I was given Emily at some point when I was _very_ young. I can remember bringing her to any number of adventures and vacations and family functions as my obligatory stuffed animal. Plus, there's her name --Emily the Elephant-- which dates her pretty clearly to "a long time ago, all my plushies were named alliteratively".
See, on my mom's side of the family, people are granted totem animals, and often given gifts within that theme. Mom's is the dragon, Aunt Sara's is the bear, my grandmother and step-grandmother both had owls. I had elephants (have elephants, because this story cements their importance and necessity in my world), and so was given an elephant when I was very young and expected to own things to hug.
And I had her for many years. And then, my senior year of high school, I started dating this person. They seemed nice, and we seemed serious.
(I've never publicly provided a timeline for the relationship before. It seems relevant now.)
At the end of March, I received the single most important piece of mail I've ever gotten: the letter telling me I was going to Lesley, that I was going to Boston (that I was going to college, I wasn't going to languish, uneducated and lost). My partner was...disappointed that I was going to leave them. We had only gotten together properly a month or two before. And so the fact that I was leaving coloured our spring and summer together.
But I didn't want to abandon them completely, and so in August, I bequethed unto them a small plush thing from my very own bed. Something they could hold at night, when I was hundreds of miles away, something to make them feel better, to make them sleep better at night. A small purple elephant, patterned with jungle animals. I had loved Emily for so many years, perhaps that love and security would transfer to my partner, make *them* safe and secure.
And in December I came back to Maryland and they and I broke up. And they were so hurt, and scared, and sad and I have never been able to resist helping someone in need. So I told them at the time to keep Emily, to hold her tight. That I loved her, and she would protect them, and if I ever needed to see her I could just come over. Because of course I'd still visit, and of course we'd still be friends.
...
of course.
It took me about fifteen, sixteen months. Standing in the student center, studying the brightly coloured t-shirts with the horrifying words, noting that they were stirring something so strange so uncomfortable so...oh no.
That year, when they asked me if I wanted to do a shirt, I demurred. And ran. Like a hammer strike, the sudden flash of realization --no, it hadn't just been uncomfortable, it hadn't just been weird, it hadn't just been that one time. I had been systematically sexually abused for months by that partner. And it took me sixteen goddamn months to put all the pieces together enough to see the picture. I had already stopped talking to that person six months ago, now I had a clear, intense reason to never talk to them again.
It took me probably a year of healing, and talking, and writing, and crying to get to the point where I could remember they had Emily. And at that point I threw up my hands and gave her up as gone forever. The only way I would get her back would be by talking to my abuser and yeah, fuck that noise. Never. Happening.
No matter how much I missed her. No matter how much nostalgia clawed at my heart and left a hole in mySelf just her shape and size. I wasn't adult enough to talk to them, and I wasn't stupid enough to break into their house to steal her back. So I wouldn't get my sweet little plush toy back, the one I'd owned for so many years.
It was okay, I lied. If I had her back, she'd remind me of the bad times too much to keep. Better to just leave her where she was. Better to leave her trapped in a place I had spent far too long clawing away from.
In the early Spring of my senior year of college (this would be four years after the start of this tale, three and a half since they and I'd broken up, just shy of two years since Realizing.) I was preparing for my family to move away from Maryland. My visits to the state would be much shorter, much less. The accidental chance of being at the same social event as the person who'd hurt me most in the world dropped to zero. And as Spring Break approached, I realized this was my last chance, ever, to get her back.
From BehindtheWalls, a month away from seeing them the last time:
And I started contacting my abuser, the first contact between us in literally years. I told them when I would be in Maryland, I told them the family was moving, I asked for Emily back. When would be good to meet up? They never replied to my messages.
And then it was Spring Break. I was curled up on my laptop in the living room, when the doorbell rings. Mom goes to answer it and comes right back. She is terse and strange but says it is for me.
(Later she told me the only reason she let them inside was that she saw they were holding Emily. My mother is the best.)
We talked for a while, and, being an emotionally abusive shit, they pulled some emotionally abusive crap on me. And me being weak and broken and scared, I assume we parted on good terms and everything was okay and gave them a hug goodbye. I will never speak to, touch, or contact them again.
And after about half an hour, they drove away, and I walked inside and opened up a plastic bag and pulled out a small purple elephant. Patterned with jungle animals. Holding in my hands something I had thought would be lost to me forever.
This is my ability to be an adult. I won her back when I was twenty-one and a half years old.
Does the fact that I was abused still hurt? Um, have you read my livejournal like ever? Of course it hurts. You don't spend two goddamn years (pre, during, post relationship) embroiled with someone damaging and get out of it scott-free.
But somewhere in the process of dealing with all this, I grew up. The music I need used to be Amanda Palmer's Oasis, and screaming the line "and it isn't my fault that the barbarian raped me". Somewhere in the last year, it's switched to Jekyll and Hyde, to Lisa(/Emma) talking to a too-pushy suitor.
"I'm not the weak young thing you're seeking [Simon]. Someone seventeen, obedient, and sweet. I am not the protege to waste your time on, I'm complete."
I have a stuffed elephant that I can snuggle whenever I want. Because I'm an adult now, and that's how I choose to define the term.
***
There is a photo project called Project Unbreakable, in which a young woman named Grace documents survivors of sexual abuse holding up quotes from their abusers. I am a part of the project now. And if you look close at my photo, you'll notice that I am holding a small
purple
elephant
patterned with jungle animals.
Who is no longer lost forever.
~Sor
MOOP!
A couple of PostScripts, which are important to read:
I haven't mentioned this in a while, but if you know who my abuser is, please don't share that information. With anyone. It is a public fact that I was abused, and you may spread it as seems relevant, but it is definitely not a public fact who performed the abuse. I have made my peace with them. If you talk to them about me, or to other people about them, then I might be forced into contact with them (it has happened before), or their safety might become compromised. Seriously, don't. There is a time and place for gossip, I am begging for it not to be this.
Do not hurt my abuser. Not physically, not verbally, not emotionally. Do not threaten them. Do not proclaim the terrible things you will do to them should you ever find yourself in a dark alley. I do not believe in vengeance and I DO NOT appreciate white knights trying to "protect" or "avenge" me. If you are scared by my stories, and want to set the world straight, do it by fighting rape culture as a whole. You will accomplish nothing good, and very likely a *lot* of bad if you try to fight my battles for me, especially when it's a battle I emphatically do not want to be fought, not now, not ever.
Basically, don't be a dick and we'll get along fine.
Trigger Warnings both ways, sexual and emotional abuse.
Her name is Emily.
***
I was given Emily at some point when I was _very_ young. I can remember bringing her to any number of adventures and vacations and family functions as my obligatory stuffed animal. Plus, there's her name --Emily the Elephant-- which dates her pretty clearly to "a long time ago, all my plushies were named alliteratively".
See, on my mom's side of the family, people are granted totem animals, and often given gifts within that theme. Mom's is the dragon, Aunt Sara's is the bear, my grandmother and step-grandmother both had owls. I had elephants (have elephants, because this story cements their importance and necessity in my world), and so was given an elephant when I was very young and expected to own things to hug.
And I had her for many years. And then, my senior year of high school, I started dating this person. They seemed nice, and we seemed serious.
(I've never publicly provided a timeline for the relationship before. It seems relevant now.)
At the end of March, I received the single most important piece of mail I've ever gotten: the letter telling me I was going to Lesley, that I was going to Boston (that I was going to college, I wasn't going to languish, uneducated and lost). My partner was...disappointed that I was going to leave them. We had only gotten together properly a month or two before. And so the fact that I was leaving coloured our spring and summer together.
But I didn't want to abandon them completely, and so in August, I bequethed unto them a small plush thing from my very own bed. Something they could hold at night, when I was hundreds of miles away, something to make them feel better, to make them sleep better at night. A small purple elephant, patterned with jungle animals. I had loved Emily for so many years, perhaps that love and security would transfer to my partner, make *them* safe and secure.
And in December I came back to Maryland and they and I broke up. And they were so hurt, and scared, and sad and I have never been able to resist helping someone in need. So I told them at the time to keep Emily, to hold her tight. That I loved her, and she would protect them, and if I ever needed to see her I could just come over. Because of course I'd still visit, and of course we'd still be friends.
...
of course.
It took me about fifteen, sixteen months. Standing in the student center, studying the brightly coloured t-shirts with the horrifying words, noting that they were stirring something so strange so uncomfortable so...oh no.
That year, when they asked me if I wanted to do a shirt, I demurred. And ran. Like a hammer strike, the sudden flash of realization --no, it hadn't just been uncomfortable, it hadn't just been weird, it hadn't just been that one time. I had been systematically sexually abused for months by that partner. And it took me sixteen goddamn months to put all the pieces together enough to see the picture. I had already stopped talking to that person six months ago, now I had a clear, intense reason to never talk to them again.
It took me probably a year of healing, and talking, and writing, and crying to get to the point where I could remember they had Emily. And at that point I threw up my hands and gave her up as gone forever. The only way I would get her back would be by talking to my abuser and yeah, fuck that noise. Never. Happening.
No matter how much I missed her. No matter how much nostalgia clawed at my heart and left a hole in mySelf just her shape and size. I wasn't adult enough to talk to them, and I wasn't stupid enough to break into their house to steal her back. So I wouldn't get my sweet little plush toy back, the one I'd owned for so many years.
It was okay, I lied. If I had her back, she'd remind me of the bad times too much to keep. Better to just leave her where she was. Better to leave her trapped in a place I had spent far too long clawing away from.
In the early Spring of my senior year of college (this would be four years after the start of this tale, three and a half since they and I'd broken up, just shy of two years since Realizing.) I was preparing for my family to move away from Maryland. My visits to the state would be much shorter, much less. The accidental chance of being at the same social event as the person who'd hurt me most in the world dropped to zero. And as Spring Break approached, I realized this was my last chance, ever, to get her back.
From BehindtheWalls, a month away from seeing them the last time:
So, I can't talk about it anywhere else. I told myself I wouldn't, lest I jinx it. But I have undertaken a project.
E is for many things.
E is for elephant.
E is for Emily.
E is for empowerment.
And I started contacting my abuser, the first contact between us in literally years. I told them when I would be in Maryland, I told them the family was moving, I asked for Emily back. When would be good to meet up? They never replied to my messages.
And then it was Spring Break. I was curled up on my laptop in the living room, when the doorbell rings. Mom goes to answer it and comes right back. She is terse and strange but says it is for me.
(Later she told me the only reason she let them inside was that she saw they were holding Emily. My mother is the best.)
We talked for a while, and, being an emotionally abusive shit, they pulled some emotionally abusive crap on me. And me being weak and broken and scared, I assume we parted on good terms and everything was okay and gave them a hug goodbye. I will never speak to, touch, or contact them again.
And after about half an hour, they drove away, and I walked inside and opened up a plastic bag and pulled out a small purple elephant. Patterned with jungle animals. Holding in my hands something I had thought would be lost to me forever.
This is my ability to be an adult. I won her back when I was twenty-one and a half years old.
Does the fact that I was abused still hurt? Um, have you read my livejournal like ever? Of course it hurts. You don't spend two goddamn years (pre, during, post relationship) embroiled with someone damaging and get out of it scott-free.
But somewhere in the process of dealing with all this, I grew up. The music I need used to be Amanda Palmer's Oasis, and screaming the line "and it isn't my fault that the barbarian raped me". Somewhere in the last year, it's switched to Jekyll and Hyde, to Lisa(/Emma) talking to a too-pushy suitor.
"I'm not the weak young thing you're seeking [Simon]. Someone seventeen, obedient, and sweet. I am not the protege to waste your time on, I'm complete."
I have a stuffed elephant that I can snuggle whenever I want. Because I'm an adult now, and that's how I choose to define the term.
***
There is a photo project called Project Unbreakable, in which a young woman named Grace documents survivors of sexual abuse holding up quotes from their abusers. I am a part of the project now. And if you look close at my photo, you'll notice that I am holding a small
purple
elephant
patterned with jungle animals.
Who is no longer lost forever.
~Sor
MOOP!
A couple of PostScripts, which are important to read:
I haven't mentioned this in a while, but if you know who my abuser is, please don't share that information. With anyone. It is a public fact that I was abused, and you may spread it as seems relevant, but it is definitely not a public fact who performed the abuse. I have made my peace with them. If you talk to them about me, or to other people about them, then I might be forced into contact with them (it has happened before), or their safety might become compromised. Seriously, don't. There is a time and place for gossip, I am begging for it not to be this.
Do not hurt my abuser. Not physically, not verbally, not emotionally. Do not threaten them. Do not proclaim the terrible things you will do to them should you ever find yourself in a dark alley. I do not believe in vengeance and I DO NOT appreciate white knights trying to "protect" or "avenge" me. If you are scared by my stories, and want to set the world straight, do it by fighting rape culture as a whole. You will accomplish nothing good, and very likely a *lot* of bad if you try to fight my battles for me, especially when it's a battle I emphatically do not want to be fought, not now, not ever.
Basically, don't be a dick and we'll get along fine.
Trigger Warnings both ways, sexual and emotional abuse.