Learning to speak about the experience of surviving incest requires becoming fluent in the tongue of pain. But the language that we have inherited, that has been passed down to us, is full of holes–places where the tongue reaches out for something solid, a touchstone, a tooth with which to shape a word, a name for a feeling, a concept, a state of being and instead finds nothing, a void. This is not an accident. This is the result of a history of silencing, erasure. This is the result of very real and ongoing violence, as telling our stories is sometimes synonymous with surviving.

* * *

I’m scared of running out of metaphors for my pain, my anger, my terror. And metaphors are a way of transforming the things which they describe.

* * *

I am circling around a wound, which is raw and still screaming. I am searching for the words with which to offer some estimation of just how much pain I am in. I want to die, and this is a certain gauge, but those of us who live in the bruised dark of trauma know that there are many levels and intensities of wanting-to-die. The only way to truly explain my pain is in context.

* * *

When I graduated from college, I simultaneously lost my job, as it was a student-only position. I had very little idea of what I wanted to do in my immediate future and so I wandered around, lost, unemployed, uncertain, struggling to find a job because I was depressed and depressed because I was struggling to find a job. I grew apart (or was abandoned by) many of my college friends. Then, I attended Between the Worlds, an intense pagan festival for queer men. This stirred the cauldron of my heart and soul and, along with the emptiness of my situation, created the space for the memory of my father’s abuse to return to my conscious awareness.

* * *

I quit my job in January and have been wandering since then, first to California, then to Oregon, and now visiting people in Michigan. This Beltaine I attended an intense ritual, and opened myself deeply. I then told my friend Ben the full, detailed story of when my father molested me, which was quite difficult but healing, to share and relive the experience with a man who I knew would not hurt me, who heard my words with empathy and love. And then, a few weeks ago, a new memory came. My dad attempted to molest me again, when I was seven, but I stopped him by threatening to tell.

This might seem like a victory, but that is far outweighed by waves of agony. I know that I remembered in part because I have done so much healing and integrating of the first memories, because I have become strong enough to bear this new wound. But it hurts so much.

* * *

This is not the end of my story.