More rubble.

It is curious how apparently meaningless phrases can reach you so deep and make you understand past life experiences. I often say that my life as Katrina during WWII taught me a lot about strength... but when I say this there’s another part of me saying: “Come on, aren’t you being too benevolent? She couldn’t get over her boyfriend’s death, she couldn’t fight and stand war, she ended up cowardly committing suicide...” Yesterday, while I was watching the Spanish TV show “Big brother”, where a water-polo player who became a drug addict and almost destroyed all his family and his life, helps violent teenagers, he said: “You see, the one who carries a lot of pain inside but doesn’t use violence is the strongest”. Those words brought tears to my eyes. I’ve always said the weak only seem weak in the outside. I was a tiny woman, alone in the world, unable to make my own decisions due to life’s circumstances. I was caught in a war and recruited to fight for another country. A certain officer abused his power. My only friend died. I knew I could have killed them all, or at least try... I was up to defend myself if only he dared touch me again, no matter if I ended up killed or imprisoned. But I didn’t, though I know I had the chance. Of that, at least, I can be proud.

For some reason, I still must relive all the ordeal. It was the third time I regressed to the night I was raped, and each time there are more details, and more emotions coming out. I will bleed until my last drop of blood is shed. I know there is no other way to stop feeling anxiety, to stop feeling so depressed when this time of the year arrives, and I’m writing it all down because I’m a writer, though I wish I could also draw like a child who remembers past lives. I would draw a German officer with his head blown off, or maybe a handsome German soldier coming for my rescue. I would draw a doctor who didn’t want to help me being assaulted at gun point and being raped too. I would draw myself trying to jump from a window, but instead of jumping I would just scream and scream, and cry and cry... I still have so much pain (and rage) inside I wouldn’t even know where to begin... though it was going to be very bloody, that’s sure.

Yesterday I realized there’s so much about “broken” in this life too. Until now I thought the major issue was the sexual abuse. And that’s a hard one, of course, but there’s a lot more to it than that. It’s about loss and being alone, about broken dreams,  about the only hope I had in that life being shattered in less than a second. My future was just like that scene of the bombed city, all turned into ruins, all dark grey and destroyed, until I decided I preferred black... and I painted it black. Maybe it was my only real decision in that whole shitty life, and right or wrong, at least it was MINE.