Jett
Systematic/Systemic
Here now is my collarbone, which still slips uncomfortably as a result of being pinned under his knee for half an hour: “We have to talk,” he said to me, his face six inches from mine, “I don’t think you’re really hearing me.”
Here is the back of my left hand, held to the table and used to extinguish a cigarette. I see the scar every day of my life but I don’t always register it. When I chance to ponder it, though, I recall the hiss of his words: “I bet you’re listening NOW.”
Here is my nose which –in concert with my stomach– suddenly and startlingly betrayed me in the middle of a grocery store a handful of years back: Bent over and retching, I realized my nose had objected to the scent memory of plumeria and pikake flowers mingling. Responding to those objections, my stomach took up arms, recalling the way that shame and frustration and hurt and profound, profound disappointment collided within it….this while I was pinned immobile to the carpet with my arms beneath me, being forcibly sodomized, the tumble of spilled flowers surrounding my face.
Here is my cheekbone, which remarkably never saw the light of day under flesh I was sure would eventually split open.
Here is the back of my neck, which grows inexplicably tight of its own volition from time to time, even on my happiest and most peaceful of days. It remembers a myriad of things, I suppose, having been the mechanism for shoving my head toward a corner or a rail or a shattered glass that my errant fingers clumsily released too soon….
Here also is the meat of my back, covered then in smooth, unblemished flesh; both had the misfortune of repeatedly meeting a nailhead that sat anchored in a wall they were slammed against again and again.
Here is my windpipe. It remembers that one sweatshirt, twisted and pressed into service as a ligature device.
Here is my ribcage. Then tense, it wanted for a tender embrace devoid of any poor resolution.
Here are my lungs, which drew ragged breaths into themselves, seeking control over the system by regulating its breathing.
Here are the tender bottoms of my feet, once aching and carrying what we here in the South call ‘stone bruises’…that kind of bruise that results from sharp rock striking hard on barely-protected tendon and bone. My feet were careless in their placement that night as I fled across the frozen late November gravel toward my neighbor’s waiting porchlight, her arms extended just beneath it.
Here oh here is my heart, which slowly regained its equilibrium via the tenderness from other men of a different ilk; they were the ones that said things like, “You have the best laugh of anyone I know,” and “None of it was your fault,” and “I know it’s not mine to make right, but let me try.”
Here now is my voice, which once was only used when pressed into song as a mechanism of self-comfort but now resolves itself toward never being silenced again.
***
Jett writes at All Blogged Up and Nowhere to Go.
52 Responses to “Jett”
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I am proud to know you.
If the opening of a thousand hearts can heal the past, let it be so now.
Oh woman, is it wrong that this was both beautiful and terrifying, all at once?
I’m so sorry.
Jett — You are alive and loved. Be well.
You, lady, are the very definition of Bravery.
Love. To. You.
You know… I’ve read a lot of powerful and beautiful prose on this blog. Some of it reads like a horror novel. Some of it reads like poetry. This? this is damn near scripture. It is, at the very least, art. And like the women I met earlier this week it is the voice of the artist, raised in the darkness to call down the light.
No it is most certainly not wrong that this is at once beautiful and horrifying.
The unbroken voice of freedom is always beautiful. And never wrong.
You write in such a heartbreaking and haunting way. I am horrified that was once your life and delighted that it no longer is.
I am speechless.
I am reminded that for every sack of shit out there that would lift a finger to inflict pain, there are many more who instead spread tenderness.
I am . . .
Don’t know what to say except I’m here and I’m listening.
Wow. That left me breathless.
and here is me sitting in the break room so many parts sad that a stranger I am coming to love ever had to go through this. Here is me thankful for the her that is you.
Bravo!
I am in tears from reading this; it is so poignant and haunting.
Thank God for your neighbor. Thank God for you – you got out.
Thank you for sharing this story.
Here is a community of strangers, embracing you with inifinite sympathy and careful understanding and something very much like love.
I’m speechless. God bless you for having survived that. I admire you even more now, if that is possible.
This is some very fine writing. I’m sorry for your history, and applaud your courage.
That was incredibly moving. Thank you for sharing it.
Thank you for sharing the terror and the beauty, and for speaking from a place of light and hope!
beautiful.
Such incredible beauty used to describe such incredible horror.
I am in awe.
This weblog entry is being featured on Five Star Friday – http://www.fivestarfriday.com/2009/10/five-star-fridays-edition-76.html
Thank you for having the courage to survive and to share your story.
Thank you for surviving, for speaking out……..
May the rest of your life wrap you in love and compassion, may the arms of the Mother surround you with joy…….
Crying, speechless. Thank you.
I’m so glad you made it out. What a rotten person.
Ever since I started reading here, I never accuse anyone of acting like an animal any more. Well, maybe my little brothers, hehe. But the point is, animals are so much better than some humans. How did that happen?
I hurt.
It feels wrong to say that that was beautiful, but it was. You have an incredible voice in your writing. And even more amazing is the beauty and grace of your strength. You are not a victim. Thank you for telling your story and showing that we don’t have to live the rest of our lives in the shadows of our pasts. That collar bones, hands, ribs, noses aside, hearts are what matter, and hearts do heal.
You have taken horror and turned it into beauty.
In addition to being brave & intelligent & strong, you are an incredible writer.
I’m so sorry for what you went through.
I have goosebumps. I felt your emotion with every word. I’m at a loss for words for you except that you show incredible strength in what you have written.
Very moving.
and here is my heart to you.
Thank all that is good for your strong spirit. For your heart.
Your words will haunt my heart for a long, long time . . .
I hope that more will soon be penned and pinned upon the plaid.
rachel
Oh Jett. You live up to your name: Superior. You are just that.
Amazing.
Inspiring.
Superior.
*hugs* xo
Beautiful and inspiring. Thank you.
That was beautiful and horrifying.
I’m so sosrry you had to go through that but you have come through much stronger. Your words are absolutely beautiful for something so atrocious.
Here is a beautiful and moving post by a very, very brave woman.
Thank you.
What a picture you painted with your words. Like so many others have said, a beautiful, powerful, response to a tragedy. You are a phoenix.
Wow. Another online friend I’ve emailed with and read for several months, and then I read something like this and can only sit agape.
So sorry.
But glad to see how strong you are now.
Heart wrenching beautiful. Our bodies remember the marks, the path of objects and the fist that was said to be love, like a melancholy symphony of pain. Then the voice resounds in the telling in melodic release. Nothing compares to the beauty of the survivors spirit revealed at last.
Thank you dear sweet soul, for sharing. (Hugs)Indigo
as said before…
you’ve taken something horrifying and turned it into something of beauty.
thank you for sharing.
thank you for you.
(((u)))
So powerful. Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for sharing your story. You’ve turned ugliness into a thing of beauty.
Your words are beautiful and haunting and lovely and horrifying all at once. Thank you for your bravery in writing.
It must mean something that you are able to take such events and turn them into something to sadly beautiful. Thank you for sharing this part of yourself with us.
Your strength and clarity are beautiful. I am so sorry for what you’ve gone through and so grateful that you are here to share your story of survival.
This is me, looking at the monitor as if I didn’t just read what I read. Knowing in many ways that of which you write. Getting the familiarity of those “triggers” and glancing and counting my own injuries both visible and not as I read through yours.
It sounds like you already know that it gets better. Keep that stored in your head, too. So that you can say,”This is me being beyond that, vanquishing those demons, and being loved, really loved.”
Peace and happiness girl. You deserve both in abundance. Find them.
This was so painful and so beautiful to read. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through. But I’m so glad you found your voice.
girl, you didn’t just find your voice–you found out youre a rockstar! such strength and beauty you are an amazing Goddess of Light.
“I know it’s not mine to make right but let me try.”
I love that, It’s how my husband is and it helps so much.
Beautifully written.
Nothing has moved me quite like this has. This line: “Here oh here is my heart” moved me to tears. So often I have literally clutched and clawed at my own chest, truly feeling like my heart is literally aching from the emotion of it all.
Thank you so much for sharing this.
That was beautiful
I came very close to crying after reading this. The body does remember, in some ways more vividly than the mind. Take a care with yourself, and keep those loving people around you.