This is an offering of love. To all of you. To all of us. To our mothers and our sisters and our daughters. To our world.

________

When a woman tells you she’s been violated:

Believe her.

No matter what words she uses to describe the violation.
No matter the drinks or the outfit or the degree to which she knew or didn’t know her violator.
No matter the time of day or night or the spaces in memory.
No matter her age now or her age then or how many years it took to speak it.
No matter how many times it’s happened or what came before or after.

No matter the questions that arise in your own mind, planted by a culture that has taught you that her-story is the one to be met with disbelief.

Believe her.

Hear her story.
Blanket her shame with your love.
Counter her fear with your faith.
Hold the relentless questions running on loops in her mind between your palms, tenderly.

Believe her.

When she says, “It was my fault…”
Tell her no.

When she asks, “Was this okay…?”
Say not now. Not ever.

When she wonders, “Did I bring this on myself…?”
Remind her that she has only ever called in goodness.

When she worries you’ll never look at her the same way…
Do not hesitate or waver.
Tell her that she is wrong.
That she is beautiful.
That you love her.

When she tells you they didn’t believe her before…
Remind her that you are different.

When she cannot look you in the eye…
Hold up the brightest mirror you can find, and show her the vast and unchangeable beauty of her being.

When she shows you her bruises…
Swallow hard and don’t you dare look away.

When she cries…
Let her.

When she reaches out in need of kind arms…
Hold her.

When she cannot find her voice to safely speak. When the words stick like swords in her throat. When the sound of her own voice is too much to bear…
Will your love to transmit across miles of silence.
Hold the space without sound.
Fill it with wildflowers and sunshine and infinite softness.

When she needs to tell her story again and again and again…
Listen. As many times as it takes.

When it takes far longer than you expected for her to heal…
Be infinitely patient.

When that healing looks nothing like they told you it would…
Find every dictionary in your house. Cross out the definition they gave you.
Allow her to write in her own.
Make sure to use pencil so she can change it as often as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe on the street or in the coffee shop or at the grocery store…
Walk closely beside her, ask if she would like to hold your hand.
Shield her energy with your own.
Don’t let go.

When she’s afraid of the dark…
Keep the lights on.

When she’s too terrified to sleep alone…
Plan to stay as many nights as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe in your bed…
Stop. Look her in the eyes. Remind her that in this space, always, she is sovereign.

When she asks you to make love to her…
Trust her. Go slow. Be prepared to stop.

When you’re not sure how to proceed…
Ask her.

When she answers…
Pay close attention.

When the rules change…
Accept them.

When you can’t touch her the same way. When what was beautiful between you is now a reminder of horror. When triggers arise in unexpected and tender spaces…
Don’t you dare take it personally.

When her body, her home, and the world transform into fields littered with landmines…
Walk carefully and gently and with great reverence.

When you trip over one of them — and you will…
Go easy on yourself. You too will need infinite kindness to get through this.

When you get it wrong…
Forgive yourself.

When the weight of what is required begins to feel so very heavy. When you fear your bones might crack. When your own heart is tangled and your soul is weary and longing for rest and a place to lay it all down….
Reserve tenderness for yourself.
Make a religion out of the most exquisite self-care.
Remember that you, too, deserve respite, comfort, and safe arms to hold you as you cry.

When you do not live up to the words in this poem. When you hit your limit and your own being is crying out for respite and you feel you are failing the woman you love…
Remember that you can call in reserves, that no single person can do this alone.

When she wakes up at night, sits straight up in bed, a silent scream caught in her throat, her body echoing memory knit into bones…
Sit up with her.
Light a candle and shine it in all the dark corners.
Breathe with her until her breath returns to her body and her heart stops trying to escape from her rib cage

When she can’t sleep…
Stay awake.
Invite her to nestle her head against your chest.
Play with her hair. Sing her lullabies. Whisper truths in her ear.
Truths about her beauty.
And her power.
And her absolute right to autonomy of spirit and soul and body.
Her ownership of her sacred yes and her holy no.
Her warrior strength and her ability to survive.
Now and for the rest of her life.

When a woman tells you she was violated….

Believe her.

And say so.

Don’t just think it.
Don’t just feel it.
Speak the words to her.
Out loud. Right now.

As many times as it takes.
Over and over and over again.

In words
In writing.
With your body.
In the way you look at her.
In public. On social media.
At the hospital.
At the police station.
In court.
At the bar.
On the street corner.
In your outside voice where other people can hear.
In as many different languages as you can memorize.

Because too many women in this world have been violated.
And too many are met with the violence of disbelief.

So, when a woman tells you she was violated.

You stop what you’re doing.
Look her in the eyes.

And tell her you fucking believe her.

_____

{image credit: Kat J via Unsplash}

The post Believe Her: A poem for survivors (and those who love them) appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

The seizures were threatening to kill him, her only son. There was no choice. When he was in the hospital – having his skull opened to remove the tumor and during the long recovery that followed- she wore her wonder woman panties every day. Until they were as frayed and thin and worn as her weary heart. Because they were proof of what she needed to remember. She was very, very strong.

~~~

The night – when he took from her what should only ever be freely given – she watched it happen from the ceiling. When she could not bear to be inside her body for a moment longer, she left it behind. Floated high above.

Later, she kissed him goodbye, her lips parched and hard against his, aware that they were watching. After the others had long since fallen asleep the silent, shuddering tears began. She crawled up the stairs, her legs refusing to hold her any longer. Her knees scratched on rough carpet as she crawled across the bedroom in the dark, searching desperately for her overnight bag.  She knew without looking that her pink lace panties – the first pair that had made her feel like a grownup – would be stained with blood. She closed her eyes, silent tears streaming down her face, and wished for a cape. Blue and red satin, she imagined, and powerful enough that she would not have to float next time – she could fly away and never return.

~~~

Afterwards, when it was done – when the choice was made and it was over and could never be taken back – she stood in the shower. Her frail shoulders curved around her grief stained soul. She held her body, one that so recently had held another,  and she felt as if the earth might just give way beneath her feet. She waited for the hot water to scald the memories from her skin. She pounded slick tiles with her bare hands, a primal keening rising from the deep well at the center of her grief.  She was broken open, cracked wide. It was not supposed to be this way. There is no superhero in the world strong enough to alter this one irrevocable thing that she had done. This time, she would have to rescue herself.

~~~

Lover, there will be days when there are no telephone booths to change in. Days when your own personal kryptonite has robbed you of your last bit of strength. Days when Wonder Woman panties and satin capes and scalding water don’t have near enough magic to transport you back to the core of your powers.

Indeed, there will be days when the most heroic act you can muster is changing the sheets on your bed. All of your energy focused on tucking and smoothing, as if meticulously formed hospital corners are the one thing that will save your life. It matters now at the close of the day, when everything in this world feels dirty and cloaked in shame, that your skin only be touched by something clean.

This is enough. This is more than enough. 

No, you cannot really fly. There will be no single bound building leaps. You will not win a race with a speeding bullet. There won’t be a man in tights and a cape swooping down to save you. It’s just you.  One person. Small and exquisitely mortal against the relentless pressing of the big, wide world.

But know this. Even without costume or talisman or amulet, you have power beyond comprehension.  You have brokered peace treaties. You have kept intact that which was bound for disaster. You have held the hand of the dying and brought life to the world. You have brought down empires and built them anew, the right way this time.

To live this life. To live it with wholeness and gratitude and trust. In the pain and the glory.  In the mess and the grace. In the sacred and the desperation. This is the stuff of which real superheros are born.

And you. I bow to your tender heart. Your fierce ownership of self. To the battles done in the name of health and wholeness and agency and truth. To the choices made that had to be made that nobody understands. To the judgement faced and the heavy grief cradled.  To the ways you have continued, even in the face of great loss and sacred things stolen and all that has threatened your hard won peace.

It is no small thing to survive this world.  And it is no small thing to stand tall and to claim this life and to thrive.

I bow to you, humble and awed.

Because you have been the saving grace of your own survival, again and again and again. 

And in the end, there is nothing more powerful than exactly that.

The post You are the saving grace of your own survival appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.