They Say I am a Survivor, but did I Survive?

Looking back to this same day, ten years ago, I can’t stop hearing those voices, the ones that said, “You’re strong. You’re a survivor.” But did I really survive? Or did I just not die? I think I lived because I failed. Because every attempt to escape left me tangled in guilt over leaving the people I loved, over abandoning the fragile pieces of a life I had built. I lived because I was terrified—terrified of death and, somehow, even more terrified of life.

But does that fear count as strength? Does it make me worthy of the word "survivor"? For strength to grow, it has to exist first, doesn’t it? And I don’t think I ever had it. Not a single day in these ten years has passed without me replaying that moment, dissecting every detail, crying over it until the edges blurred, and staring into the mirror at someone I no longer recognize. Or maybe the mirror itself is broken. But honestly, the more likely truth is that I am broken. Because I can feel it—tiny cracks in my soul spreading wider, deeper, year after year. And I’m terrified that one day they’ll shatter me completely, and there won’t be enough gold left in the world to piece me back together.

And yet, I keep trying to fill those cracks. Not with healing, not with hope, but with pain. With experiences that hurt me even more than the first one. It’s like trying to douse a fire with gasoline, pretending I’m in control while the flames climb higher and higher, consuming me. I tell myself it’s proof that I’m stronger than the past, that the scars it left on me are just decorations, but deep down, I know I’m lying. Because here I am, ten years later, still letting it define every part of me.

I changed who I was, did things that disgust me, things the old me would have hated. I became the arsonist of my own life, burning down every version of myself that came before, but leaving the ash behind to choke me. And I knew, even then, that I was spiraling. But I couldn’t stop. Maybe because letting go of the pain feels just as unbearable as holding on to it.

And if I let go of that pain—if I stop being that fourteen-year-old kid who was raped—then who am I? How do I explain my life, my choices, to others? To myself? Who do I blame if not him, if not that day? It can’t be me. It can’t be me. Because I am supposed to be sane and smart and strong. So why would I willingly drag myself through years of agony, hurt, and loneliness?

I tell myself I don’t fall in love anymore, but that’s a lie. Somewhere, buried in the ruins of that kid I buried, love still flickers, like the last ember in a dying fire. It’s there, but I don’t know how to tend to it anymore. And trust? That’s a lie too. I trust people, but I pretend I don’t. I tell them I can’t. It’s my armor, my way of keeping them from holding power over me. Because if they don’t think they’ve earned my trust, then they can’t think they’ve broken me. Right?

Some days, I feel like my pain is a house I live in—a house without windows or doors. A house I built with my own hands, brick by brick, because it was the only shelter I knew. And now, I don’t know how to leave. I don’t know if I even want to.

I know none of this makes sense, except maybe to those who’ve walked this path. To those who’ve lived through this kind of loss, this kind of fear. We build walls around ourselves, not because we’re unfeeling, but because feeling is too dangerous. Too much. If we let our guard down for even a second, we open the door to more pain, and we can’t let that happen.

So, yes, I’m alive. If that’s what you mean by survival, then sure, I survived. But if survival is something more—something about strength or resilience or hope—then no. I’m not there yet. And I don’t know if I ever will be.

Yours,
Exhausted and Still Not Much of a Survivor