The Deep End
Video by Maggie Davis
WARNING: PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
The subject matter of this article may be triggering for some. We ask that you look at these images with careful intent as the article contains content regarding assault. Despite whatever your experiences may pertain to, remember, there is always a way up. If you or a loved one need help, please reach out to the N.S.A. hotline: 1-800-656-4673. The Primadonna Team would like to remind you that no matter the situation, we see, hear, love and support you.
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Crystal Top by Nanette Gabrielle
Assault is one of the loneliest things I’ve ever experienced. No matter who I tell, I always feel like they will never grasp how I feel; the guilt, the shame. I feel so stupid for allowing something to happen that will never be my fault. I’ve come to find that most women I know have a story so similar to mine, and yet it still feels like I’m treading water on my own; trying to carry my head above water and keep myself from swallowing the ocean whole into my lungs. Like I’m swimming for a surface that never breaks, trying to gasp the salty air into my lungs. So for now, I open my gills and find a new way to breathe.
Crystal Bra by Reeno, Skirt by Cloudiejobi, Pink Beaded Net by Eva Mae, Necklace, earrings, and hair charms by Basically Piper
What happened to me is my story alone, so we can start at the end:
When I went to leave, he let me out into his dark apartment building hallway, alone. I walked down the first flight of stairs to find myself faced with a wall of mirrors and my own paled complexion staring back at me. I hadn’t realized that he’d left visible marks on me. My lip was swollen and purple; a bruise that could have very well been left by a fist.
I don’t really remember leaving the building, but I ran down the block and around a corner and tried to catch my breath and stop shaking. I called my friend and walked into a shop, not ready to get on the train yet. I felt like if someone touched me I’d shatter into a million pieces. The E train is no place for a victim. I told her what happened, almost mocking myself for “being silly” and going to hang out with him when I knew I shouldn’t have have. She was obviously concerned, but I laughed and told her I was fine. I took the subway home with my arms wrapped around the pole so tight that my arm started to fall asleep, my white knuckles gripping the metal so tight that my rings started to cut into my skin. My body was stiff as I kept my eyes laser focused on the window. I put on my headphones, but I was too dazed to hear the music; or anything for that matter. All I could think about was my bruised lip. How everyone must know what just happened; that they must know how stupid I was to let him take advantage of me. I stopped in my friend’s dorm for a few minutes to tell her what happened, reassuring her that I’d be fine in the morning. I knew she’d been assaulted, so I didn’t even want to tell her what happened. Surely I was just being dramatic and I was just being sensitive; I wasn’t a victim, right?
When I went to take a shower, I found the bruises. The biggest one was behind my knee and they traveled up from behind my calf and up my thigh; wrapping my leg in a constellation of my own trauma. That’s when I lost it. I probably sat in that dingy, gross little dorm shower for thirty minutes bawling my eyes out. And to be honest, this isn’t even the first time dates have left me like this. There have been girls that left me with bitten lips and scratches down my back; men that have gripped me so tightly they’ve left bruises on my chest and an awkward goodbye tattooed to my lips when no isn’t enough for them. But this was different.
I had just moved into my dorm, so most of my stuff was still boxed up. I put on my pajamas and slept wrapped in blankets on a bare mattress. I couldn’t bring myself to make the bed.
Most of my memory of that day is pretty cloudy, but it comes back to me in flashes. I’ll be walking down the street and see him look at me the way he did that day, but when I blink a few times I realize he was never there. Every time I ride the subway I can’t help but relive my ride home; I feel my heartbeat quicken and my chest gets tight. When I look in the mirror, I expect to see a purple lip every time.
If I’m being honest, it took me time to admit that it was as bad as it was. I told myself that it was just a weird experience; something I would be able to joke about in a day or two and could wash away with a hot shower and a nap. It took me about a week to be able to string the phrase “I was assaulted” together. I’ve never had words sit so heavy on my tongue and scratch my throat like shards of glass. I don’t know what I was expecting when I told people what happened, but it wasn’t the response I got. I will always be grateful for the people who were kind and gentle. I will never forget the way you made me feel less lonely. Others were not so gentle. I never thought I’d hear things like “well it could have been worse” or “at least this one thing didn’t happen”. To the people that said that, from the bottom of my heart, fuck you. I was told things like “you’ll be stronger on the other side”; words that sit on my tongue like hot fire and make me hold back sickness in my gut. Better than the worst option isn’t a prize. Am I supposed to thank my abuser for not fucking me over even more? The pity is almost worse somehow. I don’t know if I can take one more “I’m so sorry” before I burst into flames. The way people look at me after hearing what happened makes me feel like a child; small, weak, helpless.
I find myself feeling like a stranger in my own skin. I don’t see myself in the mirror anymore. This man fetishized me for being plus-sized. He made me feel gross in the beautiful body I call home. I feel like I have to treat myself like a toddler now; forcing myself to eat because all I want to do is starve myself so no one ever looks at me like that again. I can barely dress myself anymore either. I find myself wanting to sexualize myself; wanting to claim my sexuality back for myself and not let him take that away from me. So I walk around in low cut tops and sheer bodysuits; wearing skin tight dressed too short to sit down in. At the same time, I want to drown myself in fabric, sometimes showing up to class in three layers to make my body into a shapeless blob. I’d rather sit in a pool of sweat than let anyone see my skin. But no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about my body, trying to change it into something new. I’ve dyed my hair and gotten new tattoos. I’ve changed my makeup a hundred times and created a whole new wardrobe. Until the skin grows anew and the cuts and bruises fade, this body will not feel like mine and this voice will sound like a stranger’s. But I will meet myself again, shake her hand and greet her like an old friend. She is not gone and I am not broken.
I’m still working on finding happiness in the simple things again. I spend my afternoons in coffee shops and waste the money I do not have on silly little drinks and overpriced pastries. I buy myself little gifts to keep me company; a new necklace, a new sweatshirt, a fuzzy pen. I make sure to prioritize myself and not make more compromises than I am willing to. I keep those that I care about close to me and am learning to let go of people that aren’t healthy for me to have in my life anymore.
Healing will never be linear and I’m still trying to come to terms with that. I want to be fixed. I want to wake up and see myself in the mirror again. I want to hear my voice when I speak and not recoil whenever people touch me. I want to be able to hug my friends and brush past someone without wincing. I want to not pause before I say “I was assaulted”. I’m ready for the words to not feel like heavy tar dripping from my tongue, because that is what happened. I was assaulted. That does not make me weak and that does not make me less than. Just because writing out what happened is hard does not mean I am stupid or that I am scared. It means that I am processing and I am healing. I want to share my story because I don’t want anyone else to feel alone like this.
I hope you always treat yourself with the kindness you deserve, no matter what you’re going through. Remember that you are kind, you are loved, and you are beautiful. No one will ever be able to take that away from you. I hope you find healing in the small things and that that simple peace finds you again. Please ask for help when you need it and know that it does not make you weak. The healing will take time, but I promise you don’t have to drown.
Model, Editor-in-Chief, Creative Director: Pilar Bradley
Photographer, Photo Director, Creative Director: Kervens Jean
Stylist, Fashion Director: Monica Robles
Assistant Stylist, Editorial Assistant: Nadia Adams
Assistant Stylist: Noor Ntanios
Makeup Artist, Beauty Director: Gillian Tokar
Hair Stylist: Rhia McGowan
Videographer: Maggie Davis
Videographer, Production and Set Director: Luna Abreia
Graphic Designer: Victor Shemper
Writer: Gillian Tokar
