liz has discussed how one deals with/celebrates/dissociates from the anniversary of a sexual assault. On Liz's survivor anniversary, I ate a YumYum doughnut. Some may think that's odd, random, unnecessary or all of the above (and then some). A doughnut has special significance to me from someone I loved and is no longer in my world. I've never eaten a YumYum doughnut (their purple signs are all over LA) but I ate it because I wanted to do something fun, a not-so guilty pleasure, something sweet to recognize the day as not the day it happened, but in celebration of all she has become, not because of it, but simply by being her, by taking a much harder path that paves the way for countless survivors.
Tomorrow is my anniversary. Sometimes I block it out and replace it with November 17th. One day EMDR may tell me why I remember it to be the day before. The first year, I got my first real expensive haircut. Not a $300 trim, but more than I would normally pay. Then I walked around the East Village and with each step, I was making my signature in the pavement. That was my home, I wanted to make it remembered that I was there first. What I did with my day may seem trivial, and many would ask why I would place any significance on it, for if I thought about it less, I could forget about it, yes? Oh, for shame. Memories do not work that way. November 18, 1996 may have a few pieces cut out like a snowflake, but every single one of those missing pieces makes it home in the darker spaces in my head. They visit me all the time. In pieces. I don't to see the entire picture all the time; it's not pretty.
This year I am taking some inspiration from my favorite four year old girl, Ava , who's love of life and infectous joy for all things beautiful truly amazes me (and for that, and a million other reasons she is also all about what is beautiful), and going out to breakfast for some chocolate chip pancakes at Jack and Jill's , taking in a movie at The Grove where the fake snow will be fallin', making my holiday cards, and playing with my art supplies. I used to make these pretty neat photo transfers; I promised myself once I moved I would get back in my art bin. And so I will. Because there's so much I can say, for once, without speaking a word, and there is so much healing in a black paper mate felt tip pen that bleeds green, purple and blue. Like a bruise. A lovely bruise that knows how to heal itself.
Tomorrow is my anniversary. Sometimes I block it out and replace it with November 17th. One day EMDR may tell me why I remember it to be the day before. The first year, I got my first real expensive haircut. Not a $300 trim, but more than I would normally pay. Then I walked around the East Village and with each step, I was making my signature in the pavement. That was my home, I wanted to make it remembered that I was there first. What I did with my day may seem trivial, and many would ask why I would place any significance on it, for if I thought about it less, I could forget about it, yes? Oh, for shame. Memories do not work that way. November 18, 1996 may have a few pieces cut out like a snowflake, but every single one of those missing pieces makes it home in the darker spaces in my head. They visit me all the time. In pieces. I don't to see the entire picture all the time; it's not pretty.
This year I am taking some inspiration from my favorite four year old girl, Ava , who's love of life and infectous joy for all things beautiful truly amazes me (and for that, and a million other reasons she is also all about what is beautiful), and going out to breakfast for some chocolate chip pancakes at Jack and Jill's , taking in a movie at The Grove where the fake snow will be fallin', making my holiday cards, and playing with my art supplies. I used to make these pretty neat photo transfers; I promised myself once I moved I would get back in my art bin. And so I will. Because there's so much I can say, for once, without speaking a word, and there is so much healing in a black paper mate felt tip pen that bleeds green, purple and blue. Like a bruise. A lovely bruise that knows how to heal itself.
