every damn day

November 8, 2017

i wrote an essay back in July of this year, reassault. in it I wrote of my experience with an ex-friend and how i felt when he inappropriately and repeatedly disrespected my spouse and i. at the time of the incident i told him that when he touches me inappropriately and without my consent, his action immediately triggers my trauma of being raped and molested. instead of apologizing and owning his bullshit, both his ego and male fragility got the best of him and he decided to be very mature and unfriend me from social media.



like the story never happened.


when my family became aware of the fucked up shit my uncle’s brother was doing to many of us, no one said anything. even though there was suspicion. even though some of them knew. because there’s no way that someone didn’t know. kids always give cues. pero “deso’ no se habla,” they said repeatedly. the constant hush of it. the silence. the erasure of trauma can sometimes be as painful as the original trauma itself. a wound atop another wound delays healing. necrosis can set in. death of the story turns into erasure.

no paso nada.


todo esta bien.

otra vez.

there are so many who would rather ignore an uncomfortable truth because it is easy to do so. instantly. they dismiss peoples experiences and often the victim questions herself. am i overreacting? should i get over this? ain’t that some shit?! this world is so fucked up that it has the person who was raped at 5 years of age questioning if she should be over the atrocity committed against her.

trauma is a open wound that never heals.

when someone tells you that your trauma isn’t real, or that you should be over your trauma or  that your trauma is anything but what you feel it is, the wound deepens. and we are left raw. en carne viva. to live and relive trauma.