Trigger Warning: A Survivor’S Story

By Charlize Wolfe

Rife with controversy, Trigger Warning provides insight and a unique perspective on taboo issues, like rape, self-injury, and mental illness. Discover the reality of a survivor of all these and more in the roller-coaster ride that is Trigger Warning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546241874

Charlize Wolfe

Charlize Wolfe is a survivor of many things. Of rape, of abuse, of addiction, just to name a few. She has faced many challenges in her life but always gets up when she falls. She writes bluntly and harshly, with ruthless honesty. Charlize is currently recovering from several mental illnesses and an addiction, and lives happily with her Service Dog, Ripley. While there are still bad days for Charlize, the good days are very much worth it.

Book preview

12/21/15

I slowly drag the blunt edge of my most faithful shard of glass down the dry, ruined skin of my left forearm. The old scabs are almost healed and the glass is peeling them off, but they’re not bleeding. Can’t have that. Slash, slash, slash, slash. I bring the point of the glass down on my abused flesh. No blood, yet. I flip the shard over, change the angle, and go again. Slash, slash, slash! There we go. Not much blood wells up, but it’s enough… for now. For now, I feel better. Just not for long. I know it won’t make me feel better in the long run, but right now I’m not interested in the long run; I’m interested in the pain and the blood and the temporary relief that comes with cutting.

I’ll have to hide these, I know, but it’s winter, so I’m not all that worried. It’s not like the old days, though. Where cuts were deep and plentiful and everyone would panic and gossip and try to throw me in the loony bin or therapy or some other crap I knew wouldn’t work. Now I just tell a few people when I’ve cut (and they’ve seen it all, and I’ve explained it all, so it’s no big deal); my sweet, well-meaning case manager or my excellent psychiatrist, and maybe one or two close friends, and nobody else. Because no one else needs to know. Cutting is my thing and I don’t see why I have to hide it at all. Other than the fact that I could get chucked in the loony bin for it, of course. But it’s not illegal; I’m not hurting anyone who doesn’t want to be hurt; and I’m not hurting anyone but me. I just want to control the pain. Seven slashes. I had no control for so long. Ten slashes.

I’m hiding. Hiding from THEM. Hiding in the place I call my home. I have a knife. I want to die. Because there’s one thing I’ll know when I’m older and only subconsciously and vaguely know now: last night was the first time HE raped me. As a six year old, I don’t know what rape is. I don’t know there’s a name for what had happened to me. When I’m older, I’ll remember HIM drugging me; I’ll remember waking up while it was happening and not knowing what was happening; I’ll remember my vision going black as a cloth was placed back over my nose and mouth.

But right now, all I know is when I wake up, I feel violated, and I try to remember why, but I can’t. Years later, I’ll learn that when you go through something traumatic, your brain may be able to block it out to protect you. But right now I’m just drowning in pieces of a puzzle that refuse to fit together. I ache in places no six year old should ache: I tell myself I just fell playing and I forgot. There’s blood in my underwear; no, there’s not, I whisper to myself and I throw the underwear away. I deny anything that doesn’t fit. Anything I can’t come up with at least a half-assed explanation for, I deny. I have bruises on my legs and on my hips; I tell myself I must have struck myself in my sleep. I feel like I want to die. I can’t explain that, but it’s too overwhelmingly powerful to deny, so I seek a way to fulfill my wish.

I get a knife from the kitchen. I go to my hiding place in my toy room. It’s around a corner, so THEY won’t see me if THEY come downstairs. The amount of toys in here is really out of control. I don’t need or want this many toys, I think to myself. But years later I guess that’s how THEY justified THEMSELVES—THEY would spoil me to make up for the abuse.

I don’t know much about the circulatory system, don’t know about vulnerable veins and arteries, but I know about gravity. So I hack away at my hands. I think that if I slash them up enough, all the blood will slowly run out and I will bleed to death. I smile at the thought. It hurts and it’s wonderful. I see the blood run out and it’s lovely. I want more pain and more blood and to get closer to bleeding out so I slash up the tops of my feet.

All of a sudden, I don’t feel like I need to die anymore. The blood and the pain were all I needed for enough relief to not die. I wipe the tear tracks off my face and I wait for the bleeding to stop so I can put on socks. I wash the knife and my hands off in the bathroom sink and put the knife back where it belongs like a good girl. When THEY see my hands, I tell THEM I don’t know what happened; that I just woke up like this; that I must have done it in my sleep. THEY don’t really care, so THEY don’t push it. As I sit at the breakfast table, barely tasting what I’m eating, only one thought is clear: I’m so glad these chairs have cushions on them; I must have fallen hard.

My eyes well up with tears as I allow myself to remember more than I ever have. It’s the thought about the cushions that does it. I thought I’d forgotten that bit. Apparently my memory isn’t that kind.

Maybe the fact that I remember is a kindness though. Because if I can remember it, I can eventually cope with it. Because of the fact that I can cope with anything, I like to think of myself as a force of Nature. Maybe that’s a little egotistical, but anyone who can survive and cope with this rubbish is definitely a force of Nature in my book. And this is my book.

As I remember HIS whispered words, It’s okay, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you and the classic, I will kill you if you tell, my heart thumps loudly and my hands shake. Hell, my whole body shakes. I get a cigarette and smoke half of it. It calms me, but not much. It’s times like these that I don’t feel like a force of Nature at all. I don’t feel like much of anything, really. I feel like a hollow shell of a human being. Like a doll. Like a corpse. I feel like the little girl I was who died that night. I feel like I did after HE murdered me.

No, I’m alive, but the little girl is dead. That’s why they call rape soul murder. But it’s less like dying every day, and more like a snake shedding her skin and having newer, tougher scales. I like comparing myself to a snake. I don’t like the biblical version of them; sneaky, treacherous, devious. I like my version of them; beautiful, powerful survivors. Snakes really are lovely creatures; they’re all smooth and shiny and underneath is pure, hard muscle. Not like humans. Most of us are soft skins filled with jelly and water. Vulnerable, damageable, and damnably weak.

So I think of myself as a snake; gorgeous and smooth with no scars—hard scales covering raw strength, with the ability to curl up and hide, and the power of a deadly strike if necessary. No deep emotions, no conscience, just pure instinct. Snakes do whatever it takes to survive. That’s a tattoo I’m going to get someday: Whatever it takes. Because no matter how I feel right now, in my mind, I am a force of Nature and a consummate survivor. And I rarely get credit for surviving from anyone but myself. So if it sounds conceited, well, you’re entitled to your wrong opinion and ignorance, I guess (no offense though; I’ll explain what I mean in a minute). Because it’s cathartic, writing this all out. Even the bit about how I see myself. A strong, deadly-if-need-be, beautiful snake. With the ability to protect myself at all times; that’s what I dream about. Because in my nightmares, I fight back against my attacker. I. Always. Fight. But I’m physically incapable of landing a kick or a punch; not one blow. I try to run and find my legs too weak to carry me away.

***Later***

I’m listening to comforting music, writing, smoking, and cutting myself up. I don’t recommend those last two to anybody. Seriously. Don’t smoke and don’t hurt yourself. My justifications for smoking and cutting are stupid and hardly water-tight. I’m hurting myself and it’s not healthy. But the writing and the music are. Someday, I think I’ll be able to give up the smoking and cutting. I’ll be scarred, inside and out, but I’ll survive, like I always do.

Back to the if it sounds conceited, you’re wrong and ignorant thing though. I honestly don’t mean that in an offensive way. I just mean that if you think rape survivors thinking of ourselves as forces of Nature because we survived one of the worst things someone can do to another person, then you just don’t get it and we don’t want to hear it.

Because we envy you. You, who doesn’t get it. Who has never had someone violate you in the most intimate way. Who has never had your choice taken from you in that way. Who doesn’t have to relive it daily. Who has never woken from nightmares screaming, No! Stop! Please! or just a long, unbroken scream. Who has never woken from nightmares thinking that you’re about to be raped, thinking that your whole life was just a dream to cope and you’re six years old in your childhood bedroom and HE is going to come in and drug you and rape you. You, who doesn’t have to deal with the guilt and the shame and the anger and the bloodlust and the stigma and the hatred (of ourselves and/or of our assaulter). You, who doesn’t have panic attacks or anxiety attacks. Who doesn’t wake up not knowing where you are or who you are.

Don’t get me wrong, we don’t want you to get it. Not really. Because you have to live through it to get it. And we don’t wish this on you. We just don’t want to think about it. And you calling us names or questioning us or even touching us can remind us. So, if we tell you that we think of ourselves as forces of Nature, as strong, powerful, majestic, beautiful, mighty survivors you should really just agree. And we won’t tell you you’re wrong and ignorant or anything similar.

I smoke another cigarette even though I know I shouldn’t. Everyone says that even though it’s bad, it’s at least better than cutting. I disagree. Smoking will kill me. Damage my internal organs and everything else in my body. Cutting will temporarily damage my skin. Granted, it’s still bad, but, come on. You do the math. Really, I think it’s the visual: no one wants to see the cuts and scars because:

1) They’re not exactly pretty

2) They speak of deep emotional pain and suffering

People don’t know how to deal with that, seeing someone’s emotions carved into their skin and being completely helpless to do anything about it, so they stigmatize and stereotype. Oh, she’s just being an attention whore, it’s a cry for help, he’s crazy, she’s just emo, it’s a trend, it’s a fad it’s a phase. Bull. Shit.

Smoking, on the other hand, is cool, easy, accessible, and acceptable. Hell, it’s social. No one ever says, hey, wanna step outside for a few cuts? And I hope no one ever does, but, again, come on. It’s social and cool to pollute the environment and slowly kill yourself and others, but God forbid I cut my personal arm in the privacy of my own home and you have to see the scars. #SorryNotSorry. Just deal with it. Because cutting means that I can’t deal with it. So you need to step up until I can.

I finally decide I’m done cutting for now and clean my arm. The peroxide audibly fizzes and it stings. The alcohol stings worse. But I like it.

***A few hours later***

I’m cutting again. Just seven or eight slashes. Not bad, really. I used to cut up to six times a day, with at least fifty cuts per session. I’m recovering from an addiction. Most people don’t seem to get that. Some people don’t even acknowledge cutting as an actual addiction. But it is. The pain, the blood, the endorphins, the risk, the adrenaline, the control. It’s addictive. Sometimes I create a little pattern or something. Make it pretty. Sometimes I do words. Four times, I’ve done words. I’ll explain tomorrow. I need to go to bed.

12/22/15

I get up at midnight. On purpose. That’s strange, right? I mean, I don’t have a job with weird hours or anything, I just like to go to bed at about 3:00 pm and wake up at midnight. It’s because of my PTSD (that’s post-traumatic stress disorder). My nightmares aren’t as bad if I go to sleep when it’s light out and wake up when it’s dark.

My friend, Georgia, texts me and I go over to her house. I consider reading to her what I’ve written so far, but I know the bit about the cutting will upset her, so I rule it out, for now. She hates it when I cut. This isn’t her story, so I won’t share her reasons beyond the fact that she loves me and doesn’t want me to hurt myself. She’s like a second mother to me. I call her my mom away from mom because she’s around my mom’s age and has kids so she knows how to mother me almost like my mom does. Seriously, Georgia and my mom should get together and have tea sometime. They’d love each other.

After Georgia’s, I go over to my friend, Corey’s house and read him what I’ve got; the bit about the cutting doesn’t phase him because he’s just one of those people. He’s seen so much that nothing phases him (except gay stuff sometimes, so it’s pretty funny to mess with him like that; he’s not homophobic; I think it’s just a generational thing—in the time he’s from, it’s not the kind of thing you talked about). He always tells me how clever and intelligent I am though. That’s probably one of the reasons I like him so much. No, my dear reader, I’m