Caution: Personal and very raw adult content below. 

I’ve always been fascinated with the relationship between trauma and art.

As a survivor of sexual assault, finding my masculinity has taken a winding, and often frighteningly lonely, journey. It was finding this group of women that gave me permission to begin expressing my own brand of “man.” It was during the time that we spent waiting for rain to pass, or meeting at 4:30 AM and waiting on the Sun to rise, where I was able to listen to their voices and ultimately discover mine.

This series of photos and the accompanying poetry was fueled by my desire to break free from—and set down—weight that I had been carrying for over 15 years.

Hi.
My name is Nick,
and I hurt people.

But, that’s not a fair place to start.

Let’s find Pensacola, Florida.

1999.

When I first saw that piece of broken mirror that was missing that tooth.
That mirror that looked like that one kid.
It even spoke with his charmingly childish southern drawl.

1999!

When I first felt my insides being pressed into.
When I thought: “This isn’t what I expected it to feel like…”
I mean, it’s not as if a boy sits around and wonders what age he’ll be when he wakes up with his arms tied in bed sheets.

Children don’t imagine their legs being bound to a box-spring.

They don’t lay in fields and imagine what life will feel like after “that one thing” sweeps through and erases all of the primary colors.

Let’s talk Pensacola!

1999.

When they leaned that box-spring against the wall.
When they knew I’d taken too much.
When they took my words to heart—and felt insulted when I called them “hick cow-fuckers”
and then raped me with that wooden plunger handle.

Let’s start there!

Let’s start with those 40 minutes.

With the most painful 700 ft walk to the night watchman when I asked for an ambulance as blood ran down my balls, soaked through the underwear that still had my last name written on the waistband, then fell to the floor, painting the picture that would represent “friendship” for the rest of my life.

There were 22 pieces of wood lodged in my rectum, like little seeds that had been planted inside of my body for the sake of some strange experiment that was being done to see if we could actually grow a “hatred” tree inside of a human.

I was scared.
No, I am scared!
Master Chief said “Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell.”
He said if I ran, they’d follow me; and they have.

The Bullies.

All of them:

Self-Doubt.

Fear.

The stories I hear and tell about myself.

It’s them, there watching, when sex feels like pain.

When joy feels like pain.

When love feels like punches!

But, I have new tools.
I have roots now.
I can stand again, with both feet in their respective homes on the surface of my Mother.

I can say,

“Listen here, Mr. Master Chief! Fuck you and your shiny shoulders!”

You and your slimy confidence that made me itch.

I’ve won.
I learned how to write.
I found my voice and its fists.

I found my tribe,
and we bend ourselves in the sunshine.

 

 

 

 

Author: Nick Brilla

Editor: Renée Picard

Images: all images in this post are the author’s own