Lost Bet

I didn’t want to write this, I just had the balls to do it and keep my own promises. So again, I am writing this not because I want to, because I lost a bet with myself and God knows I don’t want to talk about any of this crap. Enjoy.

 My name is Iris Rae. My real name is symbolic of a gentle white wave. Simple. Clean. Pure. Oh the irony…I have been raped more times than I remember, which brings me to the whole point of writing this. I am not writing this because I think I am some narcissistic hipster douche with an Irish tongue (although I may look like one), but my story has inspired people to stay alive. This is a story about slavery, poverty, homelessness, loss, and pain that happily ends in strength, rebirth, and healing in a journey to move forward. It is entirely possible to build yourself as evidenced by the following infamous laws of physics- The Law of Conservation of Mass and The First Law of Thermodynamics. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed, whether it’s physical, mental, or spiritual energy.

I have always been very close to water. Water is life and I need it like the air I breathe and the blood that surges in my veins like a pack of rabid wolves. Swimming helped me feel pure again. I remember the bottom of the deep end when you can’t breathe and you’ve hit the very bottom. It takes every ounce of strength in your body to push off the bottom and kick your way back up. The cool rush of air flooding each capillary as you emerge from the aqueous barrier is rewarding in itself, but it’s emerging from the amniotic sac of pain and torment is what feels so empowering. Rebirth.

But I’m not some selfish emo that likes to bitch. There is a point to this and of course it has to do with you. Why else would you read this? Why would anyone ever pay attention to anything if it can’t at all be relatable to the self? YOU are your own infinity and your story is limitless. When it comes down to it, it’s all Matrix shit and the worst pains I know (the 10/10 or even 12/10) are all mental. And this is why I became a nurse. I want nothing more than to help others push their feet off the gritty bottom off the shittiest pool. I won’t carry you, but I’ll tell you a story. 

Start Here and Share Your Story Too

I write this amidst hangover from an overdose. Beauty lies within knowledge; of what can save you and what can destroy you. It took all the strength I had the night before to only take enough to fall asleep and stop crying; to not reenact my almost flawless suicide attempt nearly a year ago that gently soothed me until I stopped breathing. I write this because I have no hope for the future but I know you do, and I have it for you too. What’s wrong with a little utilitarianism here? That’s why I am about to graduate nursing school and become a psych nurse, but I need a little support too.  Please read this and comment back if this has influenced you in any way so that I may feel human again. And though I cannot feel it, I send you love in this letter so that you can feel human too.

For the sake of this, my name is Iris Rae. I have severe post-traumatic stress disorder that later blossomed into multiple personality disorder, anxiety, depression, and rape-trauma syndrome. I am one of two people at my school ever to survive the prestigious nursing program I am so graciously a part of… while living out of their car/in a drug house. I still remain anonymous to most of this in my community and try to blend in as much as possible, which isn’t hard because I literally feel numb all the time. Yes, all the time. I hope to one day feel love again so that hope may resurface once more. I was born into a sheltered life as an only child where abuse was normalized and I swiftly followed suite throughout childhood and adolescence. In hopes to get away from my abusive father, I decided to date my best friend (the son of our town’s police chief) who later raped me for a few years until I was able to safely escape.  The worst of it was how a lot of people knew and didn’t say anything because I couldn’t press charges. Hush money was paid in order to keep this ordeal quiet.  I gained a lot of weight in order to look less appealing. This certainly helped, but I grieve the loss of my purity, innocence, and beauty I once had.  There is beauty in the strength and wisdom I have gained, but it will never compare to the youth I had stripped away from me so young.

A rugged sedan became my quarters for a year and a half; even in the heartless blizzards that kiss the Great Lakes each year.  Maybe I took up the noble profession of nursing to also make up for what I am not proud of becoming; a thief and a slut. At times when I was most desperate, I did have to steal food and exchange sex for shelter. The battered women shelters around here are always full and cannot accept any more ladies. Any irony they send these women to the shitty little hotel downtown that is famous for drugs, bedbugs, and prostitution?

I am on a waitlist to get into one of the nation’s top trauma rehabilitation facilities in Maryland because I remain un-medicated and unsupervised in the medical community. The facility gave up my placement a few weeks ago because I couldn’t make it there from my hometown with a 24 hr. notice.     I KNOW HOW FUCKED UP THE MENTAL HEALTH SYSTEM IS. That’s why I plan on being a part of the solution, but I need your help. I have been asking for help for a while, but there is nothing locally for me.  Trust me, I want nothing more than to dive into illicit substances and alcohol so that I may feel something again in hopes that my suicide may look like an accident as it did last year, but I have remained sober until today.  I pray that all of us feed off each other’s strength in our time of need and can function as a hydra; multiple branches will grow in place as one branch is cut from the head.  Join me on this journey to find hope again and to feel light amidst the darkness. I want to hear your story too. #thisismyfightsong

I love you and stay strong.

Always ~Iris Rae