It is the thing that has shaped my life and from which I will never recover. I will survive. I am a survivor and a warrior, slaying the memories that haunt me, that can drive me, that can pull me to the ground and cover me with darkness.

It is also the shape of that which I pleasure myself with, loving it and hating it at the same time. As I sigh with each orgasm, I hate myself for enjoying the thing that was used against me for so many years, that was flaunted in my face as a child, and the thing that stole more than my innocence.

And you, who carry it as a weapon, as the thing that makes you superior, you don’t know dick. You don’t stick around to see the aftermath of your actions, nor do you care. Your dick is a mantle of power over those who are weaker, more vulnerable than you. It is that which amuses you and, you think, dictates who you are...but...you don’t know dick.

There is some truth to the saying, “a man’s brain is in his dick.” Yet not every man, and I say this to convince myself. I cannot know what is in every man’s mind. I have been a victim, swayed by my own experiences. I carry my prejudice as a shield to the war I fight every day. There are those who tell me that it is the past, I need to move on. You don’t know dick.

As I wash that rubbery ‘toy,’ feeling its weight, its shape in my hands, I am disgusted with myself. Ironic, isn’t it? Judge me, talk about me behind my back, criticize me. You cannot do it as much as I have to myself. You cannot know the confusion, the self loathing, nor the pain that exists in just being who I am. But I am a survivor. I am the heroine of my world. Know it. Believe it. And those of you who continue to wield it as a weapon, as a power greater than the weak; those of you who continue to judge PTSD and the struggle of living with it, let me be the first to say to you,

You Don’t Know Dick.

Filled with dread, I tremble at the coming of the dark. With the settling of the night, I listen, waiting for the sound that will break its silence. My eyes stare into the shadows, waiting. Do I dare to hope he may not come? And then I hear him, his footsteps silent to all but me. My body tenses, like a fist. I am never prepared for what I know will happen.

He slithers into my room, and the touch of his hand on my shoulder fills me with disgust.

”Wake up,” he whispers. “I want you.”

At first, I feign sleep, but he is insistent. “No,” I whine. “I don’t want to.”

”Come on Theresa, just one more time; I promise.”

I do not trust his pledge, for he has sworn it many times. Sighing, I get out of bed to follow him; fear makes my stomach churn with nausea. We go to the living room, far from the rest of the family. Ironically, we sit on the loveseat. I have come to abhor its rusty color and rough fabric. It represents a never ending nightmare.

He demands a kiss, pressing his mouth against mine so hard it hurts. As his hands begin to roam forbidden places, reality falls away and I hide within the corridors of my mind. I feel nothing; I will not remember. I did not learn to dissociate; it was a gift to me from the universe. I don’t call on it to deliver me from the trauma; it simply pulls me into its safety.

Eventually, he leads me back to my bed, and he grins. There is evil in his eyes as he sniffs my stolen innocence on his fingers. Hatred stirs within the very core of my being. It is not for him, but for me - I believe that I am being punished for merely existing. I cannot tell; the shame and the guilt is too heavy. I have been ignpored by a society that is run by men. Therefore, in this agonizing silence, I blame myself; my brother becomes my enemy. He is the one who is successful, while I remain, even now, locked in the prison of his lie.