A week ago, I published my debut poetry collection, Rainlily. It is my pride and joy, practically like a child to me, and seeing so many of my friends and family open their hearts and minds to it has brought me unspeakable happiness. There is so so SO much I want to say about this book- about how this beautiful thing that is everything I've ever dreamed of actually came about from a place of pain.
I suppose it all started March of my junior year of high school. It was, without a doubt, the worst month of my life. It was a few months after my suicide attempt, and I was still adjusting to taking anti-depressants, when my life completely fell apart. What happened the first few days of March is something that I still can't speak of because of how greatly it still hurts me. I was a wreck, completely hollowed out, and I wanted nothing more than to die. The abusive boyfriend I was dating at the time took advantage of the state I was in and sexually assaulted me one day after school.
That day, and the months that followed, are a completely blur to me. Recently I've learned that it can be common for survivors of trauma to have some kind of memory loss over the traumatic experience. That's what happened to me- for a long time, what took place in that bathroom existed in my mind only as brief fragments of pain and cold and fear, and I was too numb, and dealing with too many stressful things, to worry about it in the moment. The memories didn't start to come back until a few months later, in the summer. As my mental health started to improve and I prepared to leave the high school I was attending to get away from my ex-boyfriend, pieces of my assault started to form in my memory. It wasn't like some sudden epiphany, but a very gradual dawning that took place over years- even now I still don't think I have all the pieces.
That is when I started to write poetry in earnest. I don't know why I started originally, but coming to the realization of how abusive my ex had been and how he had assaulted me, poetry became a catharsis for me. At the same time, it was also more. Writing about it almost helped the memories free themselves, little by little- the more I wrote, the more I remembered, and the sooner I could start accepting what I had experienced. And so I wrote poem after poem, and believe me, they absolutely sucked, but what mattered most to me then was being able to live my truth and begin to heal.
At the time, one of the only contemporary poets I knew of was Rupi Kaur, and although I wasn't a big fan of her writing style, I thought it was admirable that she shed light on her own trauma and experiences and through it inspired her readers. I thought to myself, I could do that. The idea to write my own poetry book began to form in my mind, and once I come up with an idea, I'm hooked. And so, over the course of the next year or so, I began to write about my experiences, and not just with the assault and abuse, but also about my depression and anxiety, my family, my childhood traumas, my bitter-sweet relationship with lexapro.
The first poem I wrote with a book in mind was "Missed Call," and if you read my book you'll find that it's still there. Around the time I began college, I was convinced I was finished with my book. At that time, it was titled Fever Dreams, it ended only on "The Building With Turquoise Doors," and much of it was absolutely fucking terrible. The problem with this book was, I was writing my story while I was simultaneously living it- I had no idea where it was supposed to end. I decided to hold back on officially declaring it "finished," and I am so glad I did.
During my first semester at ASU, I signed up for a poetry workshop on campus on a whim. Through it, I learned how to write and edit my poems betters, how to perform my poetry, but most importantly, it opened the doors for me to the greater literary community. I discovered the thousands of amazing lit mags out there, just waiting to hear my words, and all the indie presses that published beautiful chapbooks and collections. Thus, I found a new obsession in trying to get my work out there by continuing to improve my own writing, read other poets, and submit my work to lit mags all over the world.
As my writing improved, so did my manuscript for Rainlily- and I was determined to finish it and see it published by a press.