Tender: behind the pod

“My name is Roia Atmar, and—in my after—I made it a mission that other women find proof of their own. Proof that there is no uncomplicated route, that fear and shame lives in the most dubious of places, even still. That abuse does not end with the last lighting of a match, with the last foul insult, with the last bellow of a man—or ten—as they stand on the dusty steps of a court, the same court where women wanting nothing more than justice stand, holding space for any semblance of pride they can muster. Women that fight for their very own afters.”

“Abuse grows where love once could have. Interpersonal violence is a double-edged sword. And this, this tense and dangerous phenomenon, makes any sort of court proceeding incredibly hard. A webbed thing. The end, or so it seems, of a terrible, loveless promise.”

“Working in the sector, and simultaneously existing as a survivor, means being looked at: being perceived, even if the woman on the other end of the line, or sitting before you, isn’t aware of your past. It means being an image of recovery, whether that image feels fully-formed or not.”

“Over the span of my life, I had to get my nose re-pierced five times. It was a no-brainer: I was obviously going to do it. And, in a way, there was something quite powerful and commanding about my body’s insistence when it came to healing itself. Just this time, they were my wounds: and the sort that allowed me to bedazzle myself, time and time again, bleeding but adorned.”

“Given the way my burns creeped over my neck and side, it meant I physically wasn’t able to move in certain ways. I was a walking, talking, breathing conundrum of sorts: presented with this hopeful newfound agency having just left my abuser, but still restricted entirely by his doing, a prisoner in my body.”