Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table
--From “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot
There is a particular tragedy of medicine, wherein a patient destined for an operation can be paralyzed, but not anesthetized. As the procedure commences, she is aware of every mark, word, and cut of the surgeon. She is spared no measure of pain. Unable to speak, unable to move, she endures a nightmare the rest of us cower merely to consider.
What would such a person say upon regaining her voice?
Would you have the courage to listen?
A survivor of domestic abuse has been the silent, incapacitated victim of profound torment. No surgeon expects his patient to walk away remembering every snip and each stitch, much less raise an outcry over it. No abuser expects his victims to break free, much less gain the incredible strength necessary to speak out.
Eliot’s Prufrock never finds the words he needs, focused as he is on everything outside himself he can’t control. His is, however, an autonomous, presumably capable adult, so this renders him pathetic, not sympathetic.
A child has no such fortune.
Similar to Prufrock, I spent my childhood staring at evening sky, but this was because I had no alternative. I would lose myself in daydreams and skyscapes because I could not expect to wake up and break free from the torture table. My surgeon was not incompetent, but malicious and intentional—and, as far as I knew, the world outside his operating room did not exist.
Prufrock’s mermaids1 had no time for me, either. Even after the surgeon had left, I knew that if I dared to wake up, I would drown. And not just me: my younger siblings and my mother also “lingered in the chambers of the sea.” I was still their only anchor, helpless and insufficient though I was, and I was surrounded by merfolk who didn’t understand why I wouldn’t stay.
It was drowning, itself, that woke me up: a deluge of physical, relational, psychological, and spiritual symptoms that all came crashing down together. I came to a place of utter helplessness and desperation. Because I had nothing else to lose, I stared unflinchingly at my abuse and finally saw it fully for what it was.
I wasn’t a mermaid. I’d always had legs. I belonged on dry land, and with my voice intact.
My abuser had left me for dead: a bloody carcass, silent and unmoving. Instead, I became a walking, talking cadaver. I knew the truth of who I was, the torment I had been through, and I would tell the world.
Just picture Disney rebooting The Little Mermaid with zombies, and you’re on the right track.