Anatomy

Anatomy of Survival

People think survival is something you just do, an instinct, something that kicks in when life backs you into a corner. They don't tell you that survival can feel like a punishment, a sentence you didn't ask for but are forced to carry out, day after day, breath after breath.

After that night, survival became a bitter taste in my mouth. I could feel the weight of it in every reluctant step I took, every forced breath I drew.

Survival was no longer a choice; it was an obligation, a silent command I had to obey. 

The morning after, I remember looking at my reflection, the pale skin, the empty stare, wondering who that girl was, staring back at me. The bruises were gone, but I could feel them beneath the surface, hidden in places no one could see.

There's a strange thing about surviving trauma—it strips away the comfortable edges of reality, leaving you stranded in a place where everything feels too sharp, too real. 

Every sound, every glance, every touch feels like an intrusion. I found myself withdrawing, shrinking into the safest corners I could find, always watching, always on edge. I began to notice things other people didn't—the quick glances, the whispers, the way people looked away as if they couldn't bear to see me. Survival made me invisible and hyper-visible all at once, a contradiction that ate away at me.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I was okay. I went through the motions, did what people expected of me, plastered on a smile that felt like it was cracking at the seams. I filled my time with books and music, throwing myself into the words of writers who seemed to understand what I was going through, even if I didn't. 

Literature was a lifeline, a connection to people who had felt what I was feeling, who had been shattered and put themselves back together in ways I couldn't yet fathom. I found comfort in stories of tragedy and triumph, clinging to them like they held the answers to questions I couldn't even put into words.

But survival, real survival, wasn't as simple as turning the page. It wasn't something I could understand through someone else's story. I realized that the fight to survive wasn't a battle I could wage in silence. And yet, silence was all I knew, the only armor I had. Telling someone meant reliving it, peeling back the layers of carefully placed scar tissue I'd built up just to function.

I went to a party once, a year after everything happened. I told myself I was ready, that I could handle it. But as soon as I walked in, I felt it—that tightening in my chest, the dizzying rush of memories. The crowd, the laughter, the dim lights, all of it spun around me like a whirlwind, dragging me back to that place I'd tried so hard to forget. I lasted ten minutes before I bolted out the door, my heart pounding, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. 

The truth was, survival had made me a stranger to myself, a ghost haunting the edges of my own life.

Sometimes I wonder if survival is worth it, if the girl I was before all this would even recognize me now. She was bold, unafraid, unapologetic. She laughed without restraint, loved with abandon, believed the world was a place worth exploring. But that girl was gone, replaced by someone who flinched at the touch of a stranger, who second-guessed every step, who wore her survival like a scar she was too ashamed to show.

The thing is, no one warns you that survival is lonely.

People see you still breathing, still functioning, and they assume you're okay. They don't see the struggle, the way each day feels like walking through quicksand. I wanted to scream, to shake them and tell them that just because I was alive didn't mean I was living. I was surviving, yes, but it felt like I was barely holding on, a paper-thin version of the person I used to be.

In history class, we learned about survival stories, tales of people who faced unimaginable horrors and came out on the other side stronger. I used to admire those people, marvel at their resilience. But now, I understand that survival isn't about strength. It's about endurance, about holding on even when everything inside you is screaming to let go.

Survival is messy, ugly, full of moments where you wonder if it's worth it. And yet, here I am, writing these words, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, putting it down on paper will help me make sense of it all.