How are you, REALLY.

terrible

How in the world do I let myself get talked into this shit. Of all days, when I’m not feeling fantastic… along comes a big old opportunity to be honest. Which is kind of my favorite drug. So few people are honest anymore, that I relish being described as being painfully so.

I joined the #terriblewritingclub because I am completely in love with the podcast. 

The question for today is: HOW ARE YOU, REALLY?????

How am I?

It’s a funny thing to consider answering that, honestly. So I’m going to.

I’m writing a victim impact statement for my rapists release from prison. How’s your day going?

In the midst of smiling pretty and playing nice, I’ve been rehashing horror and reconciling some of my hang-ups in how they relate to being violated. I love rough sex. It only gets difficult to admit when people attribute it to my being raped.

It isn’t fair to steal my vices because he stole my innocence and I shouldn’t have to apologize for being healthy in spite of being handed every reason not to be. I shouldn’t have to feel guilt in any sexual moment because he stole those moments from me.

Every single syllable is being picked apart and I’m ready to throw in the towel and refuse to participate. I want to wear a Burka. I don’t want to see him and I don’t want him to ever get to see pain on my face, again. I haven’t seen him in over a decade and I don’t want him to be able to recognize me. Part of it is always the fear that he’ll come find me again.

Part of me will forever be carrying that poor, broken 15 year old girl.

I’m waking up to anxiety attacks and the temptation to sign up for shooting lessons. Re-reading the notice that he has family in the area and will be free to visit them. Shopping for Bullmastiffs and a gate for my driveway in the hopes of refusing to be afraid.

So I don’t know if I’m going to finish it or not, because I’ve spent enough years on one horrific week and it’s taking a toll on me.

I think if I had to describe how I am though? I’d say… healthy. I communicate well. I always choose kindness, first. I’m a blessing in the lives of the people I love, including my own. I’m definitely running low on faith these days. I don’t believe in anything much anymore, beyond what I’m personally capable of delivering.

Which is probably why I’m still plugging away at this godforsaken letter…

this

30 Days of Truth, Day 4

30 Days of Truth-Day 04 – Something you have to forgive someone for.

Yikes… this may be more than anyone wants to read. WTF was I thinking in agreeing to all this self introspection for the world to see? At any rate. I promised. I’m painfully honest… and I believe that any time you share your own story, you have the opportunity to help someone else share theirs.

I’m a rape survivor. I was 15, and he was a friend of the family. Close friend actually. I didn’t tell my mom for a while because I knew how devastated she’d be on so many different levels. She’d sent me to New York for a week to stay with Jeff. Thinking he was going to show me the big city. I know she didn’t know what she was sending me into- I know she still feels horrible.

When I got back from New York, I fought and fought with her about every single thing, and ended up getting really sick. When I finally told her I think she probably thought I was losing my mind. I may have been. It was so much to tell and so much easier if I didn’t. Telling made it real…and it opened cans of worms I didn’t want to open.

I had to be interviewed by a detective… and had to be absolutely precise in every detail, down to the color of my panties. It was awful. I kept trying to skip over things, and my mom was sitting in the room, sobbing. They finally had her leave, which made it a lot easier. I refused the physical exam. Thank God- the day had been bad enough at that point.

I wanted to put it behind me, not talk about it. My mom put me in counseling. Which was more boring than anything I can even describe. Putting it behind me worked a lot better- and I think part of growing up in a family with open communication meant I never thought it was my fault. I always knew it was his failing- even if I was the one who ultimately was affected by it.

I moved on… with a few scars… for sure. I can’t stand facial hair… because he had it. The sensation of facial hair on my neck or my face or my thighs… makes me want to throw up. Which sucks. Damn it. I don’t like having a life long scar from him. It frustrates me….not to mention the men in my life who are slaves to the razor.

Certain Beatles songs too… I can’t hear them…so I just avoid the Beatles entirely.

I’m incredibly forgiving and have never been one to hold a grudge. With the exception of Jeff. He stole my childhood in a lot of ways. I wrote him one ranting angry letter, once, on the urging of my counselor. I don’t know if she mailed it- I never heard from him after he was arrested.

Part of growing up is learning how things can affect you but they don’t have to change you. I can forgive him for almost everything. I’m pretty happy- pretty successful- and love clean shaven men better anyway.I forgive him for violating my trust and the trust of my mother.

But damn him for ruining the Beatles.