I couldn't even make it two weeks on the lithium. I knew that there would be tradeoffs. I knew I was sacrificing my character for my safety. I did not anticipate that I would lose my intelligence. That my thoughts would dissolve as quickly as I produced them. That I would spend hours looking for my keys, only to get distracted and go into a trance, glancing at the clock and wondering how the time slipped past me. That I would often lose control of my jaw and would not realize my mouth was gaping open until I walked past a mirror. That the lack of emotion would not follow me to bed and my dreams would be filled with terror and sorrow. That I would lose the ability to read and write. That mania would still occur, it just would not be as pretty. That the sadness would come in as crashing waves, rather than a steady stream to wade through.
But I felt alright. For the first time in my life, I felt just alright.
is about my parents.
I always knew. But I didn't expect it to come out so bluntly from a complete stranger.
"Does this run in the family?"
Every breakup song sounds so familiar. Not because I was dumped, or because someone just doesn't fit with me. But because I'm saying goodbye to her. To the beautiful times. To the long nights of writing my novel or screenplay, or painting my masterpiece. To putting my wallet, keys, and phone on the top cabinet out of reach. To sex with strangers. To superpowers. To the only person who said "You can do anything."
I get my meds on tuesday.
I'm not ready to say goodbye.
I can't stop crying.
I'm afraid of who I am without her.
But I have to kill my character before she kills me.
Babies Full of Babies
Fucking in the place I was raped didn't make me any less raped. But it helped the sad, scared, little girl with dread locks, smoking cigarettes in the band room. Fucking there held her lifeless hand. It gave her control over her life for a few seconds.
I saw her in there. Her dead eyes staring back at me. She whispered. I couldn't hear her. She touched the glass, I withdrew. She walked across the football field and laid down, secrets crawling beneath her frosted skin. I couldn't help her. Her tiny, frail body was still too heavy. I couldn't convince her mother to love her. I couldn't find her brother. I couldn't face her father. I couldn't drive her to the police station, begging them to take this seriously. I couldn't brush through the matted, curly hair that she would cut off the next day.
So I fucked for her. I showed her that it didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to define her. She might not ever be the person she could have been, but she would gain the control she longed for. She would be her own person. She would make her own decisions. Even if she was wrong, the choice was hers.
I'm sorry, Sea Biscuit. I wish I could have been the adult you needed. I'm not going to tell you they care about you because they don't. I'm just going to tell you that all adults are imperfect, and I'm sorry they brought you into this world.
When people ask me "How do I learn to trust again?" the answer is simple.
The same way you learned to believe in Santa again.
Trust, as we once knew it, is a myth that we believed during a simpler time. Age and experience tells us that people lie, cheat, and steal. People are imperfect. They do not always meet our expectations. We know this through experience. We can still trust people, but not the way we used to. It frightens us that we cannot return to the naive comfort of believing in others.
Instead of asking "How do I learn to trust again" ask yourself "How do I learn to comfort myself when I am unable to trust?"
What's the point of being smart if no one will ever take me seriously?
I have to have my ideas translated by Cutey McBabyvoice to get my point across because nobody wants a fat, ugly woman with a deep voice to disagree with them. The 90 pound beauty with with suspiciously bouncy hair holds more weight with what she has to say because she phrases everything like a question and uses the language skills of a third grader. She isn't intimidating. She isn't threatening. She's a viable sexual candidate so she deserves respect.
Because of the way I look and speak, I am a man-hating feminazi who thinks all white men are racist. Someone half my size and a chirpy voice can convey the same ideas in a playful voice and they all calmly decide that she "might have a point but I still disagree."
I don't deserve respect because I don't know my place. I can have ideas as long as I don't take up too much space, depend on men, and pretend to be stupider than I am. My ideas will gain credibility as long as I dress to please men. I can earn respect by lacking confidence, and making suggestions, rather than just stating my opinion or saying "I disagree."
To say "I disagree" is to say "you are fucking stupid and everything I am about to say is going to piss you off so you might as well stop listening now."
Chirpy Mcbouncyhair can translate everything with a bunch of maybes, ums, and y'knows, and suddenly everyone turns to listen, nodding but not agreeing. No presumptions. She has earned their respect.
When the officer asked her where she lives, the woman motioned in front of her. She drew circles with her hands in midair. She waved frantically as far as her arms would reach.
The men tried specific terms like "residence" and "address" but the woman was not incorrect.
Perception is reality.
The police perceived the woman as part of their job. A menace to society that needed to be removed from the situation.
The beauticians saw their clients' discomfort. Disorder in their business. They saw problem that needed to be removed in order to maintain their revenue.
I saw a woman. I saw a situation that needed to be resolved before a woman fell to the floor, seizing, comatose. I saw a brain, desperately needing sugar to continue functioning as mine, as the polices', as the stylists' and their clients'.
The woman saw her life in front of her. She could not see herself and that did not matter.
We see what's in front of us but we imagine the rest to the best of our abilities. We imagine the world around us, functioning in the distance without our help. We imagine what we've done and what we are going to do. We imagine how we appear to those around us. We imagine their thoughts and feelings.
The woman, whose sugar-deprived brain prevented her from the presence most people perceive, saw only what was in front of her. For those brief moments, her eyes were her only means of vision.
Perhaps the rest of us see too much.
When I was young, I wanted to fly a kite but all the kites I bought were broken and torn up when I got them. None of them would stay in the air for very long but I'd keep trying.
Several years ago, I spent everything I had on a beautiful, new, well-constructed kite. The string broke and my beloved kite blew away. Occasionally, it would come back and I'd try to tie the strings back on but it would just blow away again.
So I bought more kites. They were cheap and broken like my early kites. They wouldn't fly high enough so I would get bored and throw them away. Sometimes I'd keep them in a closet because it was better than not having a kite at all. Sometimes I'd fly a kite once, and leave it at the park, pretending it was never my kite at all, hoping someone else would come along and give it a good home.
I always kept the strings from that kite that flew away. Now I have invested in a new kite, one just as perfect and sturdy. I just don't know what to do with the extra string.
Best Friends, Best Friends, Making a Cake
I've become incredibly lonely and depressed since Michael and I parted ways in New Mexico. I keep lamenting my lack of friends. More importantly, the lack of a best friend.
I haven't really had a long-term best friend. M was my best friend in grade school. That was easy. We were the smartest girls in class with a similar sense of humor. By seventh grade, I wasn't enough for her. She wanted to be cool. I was depressed and difficult to be around. She once referred to me as one of her "hard friends" because I had problems and she couldn't just relax and have fun with me.
At some point M got too wrapped up with her social life and extra curricular activities to be my friend and I started hanging out with her younger sister. She slowly earned the label of my best friend. We had similar personalities and interests, plus she had problems too so we spent most of our time talking about our feelings and the rest of our time goofing off and making fun of stuff.
After high school I met Chelsea. That was the weirdest relationship of all. I knew when I first saw her that I wanted to be her best friend. Somehow, despite my awkwardness, she accepted that role and we spent every waking moment together.
After our falling out, I never really found anyone to take her place. I latched on to Shannon for dear life, though I realize that she always meant more to me than I did her. Part of me always knew that but it didn't quite hit me as hard as it did the day I left her house.
At some point during Shannon's absence, I started spending time with Keli because she always had pills and weed. We also had a weird falling out when I started dating her ex. We're still on good terms but I don't really see her anymore.
When I met Michael, I started hanging out with Aracelli because we had similar life experiences. Though, like Shan and me, we too had an imbalance in our friendship. She ended up sucking the life out of me. After her, I decided I don't really need a best friend.
Then along came Zeta. Though I absolutely adore her, I couldn't relate to her the way I did with other girls. She has distinct interests that I don't always understand and I often felt like I was too shallow for her.
Then she moved.
So I have Cami. She lives a few trailers down. She's a 53 year old alcoholic that constantly bitches about her coworkers, boyfriend, and her boyfriend's son. By the end of the night, she's usually pretty plastered and I can never get a word in edgewise. A lot of times I have to hear stories three or four times because she doesn't remember telling me something the night before.
I long for a new girl. Someone like Chelsea, that I can tell from across the room that I want to be friends with her. Someone I can spend every moment of my life and share every detail of my past without judgement. Someone like Aracelli in the sense that I can escape from my roommates to just hang out and watch tv in peace while swapping stories about work, school, family, etc. Someone like Shannon who knows me so well that we can openly discuss and joke about personal hygiene and bodily (dis)functions. Someone like the entire Ford family, who always offers encouragement and compliments, even when I know I don't deserve it. Someone like Keli, who, despite her age, still has the anarchist fire in her and knows how to have a good time on a Friday night. And who I feel absolutely secure around when I'm high.
Or just Michael.
Goddamn, I fucking miss him.
I hate it that I've been avoiding my friends and extended family because I'm insecure about my weight, job, location, income, degree limbo, and shifting plans.
I feel like I make people uncomfortable with my lack of success at everything.
I want to curl up in a hole forever.
Fuck all of you.
Sometimes when I come home from work, I just sit on my bed and cry.
I realize I'm only paying $300 on rent every month but why does it have to be so noisy? Why can't the kitchen be as clean as I left it in the morning? Where the fuck did all the dirty dishes come from? I've only been gone for eight hours. Why does the TV need to be so loud? Why are there so many people in this house? Why is there so much furniture? Why are there so many cards and board games on the floor? Why do all of your friends need to come over? Why is the TV even on if you're going to sit there and discuss your role play games. WHY DOES WALTER ALWAYS HAVE TO YELL? Why don't any of you have jobs? What makes you think eating an entire gallon of ice cream is appropriate behavior for a 30-year-old? Why can't I have an hour of peace and quiet after work? Why do I have to do a sink full of someone else's dishes before I can make myself a meal or get a glass of water?
This is why I don't want kids.
I'm definitely getting to the point where I feel like people on social networking sites that preach their diet are just as bad as people who preach their religion. I've always felt this way about vegans because of the whole moral issue behind the diet. Now it seems like every one of my friends is either vegan, vegetarian, paleo, raw, organic, or something else that I haven't heard of yet.
I admit, I am fascinated with food, eating healthy, new recipes, new foods etc. However, it's getting to the point where I'm feeling attacked by certain friends. Every time I check my facebook, my feed is flooded with articles, blogs, and images, all preaching about how I should eat. Lists of reasons to go vegan or paleo.
I don't need your article to tell me that processed foods are bad. Also, not all foods suddenly turn into poison as soon as it hits a factory.
Organic foods are one item on the list of frequently preached foods. They aren't necessarily safer, more nutritious, better tasting, better for the environment, or anything that my friends claim they are. Some of them might have their benefits, but consuming only foods that are labeled organic, simply because of their reputation is daft. Preaching your diet is just plain irritating.
As far as the whole Eat Meat and Don't Eat Meat debate, just shut up. If someone is morally opposed to eating meat, or a certain kind of meat, don't assume they're protein-deprived.
And on the other side of the debate: just because someone doesn't feel as strongly about animal rights as you, it's no reason to criticize. Everyone has their own perception of morality. Maybe they focus their moral energy on something that you don't find so important. Would you want them pushing those beliefs on you? Then stop telling them that meat is murder.
I have about half a dozen friends on the paleo diet. These people are slightly less annoying than vegans and the organic freaks. They also seem to be more informed than any of my food-obsessed friends. The only problem that I have is that they constantly upload images of their meals with #paleo at the end. Some complain that a certain food does not qualify as a paleo food item.
Here's the thing. Like religion, I support your decision to maintain a certain diet. Also like religion, I don't want it rubbed in my face.
There's a sense of superiority that these people exude. For instance, if you steamed some broccoli and grilled a piece of chicken, good for you. That looks much more appetizing and nutritious than the can of Chef Boyardee I inhaled between classes. However, is it necessary to announce the name of your diet with the photo? Was it even necessary to post the photo? I mean, it isn't exactly a gourmet meal, it's two items that are pretty easy to cook that you put on a fancy plate.
I'm not just complaining about the paleo crowd in this regard. People captioning their photo "Vegan sausage with tomato sauce and gluten-free breadsticks"
Fucking great. So you just announced two of your diet restrictions just by stating the name of your dish.
I understand the desire to show off a meal that you cooked, especially if you're not known for your cooking skills. But to regularly post your meals and snacks as if it was a huge accomplishment is just kind of tacky.
I suppose this attitude comes from my mother. She has type one diabetes. Her body cannot process carbohydrates without synthetic insulin, and even with the shots, digestion is extremely difficult on her body so she has to limit her carb intake. Though there are low-carb fad diets (Atkins) and plenty of recipe books and websites for people with diabetes, my mother simply counts her carbs. She can look at an item and know whether or not she should consume it, based on how many grams of carbohydrate the item contains. If she has a meal that is high in carbs, she eats a small portion. If someone offers her candy or dessert, she politely declines. When she goes out with friends, she orders a small salad. She does not feel the need to post photos of her healthy dinner or complain to her friends that she cannot find a low-carb cheesecake recipe.
I suppose she's just a product of her time. Since she didn't grow up with social networking media, she does not have a use for it. But in addition to eating well and not sharing, she never intentionally makes others feel guilty about their decisions. She doesn't walk around handing out copies of articles about how people aren't supposed to consume so many carbs or how limiting your sugar intake will decrease the risk of diabetes. She doesn't mock others for eating fast food or point out how long it has been since she's eaten a french fry.
However, she does rub her religion in your face. I can't defend her there.
So rather than making this a guide to what to put on networking sites, I'm just going to vow to never post anything about my diet. I never discuss religion and I'm working on toning it down on the politics. So from now on, I will only post food-related information if I'm not naming a specific diet or trend. If I make food, I might post a picture, but I will not boast at how healthy or cruelty-free it is. I will not brag about how healthy I feel or act with any sense of superiority. I might make comments about how I slipped up and ate an entire turkey but I will not brag that it was farm-raised.
Though I love my friends (I would delete them from facebook if I didn't) I wish they would stop making me feel inferior about what I put into my body. Someday I will start eating healthy again, I just don't need the reminder.
New dress and headband. A ring in the mail. A delayed letter to my parents. A new job next weekend. So much to do between now and then. So much to do before July.
Is it normal to start having second thoughts after the novelty of engagement has worn off? Though, one might argue that the engagement hasn't even begun.
I'm starting to feel like a child again. Like when I logged on to this website eight years ago and announced that I was engaged. My boyfriend had proposed and I paraded around for weeks, my head held high, possessing an undeserved belief that I was so much more mature than my peers because of this silly interaction between someone as childish as I.
I wonder now, if this is just a mutual fantasy between two people who are drunk with distance. The longing has created a deeper sense of desire and we're compensating with excessive commitment.
Or maybe the distance has made us realize how much we dislike being apart.
Either way, I can't help but listen to the opinions and wandering thoughts of others, subtly suggesting that this is not a meaningful relationship, that I shouldn't trust him simply because I cannot keep an eye on him, that long-distance relationships never work and that I'm simply a dreamer for believing that some day I'll move to California and live happily ever after.
I could sit here and say that I'm different and that even though the whole situation seems like a teenage dream, our relationship is different. But then I go back to sixteen-year-old me, who sported a cheap amethyst ring, truly convinced that I would buck the odds and marry my high school sweetheart some day.
Then I think about my last relationship where we constantly talked about getting married but we broke up every other week.
I have to consider that I've been blinded by a proposal in the past, I really need to think about this one.
Yet, all the other times, there was something that wasn't quite right about the relationship, other people would say "But Ev, you cheated on him" or "But Ev, he's a complete and utter douchebag" And I'd sit there and say "I know but..."
Now, my close friends say he's nice and that they're happy for me. It's the random acquaintances that make the skeptical remarks.
I know, ignore everyone and do what I think is right. Unfortunately, I'm really confused about what I'm feeling.
I suppose I should talk to him.
Did shit just get real? I think shit just got real. That is all.
I'm so incredibly sad and lonely. I seriously don't know what to do about this.
Fizzled Spark in the Trailer Park
I haven't had a home in years. The semester I spent with Chelsea in the dorms seems more like a dream or a summer at camp before becoming an adult. It was the last time I felt secure. Small increments of time while living with Shannon felt safe and homelike.
There were two times when I went through a period of contentment and growth in that house. The first was when I had just moved in. I drove myself crazy pining for Josh. I was sad, lonely, and jealous of my friends who got to "go home" for the summer. When my feelings for him were not reciprocated, I slowly learned to embrace my loneliness. Until the chaos that occurred later that fall.
The second time was after my breakup with Chris. I basically had a three month long breakdown, an addiction to valium, vicious cycle, blah blah. All over some douchebag that I knew I shouldn't have wasted my time on to begin with. As soon as the clouds of addiction started to clear, I grew content with my living situation. I was alright with myself. I enjoyed life. Then Shan sold the house and I was forced to move into the first shithole I could afford.
Since then, I've wanted nothing more than a place to call home. I keep telling myself that when I graduate, I can stop worrying about money, find a nice place to live, and just exist with no resistance. I constantly fantasize about waking up in a bed with a real bedframe, showering in a tastefully decorated bathroom, sitting down at a vintage vanity in a bathrobe and putting on makeup, while deciding what I want to do on my day off. I think about how great it would be to clean the whole house while listening to music, not worrying if I'm bothering the roommates or whether or not the sink is going to drain after I do the dishes. Dishes. I want nice dishes so that when I cook delicious, balanced meals, I can eat off of trendy dishes, rather than some cheap set from Walmart. I long for a living room with matching furniture that I picked out myself, rather than just dealing with some ridiculously heavy, torn-up, beige hide-a-bed that my roommate refuses to part with. I want decorative towels and vintage kitchen appliances. I want a room with exercise equipment and enough space to do yoga and zumba. I want another room, or at least a closet for my craft supplies.
I'm so tired of moving place to place, throwing away clothes, furniture, and possessions like an episode of Hoarders, never replacing the things I've lost. Slowly losing more of myself with every new apartment. I don't even bother unpacking the boxes or decorating my room anymore because I know how much effort it takes to tear everything down and pack it all up again.
A mantle. I'd really like a mantle for all the wacky crap that I used to collect but had to toss over the years of downsizing.
I guess after spending a week in a strange house, I realize how much I live like I'm on vacation. Never really unpacking, just grabbing what I need before heading out. Access to the kitchen, but not actually cooking. Nothing is mine, my stuff is packed up in the spare bedroom. Except I'm not on vacation, I'm not visiting friends. I'm paying to wade through other people's crap.
I'm getting too old for this. I thought I'd make it to graduation but something has to change.
I watched The Nutcracker on PBS for a brief moment as it interrupted the program Cami and I were watching. In my drunken stupor, I believed it was Joanie fucking with me.
I lit a candle for her, as a hundred others did. I watched the dancers on the screen, remembering her breast falling out of her top as she gracefully pranced around the lobby of the senior center.
Tonight, I make no resolutions. I don't focus on the past year, the celebrities, events, or my personal misadventures. Tonight I fall asleep, dreaming about the great person the world lost one year ago.
Rest in peace, Joanie. I've missed my chance to truly know you, but you've impacted my life more than you will ever know.
I'm finally starting to understand the correlation between my menstrual cycle and the amount of Ben & Jerry's Half Baked ice cream I consume.
I always wondered if women actually crave snacky food during their period or if they just used the term "craving" as an excuse to eat like a pig once a month. I know that my chocolate intake increases when my hormones start raging. I always feel this overwhelming need to go out and buy something unhealthy or to eat an entire pizza.
When I came home from work today, my body was aching. I've been walking around with mild cramps all day, my head is killing me and I'm highly sensitive to light and sound. My heart dropped when I pulled up to the house and saw a car that belonged to the most unappealing person in my life right now.
Walter. My roommate's friend. He has a two-year-old son and his wife just had another baby a few weeks ago. I recently posted an entry about bad parents, this guy was my motivation. Part of my roommates' nerd culture involves staying up all night several times a week and playing games with friends. I don't even know if half of the people like each other or if they just hang out because they need someone to game with.
Walter brings his son over for said gaming. Instead of calling it a night and taking his family home when they get tired, his wife would sleep on the couch and his son runs around screaming until the wee hours of the morning.
I could deal with him being a shitty husband and father because it's not my problem, but the thing that kills me about Walter is he is fucking loud as hell. As soon as I walked up to the door, I could hear him shouting. Not angrily or passionately, just talking. Talking about fucking wizards and games and RPG characters and action figures and cards and comics. Everyone else is talking normally and he has to scream back.
"I WAS THINKING ABOUT HAVING D&D ON TUESDAYS INSTEAD OF THURSDAYS"
I have enough issues with my lazy ass roommate who doesn't work or clean up after himself (couldn't even manage to get dressed this afternoon) but bringing Walter into the house just makes me want to murder them all with a fucking frying pan.
Like I said, my head is pounding. I just want to take a nice shower after work, kick back and watch some shows, surf the internet and have a nice bowl of soup. But with a living room full of nerds, a sink full of dishes, kitchen table covered in magic cards and now fucking Walter yelling every thought that passes through his head, I grabbed a pint of fucking ice cream, sat in my room and ate the whole goddamn thing.
Did it make Walter stop screaming?
Is my kitchen clean now?
Do I feel better than I did before?
I grabbed the ice cream because I'm fucking fed up and I deserve a treat. When I have to spend a week feeling like shit, the only thing that provides instant relief, even a slight bit, isn't easy to pass up. People always talk about irritability and mood swings like it's a treatable symptom of PMS. I think of it more like an illness. When you have a cold, you're miserable and if someone around you is cheerful or engaging in irritating behavior, you're less likely to tolerate it. So if I'm walking around with a headache, stomach pains and a constant squishy, moist feeling in my crotch, I'm not willing to deal with people who can't keep their damn voice down. In fact, I want to scream back at him and tell him to shut the fuck up because my vagina is hemorrhaging. I want every man in this house to clean every room (quietly) and without complaining about anything because they have no way of knowing the suffering I endure once a month and therefore they should cater to my needs.
Instead, I ate a pint of ice cream.
First off, I hate the word "bully." I think it sounds juvenile. I prefer terms like "harassment" and "verbal abuse" because it captures the severity of the issue, rather than making it sound like some 90's cartoon character.
This issue with Amanda Todd has gotten everyone talking. Anonymous has tracked down the alleged asshole who drove her to do this and is publicly shaming him. I would imagine this acts as a deterrent for other potential attackers but it does not help the current victims.
I do not understand how a young girl could be moved from school to school, and suffer through such torment alone. Why did no one step in?
I understand why high school students wouldn't step in: fear. They see one person being shunned, and they don't want to be a victim themselves, so they either avoid it or they give in and become one of the tormenters.
I'm not even going to get into the whole slut shaming aspect of it because that I don't want this to turn into a term paper. But yes, slut shaming and gay shaming are probably the trickiest things to deal with in a high school because of our puritan parents and teachers. It's okay to harass someone, if they deserve it. And no one deserves it more than a teenager who is sexually aware.
I digress. I know that when you suffer in high school, you suffer alone. But we live in an age of technology and awareness so why isn't there a mentor program for teens? If Anonymous can put so much effort into tracking down some maniacal pervert, why can't they find other troubled teens and reach out to them? Why isn't there a program that I can join to mentor a teen who is going through the same hell that poor Amanda suffered? Let's face it, she's not the only one out there who has had to go through with this. We can sit there, post an image for Bully Awareness Month and feel like we did our part, but there is a high school where I live, why am I not reaching out to those students? First off, I don't know any high schoolers. I'm in college. It's creepy to hang out at high school events and say "Yo, you look troubled, wanna go out for coffee?" But why isn't Fort Hays starting an organization for college students to adopt a high schooler? I mean, sure we have Big Brothers and Big Sisters but that is for At Risk students and children from "broken homes." If the school counselor talks to a student who is troubled, sad, and lonely, they should pawn that student off to someone closer to their age. Once a week, I would gladly give up a few hours to go to Pottery Works or Gella's and just talk to a kid about their problems. I'd give that kid advice and tell them that life goes on after high school, because it does, and they won't always be that girl who showed her boobs on the internet, or the boy who asked the quarterback to prom.
How do I, in a non-creepy, semi-professional way, reach out to troubled teens? How can I prevent teen suicide?
No, seriously. Does anyone know?
I scanned the bar, looking for someone to take me home. I was lonely. My boyfriend is halfway across the country. There were no takers. After two and a half pitchers of liquor and several other mixed drinks, I walked home, looking forward to my vibrator.
There was a massive party outside of my apartment. One man pushed through the crowd to talk to me. He was charming enough, I figured I could have a quickie with him before heading home to sleep. We talked, I flirted. He knew I wanted sex.
I walked upstairs and found that I had left my keys inside. I obtained a hanger from my neighbor and went to work on the lock. The nameless face appeared and offered to help, informing me that he “used to be a crook.” I thought nothing of it until he invited himself inside. We flirted a bit more, I knew I was going to have sex with him. For a brief moment I even wanted it, mostly so that he would leave. His presence made me nervous and I regretted talking to him. I agreed to sex, informed him that I’m in a long-distance relationship, had to work early, wanted him gone by morning and that I didn’t want him to call me, ever.
Then he started to run his mouth.
We sat on my bed. As he touched me, he told me this would be the best experience of my life, multiple orgasms, blah blah blah, I’ll forget my stupid old boyfriend and he’d fuck me until morning.
Fuck that. I told him I just wanted a quickie, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, gtfo.
He told me I had to give him head, when I protested he told me I’d be so turned on that I’d be begging for it. I could tell he’d done this a million times, taken advantage of women who were extremely drunk and slightly afraid of him. The more he talked, the more I wanted him to leave. I allowed another rapist into my life.
By this time he had most of my clothes off. I never reached out to touch him. I told him I had changed my mind, I’m really tired, give me your number and we could do this another time, I’m really uncomfortable, I’m scared, I don’t want to do this.
He shushed me and proceeded to explain and repeat why this was going to be so great, how I’d be begging for more and I’ll never want it to end.
I wanted it to end right there. It crossed my mind, leave now or I’ll call the cops. But then I thought about the whole “crook” bullshit. He literally just broke into my apartment. He saw the bat and the mace by the door, he saw the knives and blunt objects surrounding us. If I pissed him off, he could easily come back another day and do a lot worse to me. Or he could kill me right then and there. He wasn’t happy when I told him I didn’t want to do this, he only grew more aggressive.
I laid back and quietly let him take me.
It was painful. It felt like my first time. Everything he said made me want to vomit, everything he did caused unbelievable pain. I stared at the ceiling, motionless, wishing he would see my discomfort and offer to stop. Instead, he ordered me around and I obeyed as if he had a gun to my head. I shook, cried, and pushed back as much as I could, this made him angry. He started calling me “crazy bitch” and other obscenities. He finally asked me if it was my first time, suddenly compassionate. He assured me that he would slow down and go easy on me, blabbing about how he would do anything to please me. His condescending bullshit made me cry hysterically. I couldn't believe that he wouldn't just stop when I was clearly upset and in pain. When the condom broke, I curled up into a ball and screamed into a pillow. He walked around my apartment, searching for the other condom that he had, telling me that he was going to fuck me so much harder this time. When he couldn’t find it, he climbed on top of me, despite my begging him not to. I started screaming and trying to fight him off of me. He finally stopped after I calmly informed him that this feels an awful lot like rape. He stood in front of me, his massive penis in my face and said: “The least you could do is give me some fucking head, you crazy ass bitch.”
I vomited all over the carpet and begged him to leave. He kissed me and touched me, reassured me that he's a good person, convincing me that I was insane for not wanting it, his last attempts to coerce me into consent.
I don’t even know how many times I apologized for “being crazy” and “starting something I couldn’t finish.”
I swore that if this ever happened, I would report it. I owe it to the fifteen year old me and to every girl who might fall victim to this asshole. I didn’t even get his name. I asked my neighbor if he knew him and he said he didn’t. I can’t explain this to the cops, a judge, a doctor, my parents, my boyfriend, anyone. All for what? An investigation that will go nowhere?
Self-pity and such.
I'm scared. Afraid to leave the house. Afraid of sex. Afraid of men. Afraid of alcohol. I could sit here and say "It's not my fault" a million times but I'm aware of the countless errors that led up to this. I should have learned my lesson by now. I pretty much feel like crying all the time. I hate myself and I want someone to tell me it's not my fault. More than anything, I desperately want to tell someone. Every time I decide to tell someone, I choke on the words and my eyes start to burn. It feels like I'm suffocating. So here you go, internet. Thank you for listening.