30 09 2011

So far today is one of the days where I’m screaming constantly inside. And its only 8 am….

The New Guy

29 09 2011

I went to my first meeting with my new counselor 30 minutes late. It was actually more like 23 minutes, but that’s really not much better. I thought it was at 1130 not 11. I have no idea why. I think I kept arguing with myself and then when I realized how late I was running I convinced myself it was 1130.  So in twenty minutes I went into all the shit I’ve been talking about on here, including how my last real counselor was way too Jesusy so when he asked me if I was okay talking with a man I answered yes, because I said, ” Honestly I wouldn’t feel comfortable as some one who identifies themselves as a Christian Counselor”, and then I mentioned how I wasn’t sure if my meds were working properly still….


The next day I got a call from him, I was in class and so he left a real long message about how he and his supervisor thought it best if I meet with a psychiatrist, too. He used the word support a great deal. I think he gathered some how that I might not enjoy this suggestion very much.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that I felt like I was on to a really great idea but it was that tip of the tongue feeling, only I feel the idea where the voices were and it really fucking scares me to think that my ideas come from the same places as those voices…..

But hey! I’m trying to deal here….so honesty is key. I don’t want to hold back, but I keep hearing that line from “Ma, I’m only Bleeding” in my head, If they could see my thought dreams, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.

But its all right ma….its life and life only.

Crossing Roxbury Crossing

23 09 2011

I wake up an hour and a half after my alarm originally went off and it starts.  My heart is in my throat at the thought of riding on the crowded train. So many people, all breathing, in the tiny car. I can feel their breath, the stares, and hear their music. The stuttering clacking of the train silences the Miles Davis in my ear. My breath is starting to speed up, I count the stops, obsessing about the moment I can break free from the sour mix of b.o., perfume, and axe. One: Green. Four more people cram in. Two: Stonybrook. No one enters but we stand there, waiting, waiting, waiting….stupid orange line. Three: Jackson Square. Just one more stop, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. One. More. Stop. Four: Roxbury Crossing. The doors don’t open.

There’s a chiming in my ear and its 6am. My alarm is actually going off, I know this because I feel my throbbing feet and Eula, the cat, is purring trying to coax me out of bed to feed her. It seems as if sleep has escaped me. As if I laid down and got up only a minute later.

Learning to talk with strangers.

11 09 2011

I love slicing potatoes. It’s the main reason I make homemade potato chips.  The repetitive motion of the knife. Trying to be as thin and even as possible. There’s a small satisfaction that comes through me.  Calm.

I told another person about what happened. Actually two. A girl that’s in the same program as me. And one of the guys that I’ve seen a couple of times from okc. (before I deleted my profile)

It went really well. The telling of. I didn’t recount every detail I just kinda, stated what happened. Every time I tell a person there’s always a different reaction. The nerves mainly come from the fear of reactions…but also every time I say it out loud. It becomes all the more real. And then for the next day or so I’m stuck, not as bad as I once was, but stuck all the same on the images. On the stories. And I’m not quite paralyzed, but I don’t really move either.

It’s just, most days I go along and don’t think about it much. And then now, getting to know people, eventually it does or will come up. I know that I don’t have to tell any one. And that if people stop talking to me because of it, that they just aren’t ready or worth my time. But at some point you have to trust some body. So it doesn’t matter it will hurt, one way or another, eventually. But it is starting to hurt less.

I don’t know why Can’t think of really many reasons why it should.

Other than, I guess the unemployment leaving me to my thoughts.

School, assigning things like mapping my life. Symbols of your life.

The bitterness in my spirit seems to be in a lull. I want it to just be gone. Gone out of my being.


I know that what happened to me isn’t an isolated event. I know that my experience isn’t every person’s.  But more and more I’m hearing stories of other women that I encounter that have had a sexual violation. More and more in movies, books, what have you I see it happening to women and men. I don’t know what it is exactly, if the taboo of sex, and sexuality has created a society that just plain doesn’t know how to deal or what.  And even if the case is that such predators are created by their society, or repression, or what ever…. it does not exclude the fact that most people have the capacity to discern and  ability to think critically and for themselves. Thus responsible for their choices. So perhaps a person may be bred to be a violent person. But, they are capable of thinking. They are after all a human being. A person. Right?

Of course what ever wrong was done to them, or conditioning, is awful, terrible. But it does not however excuse their own actions or make them any less wrong.

Giblet Pouch

7 09 2011

I was doing yoga the other day, aiding my stretches with this scarf I’ve had for years now. Its brown with a tiny bullseye diamond pattern. One side is lighter than the other.

Its one of the scarves he used to tie me up and rape me.

But its also a scarf I’ve worn in New York City. Its kept me warm countless times. I like the way it looks. I want to believe that I can wear it around my neck and not think about trying to get free. I want to believe that its more than just those days.

But really… Its just a scarf.

For over a year I slept in the same bed that he raped me in.

But I also had the best sex of my life to date in that bed. With another man.

My counselor back in Abilene she suggested that I get rid of the bed and burn the scarf. I mean I am a pretty fucking sentimental person, I still have a stuffed lion I got when I was in the hospital at three years old. Tubes in my ears had burst. I wear jeans and converse till they’re scraps. I have a miniature baseball bat from this kid that I’ve known since fourth grade and used to think I was in love with. I have my first fucking sketchbook, which I titled, My Doodle Book, I was nine. I have the shell dog that my best friend gave me for my sixth grade birthday? Could have been fifth grade. I did have all the “love” letters that boys wrote me from back in high school…the list goes on.

I mean I don’t keep everything but I think  you get the picture.

I think this whole deal with the scarf though really has to do with hope. Redemption. Metamorphosis.

I want to believe that I can become the person I see in my dreams. I know its me, but my face is always blurred out by light. And there’s something radiating out of me. I can feel it. Something warm, calm, peaceful.

I dream of an apology from him. I know it will never come. Or almost know. I don’t even want to see him again, or hear from him, so that makes things difficult.

But I hope that he becomes more. And a better man than he was to me. I don’t wish for any woman to have to go through what I went through. And I really hope that he doesn’t have children until then.

I hope that one day I’ll forgive him and I won’t have to do it again the next day because it will have stuck.  In the same way I hope the same thing about seeing myself as a survivor sticks. I’m still going back and forth.

Back….and forth. Back… and forth….back….and- forth.