Imagine

1 12 2015

I AM SISYPHUS
(happy)

I am the sobbing determined mess
struggling up that hill
The mountain cliff
With sun, sweat, and tears in my eyes
Blindly– I push forward
Hoping to see just for an instant
The view from the top, before I fall
all….
the

way

 

back

d
o
w
n.

And try once more,

tomorrow.

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Three Days Gone

3 07 2011

I don’t remember dropping the book or falling to my knees. I just remember flashes of the NY marble bathroom floor, my wrists being bound to the headboard of my marital bed, his eyes changing, pain, insanity, and blackness. Not blackness of  like you get from drinking too much and loosing a couple of hours. The kind of blackness, darkness that comes from the place that most people  like to tell themselves that they’re incapable of.

The other day I was looking in my notebook, the one that has three years of my life inside of it. The only one I’ve ever actually finished. (If you don’t count sketchbooks)  And I looked for those days, the days that my life changed, the days that the man I called husband raped what love was left out of me.

They weren’t there.

I keep trying to understand why I didn’t run away. Why I  didn’t just leave. Why didn’t I? I can’t tell you. I know that there must have been a oportunity. I wasn’t tied up the whole time. It wasn’t like I was locked in the basement, or gaged. There wasn’t a dungeon involved. It didn’t turn into Pulp Fiction.

I don’t remember which time it was. But at some point he asked me to tie him up. So I did. He may have enjoyed it, but for me it was a decent into darkness. Because it wasn’t about sex. It was about power and the malicious pain I desired for him.  I had the power. I remember biting him so hard he bled, I thought about ripping his flesh with my teeth. I think I punched him. In my mind I imagined myself performing some ancient native ritual where I claimed his soul for myself by eating his heart. I knew, as I bit down harder and harder…his life was in my hands.

I could kill him, I thought. It would be sooo easy.  He was already tied up. I could have killed him. I could have maimed him. That power was mine. And I was that far gone.

But I didn’t do it. As my fantasy was building he asked, ” What do you want me to do?”

I laughed a psychotic coy laugh

“What do I want you to do?!” I laughed again, and bit down as hard as I could drawing more blood and he moaned with pain.

With the murderous intent of my insanity I replied. ” I want you. TO…” I gently stroked his chest just for a second and then went down, down, and stroked his balls, then looked at him with the most hatred I could send and said, ” Leave! And never come back”

And he left. Not that instant, but at some point he left. I don’t remember if this was the last time there was sexual contact between us. I know that what ever inhumanity was with in him at the time, he regained at least a sliver back because he did finally go, and stop.

I keep trying to make sense of a senseless act. The same kind of thing of the Never Ending Story’s Nothing. I keep trying to regain those three days, to see if I could better know why I didn’t just leave, what the fuck was going on inside my head, but I wasn’t there. Not for the most part. I wasn’t there. I came and went, and sometimes I know I saw myself being raped, I saw my hands bound, I saw the insanity building inside of me, but mostly….it’s just blank. As if my self just disappeared and went out into some other realm.

Maybe I hope that if I regain those days then I could have my life be my own again. And I wouldn’t be a rape victim or a rape survivor any more, I could just be me.





Promiscuous

21 06 2011

“Becoming more promiscuous after a sexual assault is just as common as becoming frigid or undesired of being touched.”

For me it was split. If a guy touched me first I would often freak out inside, sometimes I still do. But more it was like I was on a hunt. A hunt for any cock that could make my insides not feel of him. Months after being apart I still felt him inside me. Any shape would do, because at least it wasn’t his. It didn’t matter who it was, I didn’t see a face, or a name. I wasn’t fucking a person, it was just a warm body. A place holder.

I’m not proud of this. I treated them no better than a piece of meat. I’m not saying that all of these guys were perfect gentlemen, but some of them deserved much more than what I gave them. For the most part I thought it was tit for tat. I didn’t think they wanted anything really other than my body and so why should I want anything more from them? Most of them I didn’t even really want their body, I Just wanted to not feel his.

“Just don’t go out and fuck a bunch of random guys, L, you’re better than that.”

Because of those words I went on a fucking rampage. Not my brightest moment. And I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt even more, at least not for a while. But I didn’t understand what had happened between my husband and I. All I knew is I could feel him on top of me, inside of me, and it made me feel sick. Anything was better than that feeling.

And then a friend came a long. And Christmas with him. Being vegan we cooked a lot instead of going out and fucked more. He had been burned bad, and hadn’t been laid in a while, I guess I was his confidence booster. I really liked him. I liked having sex with him, and even a few times we actually made love to each other. But really that part of my humanity still needed a great amount of repair. And I still had no idea what had happened, at least not the fore front of my mind. If I had actually  lived in town I might have risked a real relationship. I’m so glad I didn’t, because I think that if he had accepted I would have treated him terribly. And he’s one of the nice ones.

I thought for sure having sex multiple times a day for a month would keep what I was merely horniness under control for at least a month or two. But a week after I got back home, I found myself drunkenly fucking a guy I could not stand.  I blew him, but I was strange because he was watching “Step Brothers” the whole time. I really don’t like that movie. It was taking a while and my jaw hurt so I told him I had a condom. He came quickly after that and got up and went to take a shower, meanwhile I felt really unsatisfied and annoyed.

I stared him in the face and asked him, ” Do you like pleasing women?”

After that I decided that I would only fuck people I that I found attractive, and people I actually liked.

Finally some sort of standards.

After the vegan I realized I really wanted a steady partner, because for the most part one night stands blow.

I told myself that I was exploring my sexuality. And its true in many ways I was. I learned something about myself and my body with every person. Unless the guy was a real jerk I was usually very polite. Even if he did loose wood. I realized for the most part I was a patient person and that after being married for two years and not having my pleasure considered I wanted it to be. I realized that some times its almost impossible for sex to be only about the P in the V. But more than anything, I realized that deep down I knew I wasn’t okay.

But I had no idea why. I thought it was the divorce. I knew that the way my ex and I had ended wasn’t right, but I didn’t think about it much. I read and reread my journal, his emails, looking for clues searching for answers of what had happened.

I think my subconscious was protecting my consciousness. Because it wasn’t until I was done with undergrad this past spring that it happened. In the most unexpected way. I had moved around a couple of times trying to really find a place to live after graduation. I was unpacking my books. I came across my Human Sexuality textbook I had gotten at a garage sale in Denton, I decided to flip through it. I stumbled upon the definition for sexual assault.  In a flash it all came back.





Scab

19 06 2011

I pick a scab as I stare off into the screen an entertaining abyss of droll. My hairline has intermingled with the wound, making it difficult to remove the flesh bandage from my temple.

pick. pick. pick.

I scratch my face, the blemishes and think of why I stare off into this nonsense of procedural crimes still. SVU is a joke, overreactions meet overacting and unreal situations. Why do I love it so much?

I think of my counselor and how she encouraged me to start filling up my new moleskin. I had finished the old one for weeks now, three years of my life in the most consistent recording I’ve ever kept of my life.

pick. pick. pick

I think of how my old hippy future Boston roommate told me to leave all my old stuff and come with a clean slate. Just my favorite supplies, he says, don’t worry about all the tiny details.

Clean slate. Blank page.
Those are the most terrifying things in life and writing.

But not with art. On the virginal surface all I see is possibility. I’m so close to seeing life that way, but to me its still that plank page. That three years in a small 5″x7″ notebook that weighs 1,000 pounds.

But even then a clean slate with my art? To me that’s almost like erasing whats taking me to Boston in the first place. I mean I may not depict memories or illustrate them clearly, for others, but my subconscious knows that they are there.

I could reinvent myself. But I want to add to myself. Transform. Metamorphose. Moving is so hard for me. It excites me yes.

But packing. I hate packing. Because I’m the opposite of Gorge Clooney from Up in the Air. I don’t just have an empty backpack. I have a pack mule, that I named George and can’t stop feeding, and adding more things.

pick. pick. pick.

I dig deeper and feel the blood run down my cheek.

For some reason I think of the boy I fucked at a house party in the back of my car. Magazines and even a 100lb bag of plaster were there, but I didn’t care all I saw was sweet blonde pubes and a comfortable cock. It was quick and he was the first to ask to see my “titties”. “Titties” that word just kept playing over and over in my head, and I saw him old with a cane blocking some sweet young thing with a nice rack and him asking to see her titties.

Tits, Boobs, Breasts, Rack, I’ve heard all of those, but there in the back of my car on top of all that junk I heard titties for the first time.

I thought of the story my Papa told me, the first time he met my second cousin, when she was only 16. She asked him if he liked her titties. He told me how his eyes got wide and confused, shocked that this teenager had asked him, an old man such a forward and vulgar question. My cousin took off her sandal and showed him. Her Titties, were shoes.

pick. pick. And finally the scab is loose and I slide it down through my hair, I go and look in the mirror to asses the damage.





Movie Review: He’s Just not that Into You

18 06 2011

I knew I was going to eventually start a wordpress the moment I saw one, how clean they all look, I love it. I just finished watching on TV “He’s Just Not that Into You” now, I don’t know how it started, I came into the movie I’m not sure how late exactly, couldn’t have been too far into it- I watched an hour and a half of it after all. Any way, there’s all these different couples different stages of life, blah, blah. One was infuriating, the movie is supposed to be mostly about the mistakes women make in relationships, and while I didn’t really like the way it was presented and gave off that terrible stench of making women out to be desparate for love. I’m going to try and take a positive spin and say that they were just trying to say that women really shouldn’t be so eager for that feeling of being in loooove.
BUT, I will say this, there were two couples that were really beautifully portrayed, because it was so much closer to reality. One was that they had broken up because one (Jennifer Aniston’s character) wanted to get married and (Ben Affleck’s character) didn’t understand why they had to get married since they were all ready committed to each other and they knew that. Now, I am guessing on that exact scenario since I did miss that part, but lets just say its an intelligently inferred guess. Her dad, with whom she’s very close, has a heart attack later in the movie and he’s there for her, no he doesn’t show up, running in the rain and they embrace and kiss. He’s doing the dishes, and bought groceries for her father, while her other sister’s three officially married title husbands are sitting on their asses drinking beer and watching golf or some other sport. He shows her that he’s a partner in life. And she tells him that he was more of a husband than the three put together. In the end the marriage proposal he tells her that he needs to make her happy so that he could possibly have an ounce of happiness.

If it were me now and some one who I had been with said that to me, I would have to say, no I can’t marry you. Marriage, relationships of any kind, they aren’t there to complete us. Relationships help us understand who we are, they teach us sure. But the self, fills the self. True that the self knows its existence through the other, but the self fills the self. Otherwise its just a form of codependency.

The other couple had been married for several years, and been together even longer. She is portrayed as kind of cold and uptight. He seems to be the perfect husband. But he doesn’t really want to be married. But he doesn’t really want to be alone either. He never wanted to be married it turns out, but really he got married because he was afraid of being alone. (It was nice to see that portrayed by a man btw.) He ends up cheating on her. With Scarlett Johansen, who ends up being stored in the closet of his office while wifey comes in to try and surprise him by spicing things up a bit. Scarlet Johansen tells him that he will never touch her again, and that he’s a pitiful excuse for a man and walks out (after the wife is gone).

While that part isn’t nearly as realistic, the way Jennifer Connelly’s character is kind of going crazy because the person she loves and has set her whole world on is continually lying to her face, that portrayal I felt was pretty accurate. She ends up deciding to divorce him after she finds a pack of cigarets in his pocket. Now her father died of lung cancer, and so she’s very anti-smoking. Plus he had repeatedly lied, looked into her eye and lied to her that he had quit. If he had lied about that I’m sure she realized that he also lied when after he told her about sleeping with some one else and she asked him if he wanted to try and fix the marriage, and he said yes.

In the end she starts over. Not with some one else to fill the holes. With herself.

That’s where I am now. I have started over with myself. Its been almost two years now since we separated. It would have been almost two years since I had heard his voice, too, but he called me the other day. I didn’t recognize his voice. Once he identified himself, I hung up. I haven’t changed my phone number yet, but I’ll do that before I move to Boston.

I’m leaving Texas soon. I’ve always imagined myself living elsewhere, but it was never Boston. I’m so excited about this move! I feel so free.





Out on a Line

20 05 2011

I changed my email, my phone number, and soon I will move close to 1,000 miles away. The first two were so he couldn’t contact me any more. The move, that’s for me.

A fresh start. I’m pushing myself out on the high wire to see how far I can go.





Short But Healthy

14 05 2011

I am short. And my goal is to be healthy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, and a lot of that has to do with the fact with that the man I once considered a literal godsend is not in my life any more. I’m alone, in the sense that I’m a 24 year old divorcee. I graduated from a west Texas Baptist school and was groomed to believe that as a woman, with out a husband there is no such thing as success. And while my family is glad that I am no long with my abuser, they do look at me differently.

Mom now looks at me like I’m a teenager again.
Father looks at me with the worry that I’ve become bitter.
Sister…I’m not sure that I can say how my sister looks at me.
My sister’s husband actually doesn’t look at me differently.
Grandma didn’t look me in the eye for a while.
Dad’s mom, she looks at me like I need to stop chasing my education and start being an adult and find the good husband.
Dad’s dad, he’s just glad I’m not with the bastard anymore. And seems to line up men for my choosing.

I know my friends look at me differently, too, but not in the same way my family does. I’m not sure if I can put words to it, or at least the right ones, but I will say that with out them, I never would have made it through the whole ordeal. My family was really there for me, too. Well Mom, Dad, and my sister and her husband.

My dad constantly tries to “remind” me that I will find love again. That all men aren’t like how he was.
The funny thing to me is that’s why I knew I had to get out of there. Because while it was mostly just his words that hurt so much, and passive aggressive action, and the emotional manipulation, there was a part of me that knew one day it would be more.

Turns out our last days together proved me right.
At least it was the last days and not every night.

I don’t hate men. I haven’t “turned” the way my father thinks lesbianism happens. I really do enjoy men. But I’m not looking to fall in love again, either. Not that I don’t think its impossible for me to feel that way ever again, I just think its overrated. I don’t think obsessing over some one the way our society and rom-com philosophy has tried to force feed us is really love. The coveted feeling of be in loooooove is not something I’m interested in really. I see love differently now.