11 12 2013

My body lies broken
The surface, cracked,

And here I am putting the pieces-

It Happened

31 03 2013

Today I realized that no matter how many scenarios I come up with that start out as, “If I had just…” will change the fact that I was raped.

Divorced vs. Temporarily Married

2 01 2013

I visited my family and my home town for the christmas holiday. And have many moments with my family that made me feel less than good, one of the ones that has been mulling over in my mind is my father’s new phrase he likes to use instead of divorced.

“My daughter was temporarily married, that’s what I’ve decided to say instead of divorced because it really wasn’t that long”

But here’s the thing. That phrase is shaming.

When he first said that he thought it would better to say temporarily married instead of divorced I laughed slightly uncomfortable but unsure why I was so uncomfortable exactly. But I listened to that discomfort and learned, just why I would much rather identify as a divorcee than some one who was once temporarily married.

Marriage is about union, partnership, maybe even love and friendship, but is is a union, a linking, and in my case-bondage.

I do not wish to identify with the part of myself that was in that bondage. I am proud of my divorce. Yes, it was painful, but it was a worthy struggle through a much of shit that gave me freedom.

I divorced myself from abuse, my mocker, bully, and rapist.I divorced myself from wanting to die and take my own life before becoming a divorcee or life with out my ex-husband.
I divorced myself from a way of thinking that with out a man I wasn’t really a woman.
I divorced myself from fear of a day that words would come to blows-that tears would flow with fists.
I divorced myself from a slave driver who identified me as, bitch, whore, and cunt.

I saved myself through divorce. I separated myself from those identifiers, and to re-identify with a union to my rapist, is putting me in a state of eternal victimhood. I would never have become a survivor if not for my divorce. I would never had been free if not for my divorce.

I’m proud to be a divorcee.


15 10 2012



I got some weird news on Friday. It’s not really bad news, but just triggering. My best friend found an article about a French African native that was convicted of raping and stalking women from 2007-2010. The article had a photo. She had no idea that I was actually on my way out of work to head to my counselor, but I’m very glad that I was. As I rode over, I tried to remain as calm as possible, but my breathing was heavy, and I’m unsure how fast I was pedaling  and I know I did some maneuvers that weren’t that wise.  By the time I got down to meet my counselor I could barely breathe, let alone talk, but after taking off all my outer layers I was able to tell him what was going on.

I told him I had to know, that there was a photo in the article, and I needed to know. It was him.  I dropped my phone, and I knew it was him. I became 80% sure it was him. The stranger that raped me in June 2010. The one that I didn’t understand, the one where I started disassociating before it even was happening. As soon as he touched me, taking my hand, I started to fade, and become a shell.

I completely lost it for a few minutes. I felt as though it was happening all over only this time I knew what was going on and I didn’t see the mountain top. I didn’t know what to do but my therapist was able to remind me that I was safe, that it wasn’t happening now.  He was able to help me calm down, and call a friend to meet me after counseling.

He’s in prison. For twenty years. 19 now. But I’m not going to count that down. I’ve read several articles about the whole thing, and I’m now 90-95% sure that it is him. Nothing mentioned how tall he is. That’s the only detail that I feel like I need to really confirm it with myself. I know that there’s no tacking on to his sentence. But I recognize the shape of his mouth, the shape of his head, and he made this one face, when some one was talking during the world cup. The things that he said in the article, and the description of the actions. If its not him, there is a strong uncanny resemblance. I don’t know what this means for me. I don’t really know if this will bring closure really. My dad said that I should celebrate. But so far its just made everything present again.

To me this just tells me even more, that you don’t really get over being raped, you just learn how to carry it, and eventually the strength you gain makes it seem small and far away. One day I will be able to carry this again in such a way that it won’t be so painful.

“We must imagine Sisyphus, happy.”

I’ve contacted two reporters, the associated press, and the NYC DA office, I’m trying not to obsess, but I feel like if I know either way then I’ll be able to go on and bo back to not being a raw ptsd nerve.

I have work today so that will help. I wish I could listen to music in my head phones at work, I feel like I’m going to be hearing his voice all day with out that. I haven’t started with the nightmares or hallucinations, so I’m not going to worry too much.

I’m just going to listen to some angry/sad girl music, and I’ll be okay. I’ll probably watch Pride and Prejudice a million times, too.


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.