TW: Picking at the wound, part two.

Right now I seem to be picking at the wound again. Maybe there’s a reason behind this. Maybe I want to cleanse myself before going to America again to see J, or maybe it’s just the poison coming out.

At any rate, the urge is there. I keep wanting to talk about what happened to me with my ex. And now I realise I have this inside me and it must be fuelling my dreams, because last night I dreamt I was possessed by an evil spirit and I couldn’t tell anyone because it made me silent every time I tried. I think part of this is my terror of the voices of the dark passenger, taking me over and running my life and my body again, but I think there’s another dimension to this.

Here comes the part with the Trigger Warning, I’m afraid. I might get graphic. I will try not to, but I think I need to write this or it will sit in my head and make things worse.

I was still eighteen, I think (Correction: I went back along the timelines- I was seventeen. Fuck.). I was young still, and two years in his thrall. I was that kid who was starting to act strangely although no-one knew why, and I was beginning to isolate from my old friends and family far worse than ever before. I was living in London, then, at my second dance school, and I was excited to be there, loving the life, my new friends, the dancing and the teachers. My ex had started his first year of University. Life was good.

The first time we had sex was weird. I felt good, but I felt like something was wrong. I’m not sure what part of my head was alerting me to danger, but it all became real later on in the year for me.

I should have run then. I should have vanished away from him, called the police, but I didn’t know what had happened to me was wrong. I thought it was my fault for not telling him I was frightened, but he left me no choice.

We were in his room at the university halls of residence, and we’d been messing about for a little bit. I was in nothing but my underwear, and he was in nothing at all. At first I thought it would be the usual routine, ending with that glow I was getting familiar with and the feeling of rightness that he managed to make me feel, but something changed that day. Something stopped me relaxing and enjoying myself, and started making me feel like I was a whore- a performing whore, doing cheap tricks for her master and chasing for scraps.

He decided to get a bit kinky, but I began having mixed feelings from the word go. I used to like a little bit of being tied up, but this was different.

There were no handcuffs to bind me to the spot. There was just his voice.

[OK, THIS IS ABOUT TO GET SERIOUS. PLEASE TURN AWAY IF YOU’RE FEELING VULNERABLE. BE CAREFUL AND KIND TO YOURSELF.]

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I blinked at his tone.

“What do you mean-”

“Shut it. Do as I say. Get on your knees beside the bed.”

I tried to laugh, but I found the sound came out weak and pathetic. His eyes pinned me to the spot.

“Don’t make me ask you again, slave. Do it.”

So I did. At this point I was losing my edge and starting to actually become quite scared.

“Koi-chan, what are you doing? I’m not sure I like this.”

“Touch, bitch. Now you’d better use your mouth on me properly this time. No excuses like last time.”

Suddenly I realised I was almost totally naked and prayed that he would forget, but-

“Oh yes, slave, and take off those knickers too.”

Then after that I was helpless. I felt suddenly that everything I’d ever been warned against was about to happen to me.

I remember that his hands never touched me to start with, but his voice was like steel. I gagged so many times. Tears were running constantly down my face, and I was genuinely terrified.

“What do you call that? I’m not feeling anything.”

“Don’t you dare use your teeth!”

“What the fuck? C’mon, do it better.”

“I can’t believe how bad you are. Maybe I’d better show you what to do.”

So he grabbed fistfuls of my long hair and shoved my face down as hard as he could. Repeatedly.

I was nearly sick. My throat ached so badly and I choked, trying not to breathe in my own saliva. I was really honestly crying, had been for a while, and I was shaking and my hands were wrapped into the sheet and it was just too much and-

I let a sob out along with a gasp for air when he let go, but he told me to get down there and finish him off. I tried to obey but my lips trembled, and I sobbed again, louder, and suddenly another escaped me.

Then he fucking noticed how goddamn frightened I was. I was in pain. My lips stung, my knees hurt and my throat felt wrong. I was crying and clear snot streamed down my face and I was trembling. I sobbed so hard I thought I was going to break.

“What is it? Get on with it.”

He hadn’t heard!? He hadn’t seen?!

I raised my head and suddenly the mask was back on as he saw my face.

“Oh no, oh my god… why are you crying?”

After that it was all hugs and kisses and apologies. That was the last time I heard him apologise. The incident was framed as an ‘oh-god-I’m-sorry-I’ll-never-do-it-again’ type thing, and for weeks the honeymoon phase was back on.

He’d slipped, and revealed his true self too early. And what an ugly, horrible, psychopathic self it was.

There’s a hard lump in my throat writing this and I just want to grab J and cry for a bit. I know I should have left this to the psychologist, but it’s been digging holes in my head and it needed to come out. I buried it and let him tell me lies about how it was bad sex and he hadn’t noticed, but FOR FUCK’S SAKE I WAS CRYING. I WAS TERRIFIED. I ASKED HIM NOT TO AND HE MADE ME ANYWAY.

This shit used to keep me awake, and I hope that it won’t tonight. I have some grounding objects and a sleeping puppy with me, and I’m going to find something to watch to take my mind off this for now. In a way, I’m glad I aired this. I needed just to write about the bad shit for once, even though life has been treating me kindly of late. Lots of family time, time with J, and my puppy, and a dance summer-school I’ve been to. However, this memory has been floating to the surface and leaving me uneasy for quite some time… and it needed examining then throwing away to sink again for a while.

Thank you for sticking by me. x

Advertisements

TW: Richard ‘Fucktard’ Dawkins, Rape and my response.

http://putupwithrain.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/you-do-not-speak-for-me.html

Please read this before reading what I wrote. She says it succinctly, and with panache that I sometimes lack. She’s amazing. Go give her some love.

Also, read this. Please be careful, it could be triggering for those of you in a raw place:

http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/comment/richard-dawkins-is-wrong-to-suggest-that-there-can-be-varying-degrees-of-severity-involved-in-rape-9635662.html

TRIGGER WARNING again! I get SUPER angry in this and VERY blunt about my rape. Please read with caution and STOP reading if you feel bad in any way. If you want, attack it when you’re stronger. Don’t hurt yourselves. x

So Mr Prat Dawkins has decided that he gets to comment on HORRIFIC experiences, lived through by REAL people in REAL situations. Apparently, he has some ‘science-given’ right to label what is ‘worse’ rape and what rape is ‘easier’ on those who experience it.

I cut off a friend for making rape jokes before. What I have done with a friend who so blatantly disrespected me was not done lightly, and if she ever needs my help in the future I’ll gladly offer it. But THIS-

Jesus Christ man.

YOU DO NOT HAVE A FUCKING VOICE IN THIS CONVERSATION.

You were not there when my ex told me to ‘fight him off’ because he was a ‘big, scary rapist’ coming to get me and the joke was wearing thin. You were not there when I was frightened, when I was scared for my life, when I had no idea why I hated myself and wanted to die.

You were not there during the insomnia, the nightmares that make me scream or cry out or reach for J. You are not there when I think I see my ex round the corner and my mouth turns dry, my head entering that hyperactive alert state.

You were not there when my memory came back to me at 11:30 or something one beautiful summer’s day, and left me literally bleeding again. I’d been trying to quit self harm and I cut because I wanted numbing relief again from the agony of remembering, but the cool knife and the pain didn’t do a goddamn thing.

I was not assaulted violently in a backalley by a stranger. I was assaulted by my PARTNER. He was supposed to CARE for me. He told me so many times a day that he loved me and would never hurt me, and I found myself hurting on more than a daily basis in that last year- emotionally and physically.

I carry internal scarring, I think, or why would I HURT when I remember certain things? Why is it that even now, if someone touches me and I didn’t want it, I can’t stand it and want to push their hand away? It doesn’t even matter sometimes if they mean it kindly. Some days I just cannot be touched.

I can’t hold my boyfriend’s hand sometimes because of what happened. I had to hold my ex’s hand all the time. It was like a physical tie of ownership: he would have dragged me around on a lead if he could. Sometimes he did. A friend of mine described seeing me walking down the road fucking HANDCUFFED to him.

I have this all floating around on the inside of my head on a daily basis. I have a lot to deal with in my healing, and I am sure parts of this are so deeply scarred I will not truly understand til I’ve really started with my therapy. Yes, Mr Dawkins, I have to go therapy. Really, you ask? Should you not have just ‘got over it’ by now, because you weren’t raped by a terrifying stranger in a dark alley?

You know what?

NO.

Let me tell you something, fuckwit.

I trusted my ex with my fucking life. I would have taken a bullet for him had he asked me to. He would occasionally be kind and sweet and thoughtful, and he was charismatic and intelligent, and when we first got together- Jesus, the compliments blew my mind. I thought I was in love. I thought I was being protected against horrible rapists in back alleys when I went out with him.

All this time, starting with when I was eighteen and he first did something sexually wrong to me, I was being abused. I was being hurt. I escaped to a jungle in my head and left my body behind. I was being brutally hurt by the one person who was supposed to CARE for me and PROTECT me. He was supposed to LOVE me, and he raped me.

I was raped by a man who professed to love me, and he never once saw any of it as rape because I never had a say. It didn’t matter if I said no. It was all white noise to him.

There, you see? THIS is why it is so fucking damaging when you are raped by your partner- that one person who was supposed to love you really thought so fucking little of you that he used you as his personal fucktoy then dumped you when he got bored. I was a rag doll to him. I was nothing but a set of holes he could use. Not even a person.

That’s why, Mr DORKins, you get no say in this, because you have no fucking CLUE how horrible it feels to be used like that. No clue at all. How DARE you even think you have a place to comment on rape?! It all hurts, and why are you trying to put quantative values on something you know nothing about?

Grow the fuck up and volunteer at a Women’s Refuge shelter. Listen to all the heartbreaking stories of pain and horror and fear, and then tell me if you have the same godawful opinion.

Because after all, rape victims are just statistics and intellectual debate fodder. It’s not as if we actually exist in the real world, or we feel pain, or suffer flashbacks, or hallucinations, or feel suicidal. It’s not like we don’t wake up feeling fucking grateful we’re not still lying in bed next to our rapist, or tell our new, lovely boyfriend when we’re sleepy that we are glad he is not our ex.

Is the view from that ivory tower that bad?

Picking at the wound.

I do this occasionally. I get bold, proud of myself. I feel well. I know I can do it- so I google my ex.

Why the fuck do I do this, I hear you ask?! The bastard put you through hell! You were abused and raped and fucked with, to borrow Emilie Autumn’s words.

My answer to you lot is this: have you ever lost a wasp in a large room? You know it’s angry- maybe even livid – that you tried your best to swat it dead, and now it’s somewhere in the room with its stinger, plotting a horrible revenge as it clicks its wings on its hard carapace.

Now try losing your abuser in a big city close to you. Imagine how it feels to know that his parents are in the SAME city as you, and they adore him. They dote on him. He is their everything, and you left him. You bitch.

I do this to try and reassure myself I know that he isn’t staying with his parents down the fucking road from me, and that he is in the city nearby, plotting his revenge, because I STILL don’t believe he is done playing with me. I still have my Facebook on the highest privacy settings, I haven’t raised my head above the parapet, I have most certainly not shared my or his name here in case he finds this and he makes me pay. I deleted a lot of dance job profiles on the internet to stop him finding me, but I know my CV is out there and he knows where my parents live…

This is why I was googling the sorry fucker. I want to know I am safe, properly safe. That hard knot forms in my stomach and I gulp, and I wonder if he would ever dare come back to my house to try and hurt me or worse, persuade me back with him.

I frequently wake up in cold sweats. I’ve usually just dreamt about my ex, and in those dreams I’m never sure if I’m supposed to be with him or with J. I know I should be with J, but my ex is there and possibly holding me or kissing me or worse and I know I need J but my ex is telling me I need him. I hate those dreams. They mean that some part of my poor damaged subconscious is telling me I am cheating on my ex and I should be with him. Those dreams start me off on the worst of days a lot of the time.

I know that I am still a bit too obsessed and I know that my head would be better staying away from anything to do with him, but I also know that the wasp will stop hiding, aim at me with that stinger dripping with poison, and it will strike.

When it does, I want to be ready. I sure as hell won’t manage with a flyswat- I’ll need a fucking flamethrower.

I have been trying to tell this exact thing to everyone who has been giving the often untrue diagnosis of BPD. I think there has to be compelling proof that you were BORN BPD for you to possibly have it, and abuse should not be a factor in discovering if you have it. Therefore, a lot of people who believe they have BPD and that the abuse caused it have been told something wrong about themselves. Your reactions to the outside world were damaged because of the abuse, and it is NOT your personality which was damaged. Please believe thateven if you were born BPD, you can change how you react to life. Google neuroplasticity if you don’t believe me.

Living with comorbid psychiatric disorders

reaction

My affirmation for the day.

View original post

A lesson.

Just when you think things are going well, PTSD will come along and smash it’s shit right back in your face.

I wanted to wear a dress yesterday that I’ve worn before, one with a lot of good memories attached. I had bought the dress just before going to America last year, overcoming the depression and self-loathing for a minute to be able to acknowledge that I actually did look ok in it.

I have a picture of me and J, and I’m wearing the dress, at my cousin’s wedding. We are smiling at someone off camera, and we’re just so happy. I’m confident, I’m smiling like I will never stop, and so is J.

Putting that dress on yesterday was supposed to bring back all those feelings, that happiness and my sense of pride. I love wearing clothes with good feelings attached- it’s a solid way to boost my mood. What happened instead was that I had a panic attack.

I’m aware the dress is cheaply made, and I knew my bra would show a little, but I didn’t anticipate feeling the way I did. I looked in the mirror and all I could see was a cheap slut. J had warned me it was showing but I’d then tried to find a bra that would show less, and none did, and now I was sitting on the edge of the bed fighting tears.

When I started sobbing softly, J was standing in the room and I hadn’t even noticed him.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

I choked on my words, trying to explain how bad I felt, and how much of a slut I felt. J was immediately trying to cheer me up, telling me he didn’t mean me to feel bad because my bra showed, he was just warning me. I told him that this crisis of confidence was not him, it was me.

We finally worked out that it wasn’t the right time for me to wear the dress, if this was how bad I felt, and I quickly changed into a different one. He held me twice, told me to step back so he could see what the dress looked like, and told me I looked cute. I probably did, but for some reason all I felt like was a slut.

Warren has it right. My shit is still fucked up, but J and I and a whole lot of other people are fighting to get it right again.