Entry #0348
I am social worker, I am representing my client at another agency meeting on April 5th. The worker at the other agency raped me when I was 19.
I am social worker, I am representing my client at another agency meeting on April 5th. The worker at the other agency raped me when I was 19.
The other day, I realized that having sex makes my body react the same way as when I’m having a panic attack. My breathing shortens, I get cold and clammy, I shiver uncontrollably, my entire body goes numb, and I start crying. How about I go get a new life, one where you didn’t rape me and I didn’t have to see your face around the house every other weekend? A new life where I could actually enjoy sex, or being in public, or meeting new people, or expressing myself somewhere it might be found and related back to me? How about that? Wouldn’t that be nice? Hmm? I think it would be pretty fucking awesome. I’m never going to enjoy sex, or art, and art is what I live for. No wonder I have mental problems. Fuck you, you know? Fuck you.
I want so much out of the next few years to graduate college this May and have anywhere to go from there. I want to be everywhere doing everything and never disappoint anyone
I wanted to avoid writing about it, but nothing else in my life is quite so significant and life altering. I miss being innocent and naive. I miss the optimism and utter lack of understanding for hatred that I had ‘till I was seventeen. Rape is an awful word. It’s a terrible feeling; It changes you and follows you around so closely that 4 ½ years later you can wake up from a random nightmare and struggle to look your boyfriend in the face because you just dreamt of such an awfully horrible thing being done to your body. I guess that’s the worst part about it—the fact that it’s never far from your thoughts. My family has suffered so much sexual abuse it’s unbelievable. I could be OK if it was just me. I can eventually come to understand the guy who decided to take what he wanted from me, even though he knew I didn’t want to give it.
This is all so jumbled—I get like that sometimes when I ramble.
I was two days away from my 17th birthday, in the basement of a friend’s house—watching a movie. We had been semi-friends for years. When he tried moving my hand where it didn’t belong I just pulled away. When he tugged my pants down I tried to pull them up but I wasn’t as strong. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I just cried real quiet. I didn’t think that’s who I was.
I thought I was stronger.
My best friend was only 13 when it happened to her. She’d gotten separated from her friends and was found by a middle-aged horny as fuck wasted asshole who attacked her. She fought back and screamed and was choked nearly to death by him. She didn’t tell anyone for years. She wishes she didn’t fight back because she tried and failed and almost died.
You can’t win.
She’s my baby sister.
I was raised on Disney Princesses and ‘Leave it to Beaver.’ My parents are straight out of Pleasantville—very even tempered, very much in love; Everything that went wrong could be solved by brownies.
I love the world. I love people. I love being introduced to new things and dreaming about the future. But sometimes I’m alone in my car and I think about my sister, or me, or my Grandma who’s addicted to pain pills, and sleeps all day (scares the shit out of me because she was raped by her brother—I don’t want to turn out like that when I’m old) and my knuckles go white on the wheel and my stomach clenches and I know that I am capable of violence.
I miss being innocent and naive.
I can’t seem to come to terms with the fact that the man who raped me is living a comfortable, successful, happy life. And here I am, on government assistance, having student debt, and unable to find a job. And when I see anyone happy, it hurts me inside, that no one ever stopped a moment to care about me.
I came out when I was in 7th grade. I am about to be a senior in high school. Last February, I went to a LGBT conference. It was the first time I had ever been surrounded by people like me. I felt an incredible sense of community. One night, I was in an elevator, going to my room, intoxicated. A woman raped me. It was an incredible betrayal—my own community.
Last week I shaved my head to “rid myself” of the memory. It didn’t really work but I still feel freer. I do not feel like a victim, I feel like a survivor.
Two years ago, I was raped by my (then) boyfriend. I was 16 and a virgin, he was 18 and not. Last night, I dreamed that I was him, raping myself. I didn’t realize I was hurting myself until I saw the tears running down my face and how tightly I was holding the pillow between us.
I will never forgive him for what he took from me. I am now in a meaningful relationship, and I can’t share the one thing I would give anything to share with my partner- my innocence.
I hope someday he feels the hurt I feel.
The other day, I realized that having sex makes my body react the same way as when I’m having a panic attack. My breathing shortens, I get cold and clammy, I shiver uncontrollably, my entire body goes numb, and I start crying. How about I go get a new life, one where you didn’t rape me and I didn’t have to see your face around the house every other weekend? A new life where I could actually enjoy sex, or being in public, or meeting new people, or expressing myself somewhere it might be found and related back to me? How about that? Wouldn’t that be nice? Hmm? I think it would be pretty fucking awesome. I’m never going to enjoy sex, or art, and art is what I live for. No wonder I have mental problems. Fuck you, you know? Fuck you.