One of the best things about running this blog is that sometimes I get fan mail. Sometimes I hear from people I haven’t spoken with in years telling me about how they love the blog, how I’m helping them see things in a way they never have before.
And sometimes I get messages from people who want my help. People who have had experiences, traumas, dark thoughts, or brutal nights and just need a place to put it all. A place they can be anonymous.
Below is a message from someone from my past who has a story to tell. I’m going to ask that if you sympathize with this story, if you’ve had a similar experience, or if you would ordinarily give it a Like or a Retweet for excellent writing, that you please leave that comment here on the blog so she can see your support. Also, feel free to spread this story far and wide, use all your platforms. This story is unfolding every day all over the place and you can be a part of freeing someone from their own personal hell.
Trigger Warning: Rape and Abuse.
I don’t suppose many will see this, or that many people will care. I mean, we all go through shit, right? But I hadn’t realized how much my shit had affected my life until tonight. Until it’s 6 months later and I’m weeping on the Subway to a stranger. Recently I heard a speech about how we all live in a closet of one kind or another, and that to classify one experience as “harder” than another simply encourages us to stay locked within them.
This is my closet, and I’m ready to step out of it.
I had always perceived my future as barren of love, or marriage, or children, or hope, or happiness. I was painfully desperate for love, for approval, for beauty, and that desperation made me vulnerable.
There are people in this world who will seek that vulnerability out. They feel the need to salve their own wounds with other people’s tears, the deepening of other people’s pain. It’s how they function with the damage they themselves have suffered. The only thing they can do to raise themselves up is push other people’s faces deeper into the muck.
He recognized my need, my desperation, he cracked it open and made a very comfortable home for himself. He had found his mark.
When we met, he held me close and we swayed from side to side, enveloped in the music and laughter around us. We swayed through midnight and the first snowfall, and he kissed me. For the first time in months I felt accepted, beautiful.– I can’t talk about this. About how nice it was to be in his arms, how wonderful it was when it was wonderful. When I think of those moments I love him.
It started when he said that he couldn’t have sex with a condom. He said that he couldn’t stay hard for me with his dick constrained by latex. And when he tried, and failed, the latex was no longer to blame. I was. After all, I was the reason he was wearing it in the first place.
STD statistics are bullshit, don’t you know? They only apply to impoverished, black people, don’t you know? Not to people like us.
Intelligent women accept deviation from sexual normalcy! Don’t you know?
Sex with other women.
I understand that you don’t want to have sex right now, and I respect that, but I have sexual needs and you should respect those too.
I was so raw I couldn’t walk without pain.
If you’re asleep, why do you care?
If I was lucky, I could stay asleep.
Women lie about rape all the time! Don’t you know?
I never did.
I like it when you choke.
No, I don’t want to use lube.
No, I don’t want to stop.
No, you can’t make me stop now.
No, you’re so tight, how can I stop?
No, this feels too good.
No, I’m almost there
It’ll stop hurting soon.
Why are you complaining now? I stopped cumming on your face.
You should lose weight. I only want you to be the best you can be.
Here’s soap to wash your face. No one likes pimples.
You can’t have an omelet with the yolks.
Rape only exists in our culture, why are we even together if you’re going to act this way?
I hate people like you and your family.
This is what it must be like to have a slave.
Why would I go down on you if you won’t let me take a video?
Are you calling me a rapist?
When you hear stories about rape you have expectations. I never thought that I’d be jealous of those women who are the victims of masked men in dark alleys, women who are raped only once. I never thought I would bleed for a man as he said he loved me. I never thought I would be held accountable for the man forcing himself into my body, ripping me open. I never thought I would reward my rapist with my love and affection.
Just the handprints on my body from where he hit me.
There was nothing. Nothing I could or can do. There are just my memories of pain, and his of pleasure.
Six months later, I’m here. Afraid to let a man touch me. Afraid to let myself love anyone.
I drink wine until I feel no fear of this new boy who makes my stomach flutter, and then break down as the misery of the last person who woke those butterflies comes crashing down on me.
I can’t be in this closet anymore. I can’t remain in this place. I can’t kiss a man’s lips, I can’t feel a man’s breath on my skin, I can’t trust a man with my body–let alone my spirit. But I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want this shadow. So I’m coming out of this closet.