Thursday, August 21, 2014

L.Imp Biscuits

So let me tell you about that time I got dumped after being hit by a car. 

Let's backtrack a bit. I had used okcupid on and off for several years at this point to various degrees of success. I had thought this would be one of the more successful times. We'll call him OCD, because I swear to the baby Jesus statue I once threw out by accident, this guy had it. He folded his dirty laundry INTO his laundry basket. The same basket where you then take OUT the clothes and THROW them in the wash. 

After he had thrown them in the wash, he would wipe down the basket with a wet paper towel. And I would pretend it was totally normal. Because, that's what a good girlfriend does.

Anyway, around the time of our demise I had a slight cancer scare involving my cervix, which it would hope merits me some free passes for being an emotional wreck. I also got banned from that doctor's office because she told me my friends weren't allowed to come with me again and I told her to go fuck herself. And then I told her I hope she gets aids. 

I have a bit of a temper. 

Anyhoo, one night out of the blue he tells me he's gonna swing by after band practice later the week to grab "coffee". And seeing that he didn't finish practice at 10 at night, I knew what "coffee" stood for. I had used this line before myself. Fuck you, OCD, I was the master of the coffee beak up. 

I have to say though,I handled it well. The next day as my friend Kate and I were standing by the bagel toaster, I announced:

Me: "OCD is gonna break up with me on Friday"
Kate: (perplexed) "well that's specific"

And so my week went. I recorded a super emo YouTube cover, I planned my dumped outfit, and night of it was raining and I decided I was going to get something from the supermarket. I think it was mallomars. So I lived by new Hyde park road at the time, which was generally a death trap and long islanders are terrible drivers to begin with. I was wearing a black jacket with a hood and I had the right to cross the road, so I did. 

And then I got punched in the face by a minivan. 

I spun with the impact, had a moment of toddler silent scream/sob, and then composed myself because douchebags were honking at me. The lady who hit me was very nice, she had her kids in the car and I assured her I was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital. I didn't take down her info either, because I wasn't hurt. 

So I continue on my journey, because now I REALLY need those mallomars. As I walk, I notice one of my shoes is getting considerably tighter. And my foot is going a little numb. I keep looking for mallomars anyway. I then call OCD, and tell him:

Me:"so I just got hit by a car"
OCD:"oh. Are you okay?"
Me: "yeah, but maybe I hurt my ankle"
OCD: "ok cool. I'll see you later then?"
Me: "yeah. Sure dude."

So let's analyze this for a second. A guy wanted to break up with me SO badly he didn't even let the fact I got hit by a car deter him. So if you're ever upset about that text message breakup, just remember this. 

So I call Sarah, and I inform her of what happened. Well, first I tell her to guess. And she first guesses struck by lightning. Second guess is getting hit by a car. I congratulate her. For some reason, she's not as happy as she should be about being right.

So I end up back at my apt after I buy an ice pack and ace bandaged and my ankle has swelled up to the size of my calf muscle. It hurts like a bitch, but I need to pull myself together because I'm getting broken up with and I refuse to look like a victim. I end up wearing the only shoes that fit that are now my rainboots as I wait for OCD to pick me up. 

He actually follows through with the charade of coffee. We're at the 711 and I'm pouring my coffee and I'm just like "ok dude, cut the shit. I know why you're here".

So fast forward in his car getting driven home. 

OCD: "I feel bad about doing this after you got hit by a car. I feel like I should get struck by lightning. "
Me: "if only". 

Finally the moment of truth. He's dropping me off. I wore my good butt jeans. I'm ready to swagger off with the booty he'll never get to touch again, but my foot is now twice the size it was and I stumble into the SEXIEST limp ever. 

I limped away with all the dignity I could muster. 

Later that night, and after recounting the story to my friends while laying on an air mattress in their room, I start simultaneously laughing and crying at the same time. It was then I decided that I would not let this defeat me. I was going to do something passive aggressive but in such a way people would think it was awesome. 

And that, ladies and gents, is why I changed my Facebook name to Spanish Thunder. 

-grace #Adulting

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

So a psychiatrist, a dancer and the ultimate question walk into a bar...(EDITED)

The person I've always trusted least was myself.

Correction: I trust myself the least, but only after Nigerian spam emails. 

I've always been one to avoid confrontation. I know many people seem to think I'm a hard ass, or very combative, but I'm not. My boyfriend equates me to a jawbreaker: a hard shell with a very gooey center.  I don't even think I have that hard of a shell, but I guess I just don't like showing all my cards, because people use them to play against you. 

I filmed for Vermillion this weekend, and was talking to the girls about my recent and fully official, PTSD diagnosis and how I felt like I didn't deserve to have PTSD because nothing that bad has ever happened to me. I also spoke to them about my most recent sexual assault which I never reported despite me being too drunk to even legally say yes. I thought "he was sober but, he probably didn't realize he was doing something bad. We had been involved before, he probably assumed it was ok with me". He is the person I referenced in a former post with a picture of a text message. 

Niki the makeup artist called me out. I was making excuses for him and mostly for me. She said I had tried everything else possible to move on except for facing what happened and doing something about it. 

A month ago I spoke to a psychiatrist about this incident and a prior one. I have accepted the first incident being a "grey area" and so I never pursued charges. After speaking to him about both, he told me men can't fully comprehend a woman going home with them without wanting to have sex with them. He told me I needed to be more careful. He told me not to drink too much. 

I walked out of that office ashamed, and doubly afraid to tell anyone anything ever again. I was hurt. I was horrified. 

I was pissed. 

In light of all that has happened with Christy Mack, and War Machine, and the amount of slut shaming and victim blaming, I was disgusted with everything. And for those of you who post "Even if she is a porn star, she doesn't deserve it" are still perpetuating the idea that porn stars are beneath you. Porn stars have a job, and they do it for YOUR enjoyment.  No guy ever called me a slut while I was intimate with him, only afterwards. Why do you scorn people who bring you pleasure? Why do you scorn those who don't want to? Why must I be pure and yet sexy?


This morning I went through all my previous texts with the man whom I shall refer to as "Dickbag", and I found proof (at least proof for me personally) that in no circumstances would I have allowed what happened to me if I had been coherent. I knew this. I had always known this. I have spent the last 25 years with myself, why the FUCK would I doubt it?

Someone I love once said something while angry that I will never know if they meant, but they said nothing bad had truly ever happened to me and that I had nothing to complain about. And I know people say things when they're angry that they don't mean, but that is what I keep hearing everytime I go see a therapist, or a doctor, or mention my PTSD. It's what keeps me quiet now, as I struggle with the ever constant question if I would want to risk a failure to prosecute, or just swallow it and move on. 

I'm so full, I don't know what more I can keep down. 

-grace #adulting