Dirty Laundry

I've been criticized for a lot of things: My messy room, my terrible life skills, having to google what cleaning products can't be mixed so I don't die...

And for airing my "dirty laundry".

AKA, my rapes.

Does people knowing about these things through my abrasive jokes and pithy commentary make them think less of me? Maybe.  Does it turn me off from me? Probably, and I have evidence of such.

But, does it make me a bad person?

Today, a man I had briefly dated and had former consensual (and terrible) sex with but then later took advantage-wait no, no euphemisms- raped me while I was black out drunk, texted me after I told him I never wanted to speak to him again.  So while I tried to to ignore him, I wanted to say SOMETHING, not necessarily outwardly caustic, but sarcastic and funny to myself. Because I deserved to get some of that out, and I deserved to hear him accept he did something wrong.

Yes. Yes, still. He then said he had apologized, and that he was apologizing again. He also said it was a funny response. Which, made me feel really good. Because I got to be snarky, without being cruel. Because even though he raped me, I don't think he's a terrible person all around.  I just think he needs to rethink what constitutes as an appropriate time to be intimate with someone when you are sober and they are not. Which is 99 times out of 100, not the right thing to do.

Apologies help out the person who did the wrong feel better, more so than the person they wronged.  An apology doesn't erase an action, or words said. It's not a free pass. All it does is make you seem like less of a douchebag and make YOU, the WRONGDOER feel better. I admit this as a wrongdoer myself.  These things we do that hurt others are like shrapnel; a little piece always lingers in our systems. Whereas some of us are better at handling it, like Ironman, some of us get a little more cut up on the inside.

Sometimes we have a piece of clothing that hasn't seen any sunlight in ages. It's smelly, and worn and faded. No matter how many times you wash it, bleach it, or douse it in softener, the stink is so imbedded in the fibers the only way it will leave is if you hang it out to dry.  It needs air, and sunshine, regardless of how ashamed you are that someone will see this filthy laundry you have. Sometimes, it's the only way we can truly move on.

So here I am, airing out my dirty laundry. I've been raped twice, one a pretty grey situation that I rarely speak of because I always have to justify it. The other, date rape.  I have a pretty volatile state of being and I am addressing and working through it.  

I feel a lot less dirty now.

-Grace #Adulting

MOIST/The Wrong Side Of The Bed

Today is one of those days where I really want to just punt a small child. An evil small child, good children don't deserve to be punted.

I have morals.

Nothing happened, I literally woke up and on my way to work started crying over a stupid joke that would normally not offend me. I just felt this flood open up behind my eyeballs and this feeling of anger and futility washed over me.

My boyfriend was very confused, and the people around us probably thought he just dumped me.

My family has spoken of my infamous temper that showed its first inklings as a toddler.  My first word was "eso" (in english: that) And i used it conjunction to anything that captured my fancy. I wanted it all, and by golly fuck all y'all I was gonna get it. So I'd plant my feet, raise my clenched little fists and scream/grunt out of my q-tip shaped head :"EEEEEEEEEEEESSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I know if I ever do decide to have children, there will be a major ass kicking from karma for this.

As I grew older, I learned to suppress my anger, especially after I started acting out violently to those I loved most.  I was a spanked child, and after a while I didn't see anything wrong with hitting first or hitting back. This is why spanking is mostly counter intuitive, unless you want to raise a socio-pathic Jackie Chan.

But as the law of energy goes, it doesn't disappear, it just transfers to something else. And it became through my tears.  I just started to leak, at the slightest provocation. And I was mocked, oh boy, how I was mocked.

My family thought I was being melodramatic. Boyfriends thought I was manipulative. Friends thought I was suicidal.

I thought I was wussy.

But fuck them, I'm not.  I may throw tantrums over little things and I may cry when I see a dog die in movies, but I rarely hurt people I love. I have always owned up to being wrong. I have been stoic and strong when it mattered for others more than myself. I have cried with people when they needed to not feel so alone.

So what, am I gonna cry about it?

You betcha, motherfucker.

The Scarlet Letter

Sometimes I feel like my brain is a hand that has no opposable thumb; that it is lacking in the most basic of functions and reasoning.

But other times I wonder if I feel this way because it's easier to just say something is wrong with me.

Every night, for the past 9 months I have listened to various meditations, mantras, motivational speeches. I've used delta waves, repetition, osmosis, you name it.  I even tried praying. I don't even believe in God, and if I did I'm not egotistical enough to think he'd take the time to listen to me with all the other shit happening.

I have exercised.  I have reflected. I have written. I have sang. And I have cried.

Oh, how I have cried.

I went to the psychiatrist today. I made the appointment 3 weeks ago and have waited anxiously for it since. I wanted help.

He prescribed me pills.

They are not high dosage, they are not intense.  We spoke for about 30 minutes, and he never gave me a diagnosis. I had spoken to him of the various ones I'd had.

He prescribed me pills and psychotherapy, because part of my issue was a personality trait.  I have been off and on meds since I was 14, and talking about my extensive history of struggling was strange because it has been a very long time since I had said it all aloud.  It was like a juvenile's rap sheet, and my conviction was on his prescription pad.

I was ecstatic. I was relieved. I thought "Now I've got the magic elixir, and it will all click in my head and I will be normal".  Then I talked to my boyfriend about it.

My boyfriend is the most level headed, pragmatic and emotionally intelligent person I know. He's also a naturalist who prescribes to his own belief that you just "get it" after continuously thinking about how you need to change.

It made me feel like a failure.

The shame is so palpable I can feel its heat vibrating off my chest and now I want to just crawl under a rock  or live like a hermit.

I'm a failure.

He didn't mean to make me feel this way. Not once did he criticize my choice, he even told me he was proud of me. But I know. I know there's a "but" somewhere.  I know, deep down most likely subconsciously he's lost a little respect for me, as does everyone who finds out I am on medication.  There is always the attached "well, she's on meds".  It's hard enough being taken seriously as a woman. It is a bookmark. It is a stamp.

It is what keeps me up at night frantically listening to these recordings until I wake up in the morning with palpitations and terror.  I am afraid of what I will do or say.

I am afraid that what I accomplish or fail will always be shadowed by this aspect of myself. I fear having people give me that look, the look of pity and the look of fear as if you have something contagious.  I have given it to people myself, and I am so, so sorry for it.

Because it is a scar. It is a branding.

It is a scarlet letter.

-Grace #Adulting