The Story Left Untold

It never ceases to amaze me… how entitled people feel they are, as if they should be privileged to hear my story, and why I am the way I am.

 

You, dear reader, do not know me. Well, perhaps that is presumptuous of me. I assume you do not know me. I hope you do not know me. For my purposes here, I need you to know me… at least a little bit. You could argue that you will only know what I want you to know, and you would be correct. In general, with many people, all you will ever know… is what they want you to know. Not so, for me. Not in this case.

 

This website was a tech blog. It has been for years… since I got this domain in September 2008. It’s been a forum for people to talk, it’s been a place for debates and conversations, and tonight, I threw all that away… because I need something else now. I need something else. I need peace. I need someone to know me. I need someone to know my story. I need someone to know why I am the way I am, and I need someone to be on my side, in my corner, to root for me to win.. for once.

 

My story begins in June 2008. I was 18, and invincible, when I met him. I wasn’t like many teenagers; I did not have a ton of friends. I was never super popular. In him, I thought I had found a kindred spirit of sorts. I saw a damaged person, a person I thought I could “fix.” I saw something I could change in a positive way, a person I could rescue from a dark fate.

 

My two friends and I were driving around to senior parties. It’s some sort of ritual, for those of you who don’t know… high school seniors have these little gatherings for their friends and family to attend shortly before or after graduation. We were happy. It was a beautiful, sunny day.. we were laughing, listening to T-Pain (I remember the most absurd things). One of my friends–we’ll call her A–received a text message from one of her friends asking if we’d like to hang out at his house for a while. He was a few years older than us. We decided to go, since he said a couple other guys would be there. We thought perhaps one of them would be boyfriend material–hey, who knows, right?

 

So we went, and that’s where I initially met him. He was playing some game on Xbox, and I made some nonchalant comment about how Playstation was better.. and we briefly talked, and then he left, so I thought that was Game Over. It wasn’t.

 

The original guy who text messaged A invited us to a bar to hear the Xbox Guy play an instrument at their “open mic” kinda shindig. The three of us kind of exchanged a look (obviously none of us were 21 yet, so we couldn’t really get in), but we said we’d go, and we did.

 

To my surprise, Mr. Xbox could play his instrument pretty well. I don’t want to go into specifics, on the off chance any of those people (him or his family) ever see this post… honestly, I’m sure they will, and I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know that the memory of them still gives me nightmares.

 

Mr. Xbox gave me a great hug at the end of the night, which pleased me immensely, and eventually, I got his phone number, and we talked/text messaged for a while.

 

Days passed, and the Original Guy (the one who first text messaged A) apparently had a Thing for me. He wanted to date me, but so did Mr. Xbox. This was surprising to me, because as I said, I had never really received attention of this kind, so it was entirely unexpected and not altogether unwanted, I suppose. When he found out that I wasn’t even remotely interested in him, Original Guy told my friends that he had “done me in every hole,” and that he had “held a gun to my head and made me suck him while Mr. Xbox watched” (my apologies for the perversity). Little did I know that this would be only the first time of many that I was shown a great amount of sheer disrespect by what I will refer to as “those people.”

 

One day, Original Guy and Mr. Xbox were hanging around our town, and it was fairly late–probably around 11:45 at night. If you’ll recall, they lived in a different town–a town approximately forty miles away. Mr. Xbox received a call from his mother. She was irate that he wasn’t home yet (despite him being 24ish at the time, if memory serves), and said that if he wasn’t home by midnight, he was “kicked out.” Now, the two of them knew they couldn’t make it that far in fifteen minutes. So, I asked A (the driver from earlier? She was my best friend) if he could stay the night at her/her parents’ house (in my defense, she always had people staying the night, which seems odd in itself in hindsight). She agreed, and he lived with them thereafter for months.

 

Mr. Xbox.. sigh. Not a dreamy sigh… a “what was I thinking?” kind of sigh. No form of transportation. No job. Hell, not even a driver’s license. Nothing. Lived there for free, and I drove out there–twenty minutes one way–to see him, every day. When I asked A if he could stay the night, I didn’t realize he’d stay the summer.

 

In this economy, I won’t judge you for not having a car or job, or apartment, or house, or whatever. I really won’t. It’s not my place, and by the end of this story, I’m sure you’ll be judging me quite fairly. But I will judge you for not trying. I do have a problem with people who do not try. I didn’t back then, and maybe that’s why I do now–because I saw what it did. Not just to him, but to everyone around him.

 

Despite having no job, he felt a strong sense of entitlement. He griped that they would ask him to help out around their house/farm. He would complain that they would ask him to fix their computer when it broke, or that they would ask him to cook a meal or clean. He would complain about so many random things, and eventually, we agreed that we should move in together so that we would both be happy. I would be happy to be living with someone I enjoyed, and happy to not hear his constant complaining about how much his life sucks, despite not having to pay for housing, food, or ANYTHING. He would be happy because he’d be living with me, etc etc. It seemed like a good idea.

 

So, I got hired at a retail store an hour away. We applied for an apartment, got accepted. My grandma, who I was living with, was ready to have a stroke——

 

(Insert side story here: one of my grandma’s nephews was a police officer in the town that Mr. Xbox was from. He warned me. He told me about their crazy family, and how I should avoid them like the plague, and how honestly evil they were, and I didn’t believe him. I was gonna do it my way, and so I did. I really, quite frankly, should have listened to this man. To that point, though, Mr. Xbox’s family seemed really nice.)

 

——–but in the end, she had to let me go, because the papers were signed. The keys were mine. Everything was ready to go. She begged me not to go… pleaded with me. I think she knew.. somehow, she knew, and somehow, my friends knew, because they also told me it was a bad idea. Everyone knew.. everyone but me.

 

Our lease started on August 1, 2008. So my grandma helped me move. Through the upstairs window of our town home, I watched her drive away. I think I might have cried a little bit, as if some part of me knew that the next two years of my life would be a living hell.

 

He arrived a little bit later. Since he didn’t have a license, and thus had no car, his older brother (who I hated all along because he was creepy) and mother brought him. Creepy Brother was sizing me up (or giving me “the look” or whatever you want to call it), as usual. I remember being very displeased when I saw Creepy Brother get out of their truck. I voiced this to him later–about being upset that Creepy Brother knew where we lived–and Mr. Xbox got kinda crappy about it, so I let it drop. Warning sign #5478548, right?

 

That was our first night in the same household, and the first night that he raped me. That was my first sexual experience.. how can I even explain how that feels? Not even physically, because at this point, to me, I’m sure it would feel much the same. But the feeling of absolute helplessness, the feeling of terror, the feeling that your OWN BODY is betraying you because it can’t fight hard enough to win.. the feeling that however long that was for him–minutes? hours?–to me, was an eternity. An eternity of my mind instantly being broken. I was gone. I can’t possibly begin to explain how damaging that really is to a person.. and it’s been years, and I still can’t handle even the thought of sex. It makes me feel sick. I can’t tolerate even the slightest touch from a man. I start shaking, and it’s… pitiful.

 

I am not religious, but I always believed in getting married first. That was my end goal.. to marry someone, and be able to experience that together. It was stolen from me by someone who had no idea what “marriage” even means–because apparently, he was technically married, at this point. Surprise!

 

I started my job the next day. I got up that morning, shaking and sore.. put clothes on. Got ready for work, left for work. Started training. Came home, and sat down at my computer desk because I wanted to relax and listen to some music after work.. it was always a ritual for me. I did what I did throughout the day, and when I got home to my grandma’s house, the first thing I did was pee. The second thing I did was turn on iTunes. It was relaxation time.

 

“What? You just gonna ignore me?” he asked. He was sitting at his desk, his back to me. I stared at him for a moment, as if that would make him turn around and face me.

 

“I’m not ignoring you. I just wanted to listen to some music.” He made some sound that resembled a snort, and it made me angry. He hadn’t done anything all day besides browse the internet. I worked, and he didn’t even bother to make dinner. Awkward silence.

 

“I’ve been talking to A today,” he said. “She’s been talking crap about you. She’s telling everyone that we live with my mom.” And just like that, I stopped talking to all my friends. It never occurred to me that he would lie about something like that, so I took it at face value and cut them all off. I cut them out of my life like they didn’t matter at all.

 

I decided I was hungry.

“Hamburger Helper fine?” I asked. He grunted. I went to the kitchen, cooked. We ate. He said he’d wash the dishes, but he didn’t. So, I did that, too.

 

The night… was the same. The same.. thing, every night. Sometimes, during the day, if I was off work, or if he was in “the mood.” Sometimes, I couldn’t walk without feeling pain for several days. Other things started to change.

 

For instance, he would allow me to cook, but he forbade me to wash the dishes. He always said he would do them, but he never would. They would pile up in the sink, and they would sit there. For weeks. Or longer? They grew mold, and he apparently had a “mold allergy.” So, instead of me doing them when they were somewhat clean, he would scream at me every time I’d start them, wait until he couldn’t physically do them, and then make me breathe in the mold spores whilst doing them.

 

My grandma would occasionally visit. I was not the same person. Quiet. Reserved. I rarely spoke. I never told her what was going on. I didn’t tell her about being raped every day/night. He’d hide the dishes in the oven, and refer to her as “Money Bags,” which infuriated me every single time he called her that. She was the only person in this world who loved me, and for him to address her that way… he addressed me as “Spoiled Little Rich Girl.”

 

He swore he’d find a job. He didn’t even look. I was only part time at my job, and with rent so high, I couldn’t afford it. How did we survive the year, you ask? My grandma. My grandma paid our rent. I paid our utilities, or what I could of them. My greatest shame, right there, for you. In black and white… so you know that I’m not saying things out of spite or to make Mr. Xbox look bad. I would apply for jobs for him–fill in the entire application with his information–and beg him to call to check up on them, and he wouldn’t even do that.

 

Eventually, we started talking to our neighbors… a gay couple. They loved him to pieces. I found out.. that they could hear what he was doing to me.. and they did nothing. I could blame them. I could hate them for that, hate them for not calling the police, or breaking down the door and saving me, or whatever.. but I blame myself, because I should have been able to save myself, but I couldn’t. I was too weak.

 

My job became my only form of happiness. I started confiding in a guy from work.. he was very sweet, and I’m honestly sure he didn’t want anything from me (you know what I mean). We texted back and forth… Mr. Xbox went through my phone one night when I was in the shower, and sent the guy some rude messages, and he never talked to me again, even when I tried to explain.

 

Mr. Xbox decided that he missed his family.. so he made us drive there (which was well over an hour drive one way) at least twice a week. How did we afford the gas? I’ll give you a hint; it starts with a “g” and rhymes with…. well, “grandma.” I started to realize that my grandma’s nephew was right, and that they were all evil.

 

Mr. Xbox’s mom took a baseball bat to her boyfriend’s car (a very nice ’79 Corvette) when he made her angry. Some other guy made them angry, and they broke every single window on his car. They tortured a cat to death… put it in a car with a dog, and watched the dog tear it apart.

 

And to me.. to me..

 

They knew I was afraid of loud noises. They shot fireworks at me, and laughed when I sat there, tears leaking down my face because at that point, I learned better than to utter sounds when I cried. I sat there and shook with uncontrollable spasms of fear. His mother would scream at me–any of them, really–all the time, and just the loudness of her voice and the hatred it carried was enough to make me start quivering like a whipped dog.

 

They knew I was afraid of dogs. They’d make their dogs bark at me, and jump on me. And I can hear it, in my head, to this day… five years later, and I can still hear that laughter. That laughter.. that laughter that meant things would only get worse for me, that meant I was always in for more. The laughter that meant I could never get away. I hear that laughter in my head.. and I probably always will.

 

Every time we would visit his family, he would leave in the middle of the night.. with his two brothers. I do not know where they went.. sometimes, they’d come back talking about things they did, like throwing some kid’s bike on the railroad tracks and watching a train run over it, destroying it. These times were the worst. I.. didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know when or if they would come back, or what would happen when they did. I couldn’t sleep when he was gone. Despite him tormenting me in a thousand ways, when we were on his mother’s property, I depended on him to protect me. He didn’t.

 

The same things happened there.. more repulsive, disgusting sex. More disrespect.. because it came from more people than just him. They all resented me, and to this day, I do not know why, or what I did that so offended them.

 

Throughout it all, one consistent thing was the bar they liked… that had the open mic night. Eventually, I met a psychologist (maybe he was a psychiatrist, I don’t know) there. He was one of their friends. For the first time in months, I felt hope. I told him everything that was going on, begged him to help me escape. And you know.. he told Mr. Xbox’s mother everything I said. They got irate. At that point, I knew I was alone.

 

Mr. Xbox wanted his little brother to stay with us for a week for Fall Break. I didn’t want this to happen. A huge fight ensued, and I was weak, so I finally gave in. Little Brother was honestly no better than the rest of them, despite being in high school still. He came to stay, and I was ignored. Unless it was for non-consensual, degrading sex, I was ignored.

 

The two of them wreaked havoc on our apartment complex, forcing themselves to throw up (vomit) all over the exercise equipment, inside the washing machines for residential use, in the swimming pools.. Why? Just to infuriate management, I suppose. Management banned our magnetic cards that opened the fitness rooms and pool entrance, much to my dismay. When the week was over and we had to take Little Brother back to his home, I was glad.

 

The winter brought an unfortunate incident: Mr. Xbox’s mother’s furnace broke. By some logic that I cannot comprehend, he shut off our heat. He said that until her heat was fixed, we would also go without heat. I wonder if he wanted me to ask my grandma to pay for his mother’s furnace to be fixed. I do not know.

 

Another unfortunate incident of the winter.. a snowstorm, a very bad one. It took me over an hour to get home from work (usually a fifteen minute drive). I had been crying, because the roads were so bad that I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make it home. When I got home, instead of being happy that I was alright, he was irate. Irate that I was late, and demanding to know who I’d been having sex with. He constantly accused me of cheating on him… as if I would ever be interested in being physical with anyone after what he did to me.. what a joke. It was laughable that he accused me of it so often.. as if I could stomach even the slightest touch from a man after that. It’s been years, and I still can’t. I still can’t be touched. I cried. God, how I cried that night… cried so hard and so deeply that it seemed like all the air in the world was gone. My world was gone. My hope was gone, my life was gone, my heart was in jagged, empty pieces..

 

It was a regular thing at that point; I’d make some minor error, and he’d scream at me. I would cry, because in all my life, I’d never been yelled at like that before. His mother would yell at her sons or me, and I would get emotional.. I just can’t handle being screamed at. I bawled. I would always cry.. is it ironic now that I am unable to shed tears?

 

I don’t remember what I did, but at one point, I made him so angry that he wouldn’t let me eat anything for like six days. I’m not saying I’m a saint. I do things wrong. I mess things up. In some ways, I deserve what happened to me, because I didn’t listen to the people who told me not to do it. On the other hand.. what could another human being do to you that would make you starve them for nearly a week? It must have been something stupid, because I can’t even remember it.

 

In April 2009, I quit my job because I was tired of hearing him tell me I was banging all my coworkers… people who were really good people, who could see my damaged body, who could tell something was very, very wrong. They called me, begged me to come back, and I wouldn’t do it.

 

So, no more income for us. And my grandma, my biggest fan.. didn’t say anything against me to anybody. My shame.

 

April, still. April’s always a rough month for me, because it represents the anniversary of my almost-death. After a particularly terrible fight between him and me, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I was done. I couldn’t handle the torment, the agony of life anymore.

 

He was upstairs. I went to the kitchen. I got a large, serrated knife, and I dug that thing into my arm, and ripped it down to the bone.

 

Ever seen your insides? It looks like raw hamburger.

 

Bright red blood spewed everywhere. I remember seeing a tiny strand of hair sticking out of the gaping hole in me, and I tried to pull it out. I remember a grim sense of satisfaction when I realized it wasn’t a hair. It was a stream of blood. My blood.

 

It was everywhere. I laid down on my kitchen floor, and waited to die. It pooled on the floor, soaked through the small little rug that I put in front of the sink. I closed my eyes, and started to feel sleepy..

 

He must have come downstairs, because I was saved. Unfortunately, we lived within three minutes of a hospital, and those people really know how to do their jobs. My life was preserved, but it came with a price. The doctors asked a lot, lot, lot of questions. “What happened?”

 

He concocted some story about how we were unloading a moped from the back of my truck, and it slipped (it was raining that night) and caught my arm, ripping it open. They didn’t believe him… and it was obvious. But they saved my life, anyway. They were happy and almost surprised that I could still move my fingers.. though I still cannot make a tight fist with that hand.

 

They stopped the bleeding, stitched me up, gave me some shots to prevent infections and whatnot.. I knew I was screwed. The punishment for that was severe, and even though I am being 150% honest with you right now, there’s still crap I don’t want to talk about. I will not discuss that.

 

But know this: my torment continued, and it was worse for a long time. He told his mother, and she went crazy on me about it. It almost amused me… I don’t think they understood that I actually wanted to die. It wasn’t for attention; I couldn’t handle any more of their attention, really. I just wanted to be done with living in such conditions. I was ready to let go. I was ready to die, to be gone from this world. They thought I was just upset.. I was upset. Upset that he had to find me, before my mission was complete. Upset that the doctors saved me. Upset that he took me back. Upset that the doctors couldn’t JUST LOOK AT ME AND KNOW SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH ME! I was so close–so close to ending the torture, the pain, the agony, the shame! SO, so, SO close..

 

I was told to return after a week or so, so that they could remove the stitches. Mr. Xbox wouldn’t let me go back. I can’t imagine why he’d be against it… being coherent enough to possibly blow the cover off the can of worms would strike fear into the heart of anyone who has a big enough secret to hide. He insisted on removing the stitches himself, and, much to my dismay, he did.

 

It healed, kind of. It isn’t pretty. It’s on my left arm. No hair grows on it. I don’t like it when people ask about it; I use his lie.. about a moped on a rainy night. It’s easier that way. It’s ugly. People ask about it surprisingly often. Just last week, someone asked about it, and I gave the standard lie. I should start saying, “Injured in battle,” or something clever, I suppose.

 

So, like I said, April is always a difficult month for me, because it represents… a lot of different things, and I’ll end it there.

 

Enter Little Brother again, asking to stay the week for Spring Break. Again, I was against it, and again, I lost the fight. We went and got Little Brother. Again, I was generally ignored. I do not remember what happened, but we had been fighting, and Little Brother told Mr. Xbox’s mom, who got so angry that she came to get Little Brother. I was in the shower when she arrived. I heard her pounding on the door, and I was struck with a fear that I had not felt prior to that point. The knowledge that someone knows where I live, and they can come to my home whenever they want, and do whatever they want to me.. and that scares me. Deeply. A deep-rooted fear that still has its claws in my soul, and will not let go.

 

She screamed her tirade at me, collected her son, and left. And I was, again, alone with Mr. Xbox, and now, he was angry. Angry, because Little Brother had been taken away. Again, I cannot talk about.. what happened directly after that. I apologize; I hadn’t wanted to leave anything out, but.. I don’t know if I’m not ready or if I’ll ever be ready, or if I’m just pathetic.

 

He threw away some of my books, because he said I “read too much and didn’t pay attention to him.” One of those books was precious to me, given to me by my best male friend. It was the first to disappear. I was having problems getting my first spry menu system to work one day (a web design thing), and he said, “Aren’t you going to school for that?” The constant displays of massive disrespect.. were so commonplace by that point, that even though it still hurt my feelings tremendously, I could no longer react to it. I was dehumanized to a point that would impress our military. Though my mind could register the cutting remarks, I was unable to react.

 

He threatened to take away my Blankie (yeah, my baby Blankie, ok? Get over it). My Blankies are seriously the most sacred things I possess.. they comfort me. I cry on them, cuddle them. They warm me, comfort me. If you’ve never had something like that, I don’t know how to explain it. He said he was gonna cut them up or burn them or something along those lines, and I wailed. Like a baby.. over their Blankie. I cried a river, and I have never felt more pathetic than I did in that moment.

 

Granted, I would cry over my Blankies right now if someone did something to them. They’re essential to my life. But it’s the fact that I cried over that in front of such a demeaning, evil person that bothers me.

 

Fast forward a little bit.. the lease is over, and I am moving back to grandma’s house. Thank God, right? It’s over, right? Wrong.

 

He moved back to his mother’s house, still jobless. I moved back to my grandma’s, also jobless (I quit, remember?).

 

In August 2009, I moved back in with my grandma. I kept dating him, driving to see him twice a week. The sexual assaults slowed, but never stopped. Eventually, he started working for a guy who was in the car repair business. That guy’s garage became my worst nightmare.. because then, once more, we were alone together, and then, once again, my body became my worst enemy.

 

I was happy that he finally had a job, questionable as it was… as pay was under the table, in cash. It struck me as odd, but I really don’t know how those places do business, so what can I say? I do not know. It was run, like I said, out of the guy’s garage, so I don’t know. Mr. Xbox griped about it constantly, and at this point, I could see it for what it was: entitlement. He wanted to get paid for not doing crap with his life, and when he saw it could never be that way, he didn’t like it. Too bad for him, because that isn’t how this life works. You know that, and I know that. Normal people know that. None of those people know that.

 

I had no friends anymore. I chose him over all of them; he alienated me too well. Or, rather, I believed what he told me, that my friends were “talking crap.” I so easily cut them out of my life. Eeeeevery single one of them. I hold no illusions; while he did do these things intentionally, I allowed it to happen. I have only myself to blame.

 

My family resented me.. I lost them, too. I had stopped talking to them as well, primarily because he always spoke badly of them. To shut him up, I always backed down so easily. I never stood up for them, and I never stood up for myself. I finally had no one except him, and his hateful family.

 

So many memories.. from the apartment. I remember how he got into Craigslist, and how he was always trading stuff with people. He traded some stuff for a gun once, and waved it around in my face, telling me that if I ever left him, he’d kill me. I wanted to tell him to just do it, because at that point, I no longer cared about living. Life had lost its allure. I had given up on being saved. I knew no one would come for me this time..

 

I remember him having all sorts of people come to our apartment to “trade things.” I was always terrified.. that they would be evil, or that they would hurt me. Or that they would see my pain, and try to take me away, and I knew he would never allow it.. and I’d be punished.

 

I remember during the fall.. when I had finally returned to my grandma’s house, my menstrual cycle was like a month and a half late. I thought by some ungodly stroke of terrible luck, he had impregnated me. But alas, it was not so. I suppose it was stress-related. It is.. ironic, a bit. All about that. 

 

His family expected me to be pregnant. I pretended to be excited or hopeful or something.. but in my head, I was trying to figure out how to kill myself and make it look like an unfortunate accident. I would have died before bringing another evil being into this world. I was ready to die for that cause.. I still would. I would still die before bearing that jerk’s child. I would watch myself die a thousand deaths before allowing that to happen.

 

The final heartbreak was New Year’s Eve.. 2009. I went to visit him, to spend the dawning of the new year with them.. with people who did not love or care for me at all. His mother got drunk, and started yelling at me because I had a cat.. yeah. Pitiful. I said nothing to her.. but he started to argue with her, and she got angry. She started screaming at me, and I knew I had to go. I couldn’t take it. I was sobbing. I made it to the front door, and right before I put my hand on the doorknob, I turned to her. Through my tears, I said, “I love you.” She was overtaken with rage, and she pulled her house phone off the charger and threw it at me.. nailed me with it. I started to cry harder, and ran. I fled to my truck, my salvation. He followed me, and I drove us to a nearby gas station to park for a moment. I just needed to cry, and I did.. heart wrenching, gasping sobs. My love has always been a joke.. I loved them. I loved those people, and still.. they hurt me severely.

 

That was the last time I saw them. We kept dating for a few months after that, but I never went back. I could not return.. the fear was too strong. I finally broke up with him on May 6, 2010. Or rather.. I stopped talking to him. I deleted him from my Facebook, and changed my status to single, and that’s how it happened. His family and friends talked publicly on his Facebook page about all the things they were going to do to me for leaving.. beat me to death, etc. My greatest fear is still them finding me.. I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid to die. I am afraid of being taken back.. back to them, and never being able to escape.. becoming a sex slave, becoming a punching bag, becoming a shell again.

 

I am truly terrified of that.

 

And now I must apologize. I apologize for being weak, and letting this happen to me. I apologize for not trying harder to save myself, for expecting the proverbial “knight in shining armour” to save me. I am so sorry for all the pain I caused the people I love.. it was my stupidity, my desire to be someone. My desire to want to help another human being, my pathetic personality..

 

Two of my close friends view me as vulnerable, as fragile.. I may have been severely hurt, but.. it hurts so much to think they think me so pitiful. I guess in some ways, I am.. but I lived. Not by my choice, but I lived. I am not fragile. I am a battle-scarred young woman. My armour might not shine.. it is dented and rusty from years of servitude, so before you count me out.. I am not nothing yet.

 

For my grandma, I am eternally thankful. Thank you.. thank you for making sure I didn’t starve, for making sure I was taken care of, despite your hatred for him. Thank you for allowing me to come back here, for trying so hard to get me to talk about things that I still can’t talk about. Thank you for your unconditional love.. for my entire life, you have loved me the most. Your love has sustained me. When every other love wilted and died.. yours lived on. I love you.

   

Aftermath

 

The aftereffects of this still linger. It has been several years, and I.. am still unable to be intimate. I cannot go to any of my friends’ houses, nor can I ride in another person’s vehicle. I am terrified of being on someone else’s property.. because in my experience, terrible things can happen to you if you are on another person’s property. The fear is so severe that if I try to set foot on someone else’s property, I get sick… dizzy, shaking, nauseated.. sweating profusely. I suffer from chronic nightmares (these begin in middle school, actually), and though I suffered from them before.. my nightmares have a face now, and it’s him. In my dreams, I see him, and it’s like I was never gone; it’s like I’m still there, and the fear is.. absolute. I wake up in tears, shaking, soaked with sweat.. sometimes I can remember my dreams, and sometimes I am blessed with forgetting.

 

I apologize that this.. is not written as well as some of my other posts. I can’t.. recall many things about that time period, and sometimes, I will have a flashback, and I’ll remember things forgotten. Sometimes, the fear is closer to the surface, and I am literally in a state of terror all day.. I call them “off days,” when the past is closer to my mind than the present. The line gets blurred sometimes. I’m sorry if the order of events is a little weird in places.. it took me months to write this, because I had to keep stopping. I couldn’t handle it.

 

And again, to reiterate.. it was all my fault. My weakness did this to me, so don’t think I am blaming him, or blaming his family, or anyone. Please don’t… leave me nasty comments about this. I can’t take it. I know this world is cruel, so please.. just don’t. I learned my lesson. I know I was stupid.. so please don’t point it out. I have had enough of that already. If I remember anything else, I will add it to this post.

   

All my love,
B