In the interest of explaining just what the hell I was doing for the entire month of November (because it obviously wasn't updating my blog), I was doing NaNoWriMo.
It's a challenge to everyone who claims to be a writer, thinks they ARE a writer, and wants to be one, too.
Me? I wrote more words than a sane person ever should. That's not important now, though. That comes later.
The point of NaNoWriMo is to challenge yourself to finally write that novel. Yeah, it may not be good, but it's written. You can fix it later. I've never gone into NaNo expecting to write something so fantastic that I don't need to edit it. I've been known to send characters off on rants about Finland, or have them all start singing a song they hear on the radio because I have NO IDEA what to do next. It doesn't need to be GOOD writing, you just need to shut up and WRITE it. If you worry about it being the best novel ever written on your first draft, it'll never get it written.
This year, I wrote several different plots. I'm betting when I get around to editing, I'll probably scrap most of them. The ones I don't shove in the vault, never to see the light of day again, will be rewritten. You see, my challenge to myself this year, instead of sticking to the way I'm used to writing, was to write across as many genres as I could. It just happened to tie in beautifully with the idea of writing a million words in November, something I had always wanted to try. I know my own limits better than anyone else. I had to see if it was possible.
For me, it is. I have a fast enough typing speed that I can get away with things like writing 80k in a day (which I really don't recommend, by the way). I had the free time, stamina, tendency toward insomnia, and sheer force of will to sit at my computer for eight to ten hours a day doing nothing but writing. I polished off the month with 1,061,892 words, which left me 4,108 words short of five million for the year.
I don't know if I'll do this again. The million was a blast, I must admit. I guess I'll wait and see how next year unfolds.
To December, and beyond!
I'm working on editing 2008's NaNo, which I utterly failed at completing in November. I did finish it by the time February '09 rolled around, though. When that gets too frustrating, I switch to re-writing the first half of Caillien's story, which took me ten years to get on paper. The problem with taking ten years? I started when I was twelve. It is very, very obvious in the way I used to write. I'm editing with the intent of losing the "one day, I might be satisfied with this, and maybe one day, I'll be published and everyone will love me" attitude. I'm editing for my own good, and yes, I would love to be a published author one day, but that will never happen if I'm not willing to buckle down and do this properly. I can write as much as I want in a month. There hasn't been a day this year that I haven't sat down at my computer and worked on one of my stories. I have to stop thinking in the "one day" mindset. No more "maybe". If this is worth doing at all, it's worth doing right. Now that I've thoroughly contradicted myself and confused everyone, I'll move on.
As of right now, writing is my hobby. It's a hobby I put significant amounts of time in, and I get very little out of it beyond the satisfaction of finishing whatever was in my head. It's time to take this to the next level, and it's time to get things ready for readers.
Somewhere along the path to utter insanity, I remembered a few things I apparently forgot.
To my cheerleaders, thank you. Your support means a lot to me. This includes the overachievers who kept me going, even when all I wanted to do was curl up and sleep.
To my very serious brethren, especially those of you who tried NaNo this year (but mostly Allo, Athy, and Ocie, who are all fantastic ladies), thanks for always being around when I needed a character named, a dare thrown in, and a random Scottish accent no one could understand.
Many thanks to Ho, who was always there when I needed a laugh.
Thanks to Lys, who helped me find Nessie.
To my rival and fellow ridiculous overachiever, it was a BLAST writing with you! Rock on with your bad self.
To the handful of new readers who wandered over here from the NaNo pages, hai! Glad you enjoy my blog.
To my haters, thanks! You gave me the motivation to rub it in your faces. I don't need you and I don't need your pity, so kindly go fuck yourselves.
01 December, 2011
24 October, 2011
Things OCD does to me
I've mentioned it before.
I have a rather mild form of OCD. You'll occasionally find me cleaning ALL THE THINGS, but it's considerably more likely that I'm manic at the time and not caught in a bout with obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Instead, I do everything in prime numbers. I can actually recite all the prime numbers up to 1009. It's a fun party trick. Actually, check that. 1013. Combine that with my knowledge of the first 103 digits of pi and I'm pretty much a walking dictionary of useless shit.
I once made a friend switch seats with me in class because his chair was prime and mine was not. At recitals, I always sit in the fifth chair of the fifth row. When I book tickets for musicals, I ask for a prime numbered chair.
I walk in prime numbers. I will count every step on every sidewalk section, and if it's not prime, I have to go back and MAKE it prime. Most fall nicely into twos and threes, though, and the ones that don't are generally fives and sevens.
I eat in prime numbers. Back when I could eat pepperoni, there had to be a prime number of pieces on each slice of pizza I ate. I organize my M&Ms by colour, then in prime numbered rows. If a colour fails to be prime, I pass off the spares to the nearest person who understands/doesn't question why I have to do things this way. Today, I drank three cans of soda. I've had two slices of pie. I ate two small bowls of mac & cheese with two small dill pickles, I had two waffles for breakfast, I put exactly seven shakes of nutmeg into the sugar blend for the pie, which had exactly five ingredients. I used five apples to make the pie, and total (including the sugar blend), it had seven ingredients.
I take ice cubes in prime numbers. It doesn't help that my ice cube trays, for some reason, make seventeen cubes each. Most recipes I have commited to memory have prime numbers of ingredients and are memorized in alphabetical order. I'm fairly sure this isn't a normal thing. Go ahead, blame it on little memory tricks. Explain to me, though, why things with eight or four ingredients just don't stick in my head.
Onward! To more crazy things!
My bookshelves are arranged in a somewhat unique matter.
Most people arrange alphabetically by author. My father organizes the next set (multiple books, same author) by title, unless they're obviously a series (2001, 2010, 2061, 3001). Usually, the two are the same thing.
My books are arranged by author, until I get to the "D"s. Then I have every DragonLance book I own, arranged chronologically by placement in the saga. I've read every book, just to figure out where they go in this order. After that, it continues normally until I get to the "F"s. Then, Forgotten Realms books take over for a while, arranged in the same manner as the previous saga.
It's not just sagas and such. I have every Redwall book by Brian Jacques, organized by where they fall on the timeline. Well, fine. That was something similar. If I have several books, not connected by a timeline, they're organized by when they were published, not by title. I can find every book I'm looking for, exactly when I want it, but Fiance still looks at my shelves wondering what on earth is going on.
Fiance moved a shirt in the closet on me once. It was just a shirt. Nothing particularly wonderful about it. Just a black Uni t-shirt, with "IDAHO" written across the chest.
I noticed it was out of place when I stumbled out of bed to get dressed. I was running late, though, so I told myself it wouldn't be that big of a deal, and let it stay there.
I ended up skipping class just to fix the shirt in the closet. It bugged me THAT. MUCH. It was only swapped over two, so instead of being with my "school pride" shirts, it was in with my Jazz Fest shirts (I should note I have a prime number of shirts, and a prime number of categories, too). Things HAVE to be where they're supposed to be. It eats away at my mind if they aren't.
When I worked at the Chinese restaurant, I meticulously organized all of the silverware. I have to stop myself from rearranging silverware when I go out to restaurants with friends and family. It's easier at most places, though, because they have a prime number of pieces. The Chinese restaurant had four. I rationalized it by saying there were three KINDS of silverware.
The point of this?
Not all people with OCD are rearranging the threads on their carpets, making sure they're all the same way. Not all of us have to wash our hands every time we touch something "unclean". I don't have to touch the doorknob three times before I can open it. My apartment is rarely what you might call "clean" or "organized". The things that matter to me, like my books, games, and clothes, are all exactly where they're supposed to be. Everything else is just a bit of organized chaos.
I have a rather mild form of OCD. You'll occasionally find me cleaning ALL THE THINGS, but it's considerably more likely that I'm manic at the time and not caught in a bout with obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Instead, I do everything in prime numbers. I can actually recite all the prime numbers up to 1009. It's a fun party trick. Actually, check that. 1013. Combine that with my knowledge of the first 103 digits of pi and I'm pretty much a walking dictionary of useless shit.
I once made a friend switch seats with me in class because his chair was prime and mine was not. At recitals, I always sit in the fifth chair of the fifth row. When I book tickets for musicals, I ask for a prime numbered chair.
I walk in prime numbers. I will count every step on every sidewalk section, and if it's not prime, I have to go back and MAKE it prime. Most fall nicely into twos and threes, though, and the ones that don't are generally fives and sevens.
I eat in prime numbers. Back when I could eat pepperoni, there had to be a prime number of pieces on each slice of pizza I ate. I organize my M&Ms by colour, then in prime numbered rows. If a colour fails to be prime, I pass off the spares to the nearest person who understands/doesn't question why I have to do things this way. Today, I drank three cans of soda. I've had two slices of pie. I ate two small bowls of mac & cheese with two small dill pickles, I had two waffles for breakfast, I put exactly seven shakes of nutmeg into the sugar blend for the pie, which had exactly five ingredients. I used five apples to make the pie, and total (including the sugar blend), it had seven ingredients.
I take ice cubes in prime numbers. It doesn't help that my ice cube trays, for some reason, make seventeen cubes each. Most recipes I have commited to memory have prime numbers of ingredients and are memorized in alphabetical order. I'm fairly sure this isn't a normal thing. Go ahead, blame it on little memory tricks. Explain to me, though, why things with eight or four ingredients just don't stick in my head.
Onward! To more crazy things!
My bookshelves are arranged in a somewhat unique matter.
Most people arrange alphabetically by author. My father organizes the next set (multiple books, same author) by title, unless they're obviously a series (2001, 2010, 2061, 3001). Usually, the two are the same thing.
My books are arranged by author, until I get to the "D"s. Then I have every DragonLance book I own, arranged chronologically by placement in the saga. I've read every book, just to figure out where they go in this order. After that, it continues normally until I get to the "F"s. Then, Forgotten Realms books take over for a while, arranged in the same manner as the previous saga.
It's not just sagas and such. I have every Redwall book by Brian Jacques, organized by where they fall on the timeline. Well, fine. That was something similar. If I have several books, not connected by a timeline, they're organized by when they were published, not by title. I can find every book I'm looking for, exactly when I want it, but Fiance still looks at my shelves wondering what on earth is going on.
Fiance moved a shirt in the closet on me once. It was just a shirt. Nothing particularly wonderful about it. Just a black Uni t-shirt, with "IDAHO" written across the chest.
I noticed it was out of place when I stumbled out of bed to get dressed. I was running late, though, so I told myself it wouldn't be that big of a deal, and let it stay there.
I ended up skipping class just to fix the shirt in the closet. It bugged me THAT. MUCH. It was only swapped over two, so instead of being with my "school pride" shirts, it was in with my Jazz Fest shirts (I should note I have a prime number of shirts, and a prime number of categories, too). Things HAVE to be where they're supposed to be. It eats away at my mind if they aren't.
When I worked at the Chinese restaurant, I meticulously organized all of the silverware. I have to stop myself from rearranging silverware when I go out to restaurants with friends and family. It's easier at most places, though, because they have a prime number of pieces. The Chinese restaurant had four. I rationalized it by saying there were three KINDS of silverware.
The point of this?
Not all people with OCD are rearranging the threads on their carpets, making sure they're all the same way. Not all of us have to wash our hands every time we touch something "unclean". I don't have to touch the doorknob three times before I can open it. My apartment is rarely what you might call "clean" or "organized". The things that matter to me, like my books, games, and clothes, are all exactly where they're supposed to be. Everything else is just a bit of organized chaos.
22 October, 2011
Things that make me flail
In just under two months, I'm getting married.
After copious amounts of drama involving my father's wife, we finally got things settled. I'm actively pursuing a restraining order on her, my father is walking me down the aisle, and my brother will be at my wedding.
And now I'm going to go back to flailing in my corner, because HOLY CRAP THIS IS ALL ACTUALLY HAPPENING.
After copious amounts of drama involving my father's wife, we finally got things settled. I'm actively pursuing a restraining order on her, my father is walking me down the aisle, and my brother will be at my wedding.
And now I'm going to go back to flailing in my corner, because HOLY CRAP THIS IS ALL ACTUALLY HAPPENING.
18 September, 2011
Waiter! There's a dead guy in my soup!
Sometimes, my mind likes to play lovely little tricks on me.
Like tonight, for instance.
I love rain. It's one of my favourite things. The smell, the way it cools everything down, and that breeze that blows it in hours beforehand. I love all of it.
It started pouring not too long ago, so, as I am prone to doing, I put on my pajama pants and dashed outside to enjoy the rain.
Then I realized something.
I was OUTSIDE.
AFTER DARK.
And thus, I panicked.
Your guess is as good as mine. I'm not entirely sure why being outside after dark now causes me to panic, but now that it's over, I find it rather amusing. Even with my bucketload of crazy, I have to stop and laugh at myself.
Life is what you make of it. If you don't step back from it all and laugh at yourself, you're doing it wrong.
Like tonight, for instance.
I love rain. It's one of my favourite things. The smell, the way it cools everything down, and that breeze that blows it in hours beforehand. I love all of it.
It started pouring not too long ago, so, as I am prone to doing, I put on my pajama pants and dashed outside to enjoy the rain.
Then I realized something.
I was OUTSIDE.
AFTER DARK.
And thus, I panicked.
Your guess is as good as mine. I'm not entirely sure why being outside after dark now causes me to panic, but now that it's over, I find it rather amusing. Even with my bucketload of crazy, I have to stop and laugh at myself.
Life is what you make of it. If you don't step back from it all and laugh at yourself, you're doing it wrong.
12 September, 2011
Psychoanalyze me, Captain!
It's been more than a month since my last post.
Thanks again for the support, everyone.
Today, I'm going to talk about my one completely irrational fear.
Zombies.
I'm utterly terrified of them. I think it's mostly because I'm kinda fat and lazy and I have asthma, so if I ever need to run like hell, my chances of survival are pretty slim. Beyond that, I'm just scared.
Perhaps this fear stems from the fact that zombies aren't aware of WHO they were, or what they're doing, or worse, who I am. The other day, I had the "zombie dream", in which my entire town is zombified and I'm the only survivor. I'm running like crazy through town, waiting for the sun to come up because that's somehow my only chance of surviving, and when I get home, the Army is outside my apartment and Fiance is a zombie. I walked home from work last night comparing why my dream could not be real because of silly little things, like the bag of fortune cookies I had in my hand and the rock concert that was going on downtown. The nightmare is made all the more frightening by the little similarites I've managed to draw between dreams I've had and my real world life months (and sometimes years) later.
Zombies are irrational, unaware, and just want to kill me. I don't think I'd ever be able to get past whether or not I knew the person before, or what they meant to me. It's why Fiance is the zombie in my dream, and why he's the person I dread finding the most. My mind intentionally puts me in the situation I'm most afraid of, and I don't know how to handle it.
A lot of people poke fun at my terror, and honestly, it is a little silly. I always say it's the most legitimate of my fears, but spiders are at least REAL. Spiders can genuinely fuck you up. Zombies? Well, I shouldn't have to worry about them. The problem, of course, is that I DO worry. I spend an absurd amount of time worrying about something that I wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about. Honestly, I would probably make it to Day Two of the Apocalypse and find some way to die rather than face this fear.
I grew up with a pretty solid sense of what is real and what is fictional, but zombies are the one thing I've never been able to place on either side of the line. I had no problem watching vampire movies, because vampires (for the most part) maintain some part of their humanity. Zombies aren't even remotely "human". Watching five minutes of a zombie movie makes me feel horrible, scared, alone, and occasionally queasy. Silly, yes. Terrifying? Yes. I willingly admit it's an unlikely occurence, but that tiny little bit of doubt about it has found enough room to take root and grip me in my own fear. A little drop of doubt. That was all it took.
Thanks again for the support, everyone.
Today, I'm going to talk about my one completely irrational fear.
Zombies.
I'm utterly terrified of them. I think it's mostly because I'm kinda fat and lazy and I have asthma, so if I ever need to run like hell, my chances of survival are pretty slim. Beyond that, I'm just scared.
Perhaps this fear stems from the fact that zombies aren't aware of WHO they were, or what they're doing, or worse, who I am. The other day, I had the "zombie dream", in which my entire town is zombified and I'm the only survivor. I'm running like crazy through town, waiting for the sun to come up because that's somehow my only chance of surviving, and when I get home, the Army is outside my apartment and Fiance is a zombie. I walked home from work last night comparing why my dream could not be real because of silly little things, like the bag of fortune cookies I had in my hand and the rock concert that was going on downtown. The nightmare is made all the more frightening by the little similarites I've managed to draw between dreams I've had and my real world life months (and sometimes years) later.
Zombies are irrational, unaware, and just want to kill me. I don't think I'd ever be able to get past whether or not I knew the person before, or what they meant to me. It's why Fiance is the zombie in my dream, and why he's the person I dread finding the most. My mind intentionally puts me in the situation I'm most afraid of, and I don't know how to handle it.
A lot of people poke fun at my terror, and honestly, it is a little silly. I always say it's the most legitimate of my fears, but spiders are at least REAL. Spiders can genuinely fuck you up. Zombies? Well, I shouldn't have to worry about them. The problem, of course, is that I DO worry. I spend an absurd amount of time worrying about something that I wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about. Honestly, I would probably make it to Day Two of the Apocalypse and find some way to die rather than face this fear.
I grew up with a pretty solid sense of what is real and what is fictional, but zombies are the one thing I've never been able to place on either side of the line. I had no problem watching vampire movies, because vampires (for the most part) maintain some part of their humanity. Zombies aren't even remotely "human". Watching five minutes of a zombie movie makes me feel horrible, scared, alone, and occasionally queasy. Silly, yes. Terrifying? Yes. I willingly admit it's an unlikely occurence, but that tiny little bit of doubt about it has found enough room to take root and grip me in my own fear. A little drop of doubt. That was all it took.
10 August, 2011
It took me a while to think of something to follow the last post. As a matter of fact, I STILL don't know what I'm going to ramble about today.
Thanks, everyone, for the somewhat surprising support. I really wasn't expecting so many people to react the way they did, and for those who shared their stories with me, I think I love you EVEN MORE. You are all amazing, wonderful people, and none of us deserved what happened. I'm happy people trust me enough to tell me these things, and rest assured no one else will know until you're as ready as you can be to talk.
I spent a lot of time after my last post genuinely terrified, mostly of what people would think. Then I realized something rather spectacular.
I didn't CARE. I don't care if anyone thinks I'm making it all up for attention, or if people think I need to be heavily medicated or WHATEVER. It doesn't matter what everyone else thinks, because I finally made my life tolerable.
So fuck you, random person who hates me. You can spend your energy trying to convince people I'm lying, and frankly, I'm not going to bother cleaning up after you. My life is pretty freaking ok right now, and that's what's important to me. Whether or not you believe me is pretty low on my list of important shit to care about.
I have no way to end this post without repeating myself more than I already have, so that's all for this week.
Thanks, everyone, for the somewhat surprising support. I really wasn't expecting so many people to react the way they did, and for those who shared their stories with me, I think I love you EVEN MORE. You are all amazing, wonderful people, and none of us deserved what happened. I'm happy people trust me enough to tell me these things, and rest assured no one else will know until you're as ready as you can be to talk.
I spent a lot of time after my last post genuinely terrified, mostly of what people would think. Then I realized something rather spectacular.
I didn't CARE. I don't care if anyone thinks I'm making it all up for attention, or if people think I need to be heavily medicated or WHATEVER. It doesn't matter what everyone else thinks, because I finally made my life tolerable.
So fuck you, random person who hates me. You can spend your energy trying to convince people I'm lying, and frankly, I'm not going to bother cleaning up after you. My life is pretty freaking ok right now, and that's what's important to me. Whether or not you believe me is pretty low on my list of important shit to care about.
I have no way to end this post without repeating myself more than I already have, so that's all for this week.
29 July, 2011
This needs to be said.
I'm betting this will take me to a dark scary place, but I NEED to talk about it.
Let me say here that I don't expect your sympathy, nor do I WANT it. I don't want to hear "I'm sorry" or "That sucks". I KNOW it sucked. You shouldn't apologize because it wasn't YOUR FAULT. There was nothing you could do (unless you've been hiding a time machine from me, in which case, GO! FIX IT!).
I will try to be funny. I will probably fail at being funny. DON'T MAKE FUN OF MY PATHETIC SURVIVAL MECHANISMS.
I've kept The Ex to myself for a long time. I've had my reasons for doing such, but it's been three years now, and it's time to get this out so I can put the whole thing in the past, where it really needs to be. I got myself to a place where I can think about this and not want to puke, and Max (Fiance) is aware of as much of this as I could tell him. Now it's time to tell you.
I met him when I was a freshman in college. He was my friend's friend from high school; she didn't like the boy I was dating (and to be honest, neither did I) so she set me up with him the day after I broke up with him.
Needless to say, I don't speak with her these days, either.
I was lonely and desparate. I needed some sort of validation that I wasn't going to be by myself and turn into a crazy cat lady, or maybe just that someone *might* be able to be attracted to me. It was a week before Valentine's Day. I slept with him before I even knew his last name. I casually asked our mutual friend how to spell it the next day, but I still felt like a slut. This happened four and a half YEARS ago and I still feel like a slut when I think about it.
There was a lot of sex. It strikes my memory as being GOOD sex, but when you're as screwed up as I am, it probably wouldn't have been good to anyone else. Things were ok in general. Things got rougher, but only in bed, so I didn't worry because at least he wasn't hitting me. I let him get away with it. Instead of saying "no, I don't want you to literally chain me to the bed", I let him use a dog choke collar on my wrists. It made me lose all feeling in my hands for DAYS, which is horrible when you're an instrumentalist.
After that, he decided handcuffs would be better, but he was too cheap to spring for bondage cuffs. That's right. He used the metal kind. Instead of stopping when it crossed from 'good pain' to "OH GOD I'M BLEEDING", he just kept right on going. The doctor said I was lucky it didn't scar. I've seen other people with scars from metal handcuffs. It looks like they tried to kill themselves.
Right before the end of that semester, he "forgot" the condoms. Being stupid and lonely and genuinely afraid he would leave me if I ever said 'no', I didn't protest. He left for basic training two days after finals week and I moved in with my father for a couple months, until our lease started on our apartment (with our mutual friend as a roommate).
It was a horrible shock when I realized it. I was over a month late. A MONTH. I did the only thing a nineteen year old girl with no means to support a child and terrified of her parents finding out ANYTHING could do. I never told The Ex about it. I let him go right on thinking he'd gotten away with it. He had. I let him get away with it.
We wrote letters back and forth while he was at basic training (and later AIT). I still have every letter he wrote to me. I've been trying to work up the balls to burn them, to sever that last little connection, but I've never gone through with it. I always just shove them back in the darkest corner of my desk drawers and hope I'll never see them again.
Every single one says "I love you." I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe it so much that I completely ignored every voice in my mind telling me to run. So I let him get away with it. I rolled over and let him do what he wanted. I LET him, but it was somehow different. This time I knew what was going on, and I allowed it to happen. I wanted to be loved, so I kept ignoring the little voices in my head.
He got back from AIT in late September. He still didn't know he'd almost had a spawnling. I never let anyone know, not for several years. Not until I was free.
That was the only night I ever said "no". I never said it again. It didn't do anything. Everything was exactly the same. Some sick part of me enjoyed it, the humilation, the shame, and the pain. That part of me always enjoyed it. It still makes me sick to think of it. The word "slut" gets stuck in my brain again, sticking to everything, ruining everything. I ENJOYED it.
Of course, he didn't helpt he process much. He made me quit my job, leaving both of us unemployed and living off my tiny savings account because he couldn't stand the way other people looked at me. I was HIS. I wasn't allowed to talk to my male friends, because clearly I would cheat on him. I was a slut, after all. I ENJOYED it. I was nothing, nothing, because I enjoyed it. It wasn't rape. Couldn't be. I enjoyed it.
I locked myself away. I went to classes, I hung out with my exclusively female friends (I was occasionally allowed to visit my male friends, but only if he was there to assert his claim on me). I was nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. I know I passed my classes, but just barely. He wrecked an almost perfect GPA, but I was passing, so no one noticed I wasn't in there. I don't remember most of that year. I consider that a blessing.
I don't know when I finally pulled myself back. I don't know when it became too much. Our roommate moved out to live with her boyfriend and didn't say a word. She knew, though. I know she did. One of my good friend's girlfriends attached herself to me, maybe because she knew, too. We'd known each other for a month, at most. She got me out. She pulled me out of my shell, inch by inch, until I couldn't roll over and let him get away with it. She moved into the spare bedroom and refused to let me be alone with him for any reason. I slept in her room, she handled everything when we kicked him out, and I didn't come face to face with him again unti the baseball bat incident.
I wasn't even strong enough to get myself out. I hate myself for it. She was my personal saviour. If I were religious, I'd say some cosmic being sent her to make things right, but I'm not. She just knew I needed help somehow and dropped everything to help me.
And there it is.
I'm going to go make a cup of tea now.
Let me say here that I don't expect your sympathy, nor do I WANT it. I don't want to hear "I'm sorry" or "That sucks". I KNOW it sucked. You shouldn't apologize because it wasn't YOUR FAULT. There was nothing you could do (unless you've been hiding a time machine from me, in which case, GO! FIX IT!).
I will try to be funny. I will probably fail at being funny. DON'T MAKE FUN OF MY PATHETIC SURVIVAL MECHANISMS.
I've kept The Ex to myself for a long time. I've had my reasons for doing such, but it's been three years now, and it's time to get this out so I can put the whole thing in the past, where it really needs to be. I got myself to a place where I can think about this and not want to puke, and Max (Fiance) is aware of as much of this as I could tell him. Now it's time to tell you.
I met him when I was a freshman in college. He was my friend's friend from high school; she didn't like the boy I was dating (and to be honest, neither did I) so she set me up with him the day after I broke up with him.
Needless to say, I don't speak with her these days, either.
I was lonely and desparate. I needed some sort of validation that I wasn't going to be by myself and turn into a crazy cat lady, or maybe just that someone *might* be able to be attracted to me. It was a week before Valentine's Day. I slept with him before I even knew his last name. I casually asked our mutual friend how to spell it the next day, but I still felt like a slut. This happened four and a half YEARS ago and I still feel like a slut when I think about it.
There was a lot of sex. It strikes my memory as being GOOD sex, but when you're as screwed up as I am, it probably wouldn't have been good to anyone else. Things were ok in general. Things got rougher, but only in bed, so I didn't worry because at least he wasn't hitting me. I let him get away with it. Instead of saying "no, I don't want you to literally chain me to the bed", I let him use a dog choke collar on my wrists. It made me lose all feeling in my hands for DAYS, which is horrible when you're an instrumentalist.
After that, he decided handcuffs would be better, but he was too cheap to spring for bondage cuffs. That's right. He used the metal kind. Instead of stopping when it crossed from 'good pain' to "OH GOD I'M BLEEDING", he just kept right on going. The doctor said I was lucky it didn't scar. I've seen other people with scars from metal handcuffs. It looks like they tried to kill themselves.
Right before the end of that semester, he "forgot" the condoms. Being stupid and lonely and genuinely afraid he would leave me if I ever said 'no', I didn't protest. He left for basic training two days after finals week and I moved in with my father for a couple months, until our lease started on our apartment (with our mutual friend as a roommate).
It was a horrible shock when I realized it. I was over a month late. A MONTH. I did the only thing a nineteen year old girl with no means to support a child and terrified of her parents finding out ANYTHING could do. I never told The Ex about it. I let him go right on thinking he'd gotten away with it. He had. I let him get away with it.
We wrote letters back and forth while he was at basic training (and later AIT). I still have every letter he wrote to me. I've been trying to work up the balls to burn them, to sever that last little connection, but I've never gone through with it. I always just shove them back in the darkest corner of my desk drawers and hope I'll never see them again.
Every single one says "I love you." I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe it so much that I completely ignored every voice in my mind telling me to run. So I let him get away with it. I rolled over and let him do what he wanted. I LET him, but it was somehow different. This time I knew what was going on, and I allowed it to happen. I wanted to be loved, so I kept ignoring the little voices in my head.
He got back from AIT in late September. He still didn't know he'd almost had a spawnling. I never let anyone know, not for several years. Not until I was free.
That was the only night I ever said "no". I never said it again. It didn't do anything. Everything was exactly the same. Some sick part of me enjoyed it, the humilation, the shame, and the pain. That part of me always enjoyed it. It still makes me sick to think of it. The word "slut" gets stuck in my brain again, sticking to everything, ruining everything. I ENJOYED it.
Of course, he didn't helpt he process much. He made me quit my job, leaving both of us unemployed and living off my tiny savings account because he couldn't stand the way other people looked at me. I was HIS. I wasn't allowed to talk to my male friends, because clearly I would cheat on him. I was a slut, after all. I ENJOYED it. I was nothing, nothing, because I enjoyed it. It wasn't rape. Couldn't be. I enjoyed it.
I locked myself away. I went to classes, I hung out with my exclusively female friends (I was occasionally allowed to visit my male friends, but only if he was there to assert his claim on me). I was nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. I know I passed my classes, but just barely. He wrecked an almost perfect GPA, but I was passing, so no one noticed I wasn't in there. I don't remember most of that year. I consider that a blessing.
I don't know when I finally pulled myself back. I don't know when it became too much. Our roommate moved out to live with her boyfriend and didn't say a word. She knew, though. I know she did. One of my good friend's girlfriends attached herself to me, maybe because she knew, too. We'd known each other for a month, at most. She got me out. She pulled me out of my shell, inch by inch, until I couldn't roll over and let him get away with it. She moved into the spare bedroom and refused to let me be alone with him for any reason. I slept in her room, she handled everything when we kicked him out, and I didn't come face to face with him again unti the baseball bat incident.
I wasn't even strong enough to get myself out. I hate myself for it. She was my personal saviour. If I were religious, I'd say some cosmic being sent her to make things right, but I'm not. She just knew I needed help somehow and dropped everything to help me.
And there it is.
I'm going to go make a cup of tea now.
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