Every day, everywhere I go, there's a cloud. A deep, dark cloud that is sometimes right behind me, and sometimes ten feet behind me. Sometimes I leave it at home, but it's still there, waiting patiently for me. Sometimes it's right above me, around me. Sometimes the rain it drops on me is the same as my sobbing, the air shuddering into and out of my lungs is the same as its heavy, wet breath, and my shoulders shake in time to the guttural roar of the thunder around me.
Some days I am consumed completely by it.
It almost feels good to give in and feel terrible. There's a truth in the total and absolute despair. The gripping feeling of loss and hopelessness. The thought that you cannot go any lower than this.
It almost feels better than being constantly chased by it. Every day, refusing to look over your shoulder, hopping to stay one step in front of it, trying not to drown. Almost.
It's close today. I could drop backwards right into it. I could think for ONE second about any of the demons screaming at my heels and tumble straight back into the deep blackness.
So today, I'm not thinking about them. They can ALL wait until tomorrow. Today I am just thinking about how proud of myself I am for being in front of it at all. Tonight I can fall apart. Tomorrow I can fall apart. Today, look at me.
Dry clothes.
07 June 2016
31 May 2016
Mind Games.
Do you think maybe one day I'll look back on this and wonder why I didn't get out sooner? Or do you think I'll look back and realize that I really was the abuser? That he was right? That I should have taken more xanax and just been a kind and forgiving person.
How advantaged are women, really?
Those in power will always fight not to give up any portion of it.
I can't believe that he's playing that through, but he is. He has had the dominant hand in every aspect of our relationship since it began. And now, the smallest things, the smallest favors or respectful behaviors, seem so very unfair toward him.
But they aren't. They aren't unfair to anyone but me. How can you love somebody and not listen to them, consider them, or want them to be happy?
I don't think that he does love me.
I think he's used to me stroking his ego. And now that I have to worry about myself, I'm a real cunt.
Last night, I took a closer look in my head at a behavior, a nonverbal (well, sometimes verbal) communication between us that always, always fails.
When he grabs my ass. When he growls, sucks in air, or stares. When he offers to rub my feet but instead tickles them or rubs them on his crotch. The little things he does that remind me that my body is only here for him. The things he does that make me feel like an object. The things that are ONLY ever done to gratify him and not to pleasure me. There are no instances where things are different. There are no other sides to this behavior. I don't do the same things to him. He doesn't do things that turn me on. He doesn't pet my head. He doesn't bite my shoulder. He doesn't nibble my ear. No, the only things he ever does with my body without my permission are things that satisfy him.
Or comments about what my body does for him.
And I don't care how they are SUPPOSED to make me feel. Because how these things ACTUALLY make me feel is objectified, and like I might as well be a faceless pillow or sex doll because I'm not...I mean I don't even really have to be in the room. I'm just a thing. And that's when I shut off, because that's been sex for too many years. Sex with a thing. A thing that doesn't need to be present. A thing that doesn't have needs or interests.
These behaviors put me back into that place, that mindset, and it should matter. My whole body tenses up and I get angry. I get guarded against being used. I don't want to be a thing anymore.
So I suggested a change that I thought could benefit us:
I suggested that from now on, he only touch me when he's first considered how the touch will affect me. I didn't say he couldn't touch me, or he had to touch me differently or less. I only said that I needed the INTENT to change. That instead of touching me to satisfy himself, I wanted to be touched to be satisfied. He doesn't have to magically know what I like (although by ten years you'd kind of think he would). He just has to touch me from a different perspective.
Well, you'd think I said he'd never get laid again from the response I got.
I mean, I tried to reverse it, just to explain. I tried to explain the difference in compliments and assessments. Like when he comments on my body. I tried to say, situation A) *brushes hair to the side* "Does this feel good?" and situation B) *Pulls at hair to look at it* "Your hair turns me on." I tried to explain compliments phrased around the commenter vs the commented on. "You look pretty," versus "You turn ME on."
He just told me I should take it as flattery that I turn him on, and that I should definitely care about how my looks impact him. Then he flipped my entire argument around to make me seem like the perpetrator, my whole argument used against me, saying that I never consider him or something? I don't even understand it, he just started complaining, and it was like he just fucking copied me right back at myself.
I mean, this was a whole thing.
We got nowhere.
The only way he knows how to function around me, touch me, or talk to me, is in the framework of how I impact HIM.
I will literally never matter to him outside of that.
You know what's really weird, though? People who like each other. My friend posted about getting laid, spanked, and feeling so good. I just thought, "How fucking odd. They WANTED to touch each other? They WANT to be around each other? They CHOSE to fuck and they ENJOYED it? It wasn't just a quickie to get him to behave human again?" I mean that's weird, right?
Another friend talked about taking his girlfriend on dates to this one restaurant. And I thought, what even is that. Dates? Do people really still put forth that kind of effort? I'm lucky to talk to him without one of us yelling. Usually the only conversations that don't escalate are the ones that are strictly business.
I mean, is it over and I'm just...wasting my time? Are we too far gone? Is there a world where I could be happy again?
And the bigger question - are these issues ACTUALLY issues, or just problems fabricated from my skewed, panicked, "the world is ending right now" mindset of my PTSD?
Is it ACTUALLY urgent?
Are we ACTUALLY fighting?
Or am I just picking at scabs so I can see them bleed again?
Who is the real abuser here? Am I the person I'm calling him? And he's wondering why *I* keep turning everything around?
How advantaged are women, really?
Those in power will always fight not to give up any portion of it.
I can't believe that he's playing that through, but he is. He has had the dominant hand in every aspect of our relationship since it began. And now, the smallest things, the smallest favors or respectful behaviors, seem so very unfair toward him.
But they aren't. They aren't unfair to anyone but me. How can you love somebody and not listen to them, consider them, or want them to be happy?
I don't think that he does love me.
I think he's used to me stroking his ego. And now that I have to worry about myself, I'm a real cunt.
Last night, I took a closer look in my head at a behavior, a nonverbal (well, sometimes verbal) communication between us that always, always fails.
When he grabs my ass. When he growls, sucks in air, or stares. When he offers to rub my feet but instead tickles them or rubs them on his crotch. The little things he does that remind me that my body is only here for him. The things he does that make me feel like an object. The things that are ONLY ever done to gratify him and not to pleasure me. There are no instances where things are different. There are no other sides to this behavior. I don't do the same things to him. He doesn't do things that turn me on. He doesn't pet my head. He doesn't bite my shoulder. He doesn't nibble my ear. No, the only things he ever does with my body without my permission are things that satisfy him.
Or comments about what my body does for him.
And I don't care how they are SUPPOSED to make me feel. Because how these things ACTUALLY make me feel is objectified, and like I might as well be a faceless pillow or sex doll because I'm not...I mean I don't even really have to be in the room. I'm just a thing. And that's when I shut off, because that's been sex for too many years. Sex with a thing. A thing that doesn't need to be present. A thing that doesn't have needs or interests.
These behaviors put me back into that place, that mindset, and it should matter. My whole body tenses up and I get angry. I get guarded against being used. I don't want to be a thing anymore.
So I suggested a change that I thought could benefit us:
I suggested that from now on, he only touch me when he's first considered how the touch will affect me. I didn't say he couldn't touch me, or he had to touch me differently or less. I only said that I needed the INTENT to change. That instead of touching me to satisfy himself, I wanted to be touched to be satisfied. He doesn't have to magically know what I like (although by ten years you'd kind of think he would). He just has to touch me from a different perspective.
Well, you'd think I said he'd never get laid again from the response I got.
I mean, I tried to reverse it, just to explain. I tried to explain the difference in compliments and assessments. Like when he comments on my body. I tried to say, situation A) *brushes hair to the side* "Does this feel good?" and situation B) *Pulls at hair to look at it* "Your hair turns me on." I tried to explain compliments phrased around the commenter vs the commented on. "You look pretty," versus "You turn ME on."
He just told me I should take it as flattery that I turn him on, and that I should definitely care about how my looks impact him. Then he flipped my entire argument around to make me seem like the perpetrator, my whole argument used against me, saying that I never consider him or something? I don't even understand it, he just started complaining, and it was like he just fucking copied me right back at myself.
I mean, this was a whole thing.
We got nowhere.
The only way he knows how to function around me, touch me, or talk to me, is in the framework of how I impact HIM.
I will literally never matter to him outside of that.
You know what's really weird, though? People who like each other. My friend posted about getting laid, spanked, and feeling so good. I just thought, "How fucking odd. They WANTED to touch each other? They WANT to be around each other? They CHOSE to fuck and they ENJOYED it? It wasn't just a quickie to get him to behave human again?" I mean that's weird, right?
Another friend talked about taking his girlfriend on dates to this one restaurant. And I thought, what even is that. Dates? Do people really still put forth that kind of effort? I'm lucky to talk to him without one of us yelling. Usually the only conversations that don't escalate are the ones that are strictly business.
I mean, is it over and I'm just...wasting my time? Are we too far gone? Is there a world where I could be happy again?
And the bigger question - are these issues ACTUALLY issues, or just problems fabricated from my skewed, panicked, "the world is ending right now" mindset of my PTSD?
Is it ACTUALLY urgent?
Are we ACTUALLY fighting?
Or am I just picking at scabs so I can see them bleed again?
Who is the real abuser here? Am I the person I'm calling him? And he's wondering why *I* keep turning everything around?
27 February 2015
Revision
OK, so...
Remember how I posted all those foods that sucked to throw up, and somehow "spicy shit" didn't end up in that list?
Oh my god, haha, so, let me just say:
DON'T DO IT. Oh man, you're craving a Jack's Spicy chicken sandwich real bad? IT'S A LIE. A BURNING, HELLISH, LIE WAITING TO DESTROY YOUR ESOPHAGUS ON ITS SLUGGISH, SCALDING WAY UP FROM THE PITS OF YOUR HADES-LIKE GUTS.
YOU WILL NOT BE SPARED.
Avoid the spicy! You have been warned!
*goes to ice my poor throat*
Remember how I posted all those foods that sucked to throw up, and somehow "spicy shit" didn't end up in that list?
 |
DON'T DO IT. Oh man, you're craving a Jack's Spicy chicken sandwich real bad? IT'S A LIE. A BURNING, HELLISH, LIE WAITING TO DESTROY YOUR ESOPHAGUS ON ITS SLUGGISH, SCALDING WAY UP FROM THE PITS OF YOUR HADES-LIKE GUTS.
YOU WILL NOT BE SPARED.
Avoid the spicy! You have been warned!
*goes to ice my poor throat*
25 February 2015
The Science of Puking (AKA 9 Weeks Prego)
Puking Tips for Those With Morning Sickness or Stomach Flu
(But not for bulemics because y'all got your own set of rules and also because I'm not pro-ED whatsoever)
General Advice:
- If you can keep it down, do. If you've been trying to keep it down with all your might for 30 minutes or more, not so much.
- If you are definitely going to hurl, drink cold water. Nothing is nastier than puking up chunky solids.
- If possible, choose toilets with low water levels to reduce splash back. Or a bucket, if you're the sort who can clean it without tossing your cookies again.
- Keep trying to eat or drink. Bile is also not pleasant to vomit.
- Don't brush your teeth every single time you hurl. Find something pleasant and not fragrant to rinse with, like a cup of cool water. You need your enamel.
- Puke with the least force possible. Allow yourself one "fake out" when you think you're done, but then deep breaths and willpower to stop gagging. Forceful gags with head low can bust some blood vessels around your eyes and give you some temporary new freckle-like spots.
- Take something. If pregnant, discuss safe medications or safe alternative strategies with a medical professional to control day to day nausea. If ill, call your doctor and ask for suggestions.
Foods That Suck to Puke
- Citrus/acidic things
- Goldfish
- Really any starchy, lumpy food
- Oatmeal
- Shredded lettuce
- Soda/frothy things
- Prenatals
- Spaghetti
- Pizza
Foods That Don't Suck to Puke:
- Chocolate
- Milkshakes
- Ice cold water
- Reese's
- Anything predominately liquid
12 December 2014
Cabin Fever
It's a good time to blog.
Here's the thing. Every now and then... I go into heat. I'm not a cat, obviously. But it's sorta like that.
I get restless. I get fidgety. I start thinking about all the things I miss doing in my life. I get to feeling like the walls in this house are just closing in on me, like my life is winding down, and I don't have anything left. Like my bones are going to burst out of my skin and go screaming down the street looking for pussy, booze, and cigarettes.
I miss, in no particular order:
Here's the thing. Every now and then... I go into heat. I'm not a cat, obviously. But it's sorta like that.
I get restless. I get fidgety. I start thinking about all the things I miss doing in my life. I get to feeling like the walls in this house are just closing in on me, like my life is winding down, and I don't have anything left. Like my bones are going to burst out of my skin and go screaming down the street looking for pussy, booze, and cigarettes.
I miss, in no particular order:
- Eyeliner
- Live metal shows
- Band shirts
- Smokes
- Whiskey
- Half-laced boots
- Having my hair grabbed
- Biting
- Kissing
- Car sex
- Bars
- Talking to and laughing with strangers
- Sleeping wherever I ended up
- Being in new places
- Having my hair stroked by new fingers
- Girls in jackets with cigarettes between their fingers
- Eating pussy
- Did I mention live music
I miss all these things and more. I miss flitting around from town to town, meeting new people I never had to trust, and lighting smokes for incredible women who were never, ever boring.
Not that I know women who are boring - I don't.
There is something inside of me scratching at the walls and going batshit up in here.
I need to howl at the proverbial moon.
I need to prove I can be 18 again. Even though I will never be 18 again.
To do any howling right now would probably wake up the toddler and imprint upon him some internal and deep-rooted fear of night-howling. He'd end up growing up to live somewhere urban with no wildlife and jumping away from the neighbor's dogs.
I mean that would just be bad parenting.
Help me, Jesus, I have cabin fever inside of my own house and my own head.
Am I ever going to be me again?
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