“People always talk about how hard it can be to remember things - where they left their keys, or the name of an acquaintance - but no one ever talks about how much effort we put into forgetting. I am exhausted from the effort to forget... There are things that have to be forgotten if you want to go on living.” ― Stephen Carpenter, Killer
I don't check LJ very often these days, but lately I've been actively avoiding it. When the rape happened I made a concerted effort to not remember the date. I didn't want it to become yet another awful anniversary every year. But now I know that it's coming up to 12 months and I need to know. But I'm scared to know.
I've been increasingly filled with terror at the impending autumn and winter. Too many awful associations. Lots of suicidal thoughts - can't bear another christmas.
My stupid vulva has torn again. No stimulation at all, it just tore.
It's so hard to NOT think about being raped when, 10 months on, the body part he ripped open has still not fixed itself.
I need to go back to the doctor but I can't bear the thought of anyone touching me, these days. No more of that fucking around I did a few months ago. I haven't even been able to go to the doctor about a cough because she'd need to touch me to listen to my chest.
I freaked out yesterday. I had a back massage, and she was doing some really deep work on a series of big knots. It was painful, but nothing I couldn't cope with. I thought I should tell her it was painful, not necessarily so she would stop, just so she was aware. But I couldn't speak. I was lying there, trying, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I started to feel out of control - I didn't even want her to stop, but I realised that if I did, I wouldn't be able to say so. Then I stopped being able to feel her hands. I could feel, on the inside of my body, what she was doing, but I couldn't feel her on the surface of my skin.
Then I dissociated. Not just a little 'drifting off' either, but a complete disappearance. I'm not sure how long I was 'out', but I came back when she was finishing the massage and being more gentle again.
She's been my massage therapist for a long time, so afterwards I was able to tell her that I had dissociated, and we talked a bit about what had happened just beforehand, so that I would know in future how to spot it. Since getting home I have been thinking of talking with her about setting up a 'safe word', like in BDSM, if I can't say stop, but I can say something. I'm sure she'd be open to that. I completely trust her, and it's not surprising that a massage, especially a painful one, could trigger something like this off, but I'm pissed off that the bastard is still affecting me in this way.
I've got through a few more days. I think this is how it will be for a while, so got to keep getting through them.
I'm full of anger and rage. It's not like me, and I don't like it, but it feels like it needs to be expressed - healthily - or I'll never process it.
I've been painting - lots of reds! I think it helps. And building flat-packs. That definitely does help, but there's only so much furniture anyone could need.
The Slutwalks that are going on are encouraging. That women are getting together and shouting out their rights to their own bodies. I might write a separate post about this when I'm not about to go to bed.
It won't go away, it's all I can think about. Again. Well that, and dying.
I hoped that by doing the 'right' things and telling a few people almost straight away, that I would be able to shake this thing off quickly, but 8 and a bit months later he's infecting my whole existence.
I don't want it to be the thing that kills me. The thing that provokes my suicide. And I'm doing everything I can to avoid that, but the pull is so strong.
A few people know, I have some support, I'm doing everything I can. I don't want to let the bastard take me over again. He doesn't deserve to be the reason I die, and if only for that reason I'm determined not to do it. But the desire is so strong.
But I'm holding onto the determination to beat this, too.
The secrecy about what happened felt so vital for a while. I had to involve healthcare professionals because of the internal injuries, but beyond them only a very select few people knew. This week I told another friend - you know who you are :) - and I am starting to actually want to tell others. Only one or two, and not the ones that would normally spring to mind, but for some reason they feel like important people to tell.
But him, the bastard, I can't shake him off. I feel less like he's still in my body, but he seems embedded in my mind. Wondering about his motivations. How planned it was. How many times he's done it. Whether the consensual sex first was all part of the plan, so I would be less likely to report it. What his real name was.
It's been 4 months and a few days. I wouldn't think badly of a friend if she wasn't over it after that amount of time. But I'm so impatient regarding myself. I don't WANT to think about it, to think about him. But just as he forced his way in then, he forces his way in now. And I doubt I've crossed his mind at all. I didn't matter, it didn't matter whether it was me or another woman. He wanted the power and the access to the cunt. I was just an awkward addition to the situation.