My friends and family maybe want to know why I kept fucking up time and time again this past year. And why, now that it’s over I can’t go back to being my old self. You see, my old self has been changed. I’m never going to be the same. My old self is gone.
A few posts back I wrote about not being able to remember myself before having had cancer. About how my old bedroom was a mausoleum to who I was pre-illness, and sometimes I just wish I could live one day without the weight of cancer survivorship pressing somewhere on my soul.
Readers discretion.... There can be some triggering stuff in here. Sexual assault..
I can't remember the day that I left. I can remember the days that led up to it. I can remember seeing red. Everything around me felt surreal and blurry, blurry, and red. I used to think that was a figurative saying, but it wasn't, not in my case. The entire room was cast in red.
I sat here this evening looking through a years worth of documentation. Ten notebooks of garbage and evidence to the madness that occurred over the past year of my life. Not on purpose mind you. I was merely looking for lost or “vanished” passwords to get into some accounts. The harassment, the bullying, the threatening, the control. People knowing things about me that nobody should know, and the taunting and teasing about them toward me, or TO me. Knowing personal things about me. Teasing me about them. Making me do such insane stuff on promises that were never fulfilled. Stripping down for a Facebook photo, putting me on a dating site. 5000 Nigerians following me and harassing me on Facebook. Thousands of disgusting pictures sent in my fb messenger. I could go on with the list of the year’s worth of antics, but I won’t. And, I will never get down to the bottom of it either. As far as who is responsible. Who did this to me? Why was I so deserving of a years worth of hell? I almost killed myself on three occasions. Oh, I know, because I humiliated a man of pride and ego. Probably a few men, it seems. Because and But.... I don’t think any of them realized they had been having sex with a 7-year-old, every time they were having sex with me.
There was a rainbow trout who lived in the babbling brook.
The year was 1957, Osama Bin Laden was born, ultra sound technology was pioneered, baby boomers are at their peak. Innocent new lives filled with endless possibilities. But for one it was dark and deep in the basement where he did what he pleased and nothing good came to be. In the basement where no one sees, as if the world had turned a blind eye. Broken family, broken little girl, shhh quiet. Everything happened silently, dirty little secrets. Poor little loss soul, she had no idea of which way to go. She was filled to the brim with her unbearable reality from those who didn't give a damn and painful from those who did care but just didn't see, didn't understand and in their attempts only deepened her wounds leaving her screaming in agony as her sanity wavered beyond the norm and slid into the DMS3. Labels came slapped onto her name in judgment and pain; anxiety, depression, bi-polar, disassociation, complex post traumatic stress and borderline personality like a fucking tossed salad, a smorgasbord with a wide variety. No one willing to go beyond their comfort zone but hey were able to open their mouths spew their two cents of how they think I should be, they used words like responsibility, for God sake they told her to act normally, does anyone know what that is even supposed to mean.
Definition of notion
(1): an individual's conception or impression of something known, experienced, or imagined
(2): an inclusive general concept
Definition of hunch (3): a strong intuitive feeling concerning especially a future event or result
I don't remember when I started to remember myself, but I know I can't gather the first early years. I cannot remember how or when I first met my mother, or the first time I cried out of discomfort. My earliest memory would be a puppy. I ran after it in small a yard. He would tug at my dolls as if they were his, and I would cry when the they'd come apart at the seams out of my own resistance. I've recently come to find out that my father wanted a son. My mother jokes about his attempts at channeling that awkward disappointment, by dressing me up in Jerseys and Baseball caps. I don't believe she understands this or maybe she thinks I couldn't but, I could feel them both.
When I was no older than thirteen years old, I joined the fanfiction website known as Quotev. In the beginning, everything was great - I really enjoyed my time, I made friends with whom I am still close to, and started my writing journey with fanfictions of my favorite shows.
Nick tasted the salty air of the bluff beach that morning, the deep blue rolling waves crashed on to faded crystal sand. The grey clouds hung in the heavens above as Nick scrubbed his board with the sticky clump of wax. A single strand of hair fell out of his small bun and teased across his sullen expression. It had been four months since he was in the car accident that shifted his life. Driving with his mate and a moment of distraction along with a just not quite enough speedy reaction and another 100km/h car. It ended with a best mate gone.