bad, bad Man (trigger warning)

When I met Zackary he lived in a room, in a house. The house was filled with garbage and junk. His roommates were racist and misogynistic. They didn't even try to hide it. Dave, the one I knew as a regular from the bar I worked at had a thing for younger girls. I was one of those girls he wanted, but it would never happen -for him-. The place was very unwelcoming and smelled of mildew, dust, and dirty booze; like what you'd see at the end of the night while closing down the place. The dishes hadn't been washed in weeks; you could tell just by sight. When you walked in, you'd want to walk right back out; passing the art hanging over the hole he'd put in the wall one drug-fueled night. I didn't walk out though. I can blame the alcohol and cocaine, or I can tell you that I'm not really sure why I didn't walk out. I think I didn't want to judge him. You know, he did what he could to have a roof over his head. He survived. I could relate, and so I didn't walk out. The floor of his room was covered in trash and crunchy clothes. His bed overflowed with dirty blankets and more clothing, some belonging to women. If you dared to dig any deeper you'd find old frozen dinner boxes open; 99% eaten, the rest rotting. No woman with self-respect would have had sex with him in that bed. I did though. I joined the club! I'm serious, he gave me a pin and I fucking wore it on my bag. Fuck, it's still there. Fuck.

I remember him asking me what my thoughts were on him having sex with me while I was asleep. The question seemed so.... fucked up. Just don't have sex with someone when they're sleeping, right? I told him, "What the fuck. No way." I threw in a nervous giggle like I was handing him a golden ticket. I needed him to make it a joke. It wasn't a joke.

Zackary loved to stick his penis in me as I lay half-asleep. Another one of his "get around the answer no" moves. If he rubbed his dick against my back and I started to wake up and make a noise well then, I was fair game. I wasn't asleep, right? I hated these mornings. I just tried to get through them, because I didn't want him to leave me. But the thing is, there was something inside of me that just couldn't feel okay. I started to avoid coming home. I would sit at the bar after clocking out, and I would drink. I started blacking out more and more. I was literally going insane. It was my slow suicide.

I started to move away when he'd try to touch me. I would get upset about the morning sex and lose my temper about the lack of respect after he said he wouldn't do it anymore, but he kept doing it anyway. I drank and drank and drank. I hated my own body, but I couldn't leave him. I needed him.

The night I lost my mind and crashed into the rock that would bring me to my rock bottom, was the night that everything had become too much. The roommates were doing cocaine every night, Zackary kept saying he would stop but then he'd buy another bag and I would have to white knuckle it over and over again, I'd usually cave. Then he would berate me for it while he himself was not quitting. He was still making me have sex when I didn't want to. I was alone. I hated him, but I loved him. I hated the life that I was living. I had no idea why I couldn't fucking leave him. But I tried; the angry, crazy, injured inner child exploded outwards.

Then I blamed myself. He blamed me. My friends tried to tell me that maybe he wasn't the right person for me. I told them they just didn't know him; like really know him. I told them I was the problem. It was me.

He disappeared while I hit the rooms; attending meetings as if they were my oxygen. I thought that maybe just maybe if I got sober then he could see I was good enough for him. That we could make this work. That I wasn't crazy.

While I was getting sober, Zackary was getting fucked up. He was willing someone to come and fight him. He wanted violence. You don't always get to know what Zackary does when he disappears. So that's all I've got. He drank and wanted to fight someone while I was pouring out my soul, detoxing and sharing all of the sick parts of myself with strangers. 

He stood me up the first day we agreed to meet. I cried. I called my Sponsor. I talked to some friends. I must be honest in all things. That's what I kept telling myself. I admitted that I had fucked up and that he hated me and that I couldn't bear the thought of never being with him again.

I don't know why he stood me up. I can't really know, although it came to mind a few times while I sat in meetings. Did he not show up as a final twist of the blade? A lesson, that he could leave me at any time because I was in the doghouse. I carried this shame of being a bad girlfriend with me until about August of 2021. That's when things got rough. After I decided to keep track of my outbursts, I started seeing a pattern. And after that I started reading about Narcissism and how childhood abuse can affect your romantic relationships as you grow up. I started reading about my own issues surrounding anger and my triggers. I got on anti-depressants. I started solo therapy. As I started working on myself, I began to fucking see things as if my eyes were no longer my own. It was fucked. Everything was fucked!

The idea of him touching me made me want to kill myself, even on the anti-depressants. He would try to choke me or throw me around. I would curl within myself. When he'd pull his belt off and put it around my throat I'd submit. One night while he was whipping his belt at me; trying to make contact with my body, I found myself doing the nervous laugh again. I didn't trust him. He wanted to hurt me. That's when I thought of his ex-girlfriend. The girl he was dating before me. The girl he was dating when he tried to make out with me. The girl who left him and moved out in less than a day. The girl who had said he'd sexually assaulted her.

I fucking hate myself. I wear shit like "Believe Women" while going off about The Patriarchy. Yet, I slept with the enemy. I fell in love with the enemy. No, not even before knowing this. I fell in love with him after knowing this. Our relationship was filled with signs of his disdain for women. His 'Cunt' belt buckle. The tattoo on his leg that said "Fuck bitches. Get Rupees." I mean, he didn't really hide it. He was "a nice guy" when compared to the real trash hanging out in bars, right? I mean, how many women did he fucking harm? I can count 3 off the top of my head. So yeah, I fucking hate myself. My therapist won't be able to explain this away. I loved a bad, bad man.

August 1, 2019

I had just masturbated about 3 minutes earlier

I was sitting on our toilet

I was looking at our fish

He was stuck in a square

I am that fish

Stuck in a square that someone else placed me in

I'm angry

I'm going to masturbate again

-My Journal

Love Myself

<3

 

Ruminating

Please watch "What to Do if You Can't Stop Ruminating About a Narcissistic Relationship" by Dr. Ramani on YouTube. I do not have permission to post or link the video, so it has been deleted. My apologies to Dr. Ramani, I only wish to educate those that are coming out of a Narcissistic Relationship.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You are here. You are safe.

-Danae Brooke

Night 2

He used to hate when my laugh was too loud. Like he'd grumble, sometimes even raise his voice. If you know Zackary then you know he's very expressive. You'll know him when you hear him. Me though, it was different. When I got passionate about music, or politics, or experienced my miniscule moments of a step towards healing from my monsters; he'd be there reminding me I was being too much. I was too loud. I was too emotional. I was too crazy, but he loves crazy chicks. They're his type. What does that even mean? Seriously, what does that mean? Does he like mentally ill women because they are easier to abuse? Does he enjoy driving (haha) women crazy? Does it turn him on? Get him nice and hard. Then he can choke the shit out of them. Is that what he did with me? That doesn't seem like love.

So now I have to figure that I loved a man. I dated and lived with that man for 3 years; a man that hated me. A man that hates women.

Every day that his behaviors are enabled by his mom, his aunt, his sisters; take them and bundle them up. You've discovered a treasure chest of Rupees; each one a resentment. Every fucking day he hates himself for his failures and blames women, and that hate comes out in his relationships. He used to joke about how he should have turned out a serial killer. He had all of the warning signs. An abusive childhood, his unfocused energy, and his enjoyment of harming animals. It was a topic joked about as I sat around the dinner table. His stutter brought on by pure fear from his abuse, joked about as I sat right there on the kitchen chair while his mom and sisters just laughed.

I didn't laugh. I hope he remembers that.

I didn't laugh.

Nicotine

At around 4:45 pm I threw away my last vape. Do not smoke. Just don't do it. I had quit. It was but a distant memory. That didn't matter once he put a vape in my hand. Misery loves company. He had me convinced that I had gotten myself hooked again. I'm still blurry on it. I could have sworn I said no over and over until one day he said, "I hate this flavor. You might like it. I don't want it." Then I tried it and BAM: It was tasty, so why not finish it instead of wasting it? I HATE WASTING THINGS. HE KNOWS THIS ABOUT ME. Then the next day and the next he would threaten to throw it away (holding it over the garbage can) to which he would get a reaction. He would then say that I am the one who did it to myself because I wouldn't let him throw it away. Then I was like just one more for the stress. Then he was buying them for me, even when I said I needed to quit again. Now here I am. Fucking pissed off.

He does that. I don't fucking know what it is. He fucking surpasses the answer no. He avoids accountability for any-one-fucking thing in his life. Then he says he's going to take care of this or that and never fucking does. When I looked around this place after I had first told him he needed to leave all I could see were fragments of things started and not finished. Fragments of things he'd never had any plan to complete.

Then I started thinking about how he had the fucking audacity to tell me he had always known we would get back together before that night. Thinking of all of the fucking times I almost left but was then convinced that he was the one leaving me. How I went from being fucking done to begging for him to come back. I just...... don't fucking understand. He admitted to knowing we would always get back together. So what was different about that night. Did he see the light in my eyes again? Did he know I'd met someone else? Did he notice that his touch now repulsed me? Did he notice that I had no love for him any longer? Did he realize that I knew exactly who he is? He must have known the gig was up, and I fucking hate him for it. I was a gig. I was a shrug of his fucking shoulders before he inserted his penis into me for the first time. I was never going to leave him because he knew I was fucking miserable and broken. He picked me out. He had me on layaway. I was a reliable enough source for validation, sex, and attention. For 3 years he sucked from me. For 3 years I let him suck from me. So yeah, I'm fucking angry. I'm a mad woman. I'm something and someone I'm not supposed to be. Haven't you heard? I'm crazy. Only someone crazy could love a fucking Narcissist.

And hey, it's what I'm good at; being fucking nuts.

Get Your Shit Together.

When I got home that night, I knew I needed his stuff out. He has a habit of picking up and leaving. This includes anything he owns. Did this include me? Did he own me? I looked around at his stuff. Most of the nice things were items I had bought him. His leather jacket, the shoes, his bolo ties; I'd brought value to his life. Not just in items but in who I am. Even at my lowest I had value. He didn't want me to think so. I found myself screaming, crying, grabbing all of his shit and feeling animalistic. After this break down, I then folded his clothes and neatly organized and packed his shit up to get it the fuck out of my way.

He was coming to get it, but I was forced to move my schedule around. I fought this at first. Then I realized this was it. The last time I'd be forced in a position where he came first. The Couch World: as a bystander you'll be consumed.

He, his sister, and her girlfriend showed up and right away started recording me. I knew this was a trap. They wanted me to react. They wanted a reason to say, "See, she's fucking off her rocker." I asked them not to record me. I wondered what my rights were. His sister's girlfriend said, "This is to protect everyone here." I have to laugh. Who was really being protected? I felt violated yet again. I breathed. I disassociated as much as I needed to. I had perfected this skill with my father. I floated away and would check back in with myself. Let them record me. Let him act cordial and put together. He and I both knew the truth. As my life was crumbling and reforming, I had people rooting for me to fail. People who claimed to be my friends. I wasn't going to fail again. This time I had people rooting for me to succeed as well.

The first thing I did was put my salt lamps up. He always made fun of me for them. Today I'm going to wear a flannel shirt, another thing he mocked me for. When I get back to Utah, I will be buying a pair of Vans. He hated them. He hated that I had so many pairs of them. They slowly disappeared from my wardrobe. Funny enough, he bought himself a pair one day and I remember thinking, "Huh."

I don't know what will come from writing these things out. Kathy said I need to read back the things I started writing and we can go over it. The day I decided to start keeping track of my outbursts I started to see a pattern. It could be as simple as him trying to convince me I had eaten a cereal that I had never tried before. I thought I was going crazy. My mind was going, could I really not remember something I'd eaten? 

I had never had that cereal before; never.

Is this how he worked? Shaking up my reality until he became my reality. What he said, believed, liked, didn't like... I think I got lost. I was so fucking lost.

If I'm being honest, I still am. Maybe we all are.

"Get your shit together. Get it all together and put it in a backpack, all your shit, so it's together. And if you gotta take it somewhere, take it somewhere you know, take it to the shit store and sell it or put it in a shit museum I don't care what you do you just gotta get it together. Get your shit together."

Control

Who is in control?

Zackary Couch (trigger warning)

 

"It wasn’t the cocaine and alcohol that heightened his appetite for causing me pain. I told myself that was it until we no longer used those substances. After that I told myself it was “hot”, that it was kinky. I enjoyed pleasing him. But then he choked me so hard that my face was a bluish grey, the blood vessels in my eyes had popped and I had black eyes for a week. You could see where he'd placed his hands around my neck. I covered myself in layers of make-up and wore sunglasses when I could get away with it. When I took them off I just hoped nobody would say anything. Nobody did. After that I remember thinking… what if he had killed me? I shoved it down."

Kathy said he would have eventually killed me. Hearing her say that made me defensive for him. I wanted to tell her she was wrong. Zackary could never kill me. I am the crazy one. I've said crazy shit. I've threatened and yelled. Then she asked if he could have possibly been hurting me more after I had said or done something that bothered him. I asked her if she meant was there a pattern of punishment without me realizing it? She said yes, that was something to think about. So I've been thinking. I haven't been able to stop thinking about the night I got back from the Silent Disco, when I returned to his sister's house. I was happy for the first time in so very long. I went into the kitchen. He followed me. He took his belt off really fast, looped it, and started towards me. I said, "Don't". He paused as if to decide something. Was he deciding whether or not he should listen this time? Did something about me seem stronger that night? Whatever it was that caused him to not follow through with putting his belt around my neck, I am grateful. That could have been the night I bopped him over the head with the nearest kitchen item. Does that make me crazy?

Kathy said he would have eventually killed me.

All That I've Got

PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST.

 PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. 

PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST. PLAYLIST.

dedicated to him

 xo-

 NaeNae

I am Not a Woman, I'm a God

Kintsugi

 At worst, I am damaged.

Before February 7th, every person I've loved has taken something from me.

Whatever they've taken preparing me more readily for the next to step up and carve out another part of me.

My childlike innocence, my light, my happiness; believed to be lost forever.

Now I know a person cannot take those things from you, unless you allow them to.

I can still discover; be excited.

I can be content without another.

I can be happy.

I may not feel this way all of the time, but when I can feel it, I must.

I cannot continue running away from it.

Happiness, stability, the silence; I no longer need to be fearful.

At best, I am...

free.

“If You love someone let them go…”

Wish You Were Here

Always & Forever,

D.B.

Serendipitous

Grandfather Moomchi just called. He always seems to call when I really need to hear a familiar voice. We talked about me, my mom, my dad, and me ending things with Zackary. I wanted to share some words he left me with:

"Feel. Deal. Heal. Let it go."

I always look forward to his random calls. He is wise as fuck.

Grateful Living

 I wish it hadn't taken me so long to make friends.

I accept this as a learning experience.

Without human connection we will feel our own decline and decay.

Let It Go

They say when you love something or someone, set them free. If they don't return, they were never yours. I remember Zackary saying some form of this in those first few days of what I thought was our story of falling in love. Looking back now, I think he was testing me. He wanted to gauge my reaction to him never returning. This would become a constant for him and therefore us. Every decision he made was based on impulse and selfish desires. Every time he would drink all of the cold beverages in the fridge, leaving me none for when I got home from work; every-fucking-time I would feel this rage tear through my insides. My life was constant chaos. I was taking care of myself, my cat, his fish, and him. Bills, responsibility, the un-fun stuff; that all rested on my shoulders. As well as my desire to never pick up booze again. He couldn't even think of me when he took non-alcoholic drinks out of the fridge and that felt big for me. An outsider looking in may go to the first and easiest reply of, "Chill out. It's just a soda." It was more than a soda. It was a little decision that impacted me negatively. If he was willing to avoid doing the right thing here, can you imagine what the last 3 years of my life have been?

I remember I was really trying to understand myself back when we were just co-workers. I had gone to the library and checked-out some books on Childhood Trauma and therapy methods that had been deemed quite helpful. I remember how he saw me with those books. I remember how he came up while shit-faced and said, "He wanted me to know that we were friends and that he would miss me if he moved." He hugged me for the first time, and it came out of nowhere. Friends? After what would become the norm: him planning on running away from his problems. I believe this is where he decided I could be of use to him. The next night he offered me cocaine even though he knew I was trying to never touch the stuff again. I said, "NO". He asked if I was sure. I said no again. This was a huge, neon sign that I completely fucking missed. No is not a word Zackary understands. He then proceeded to make fun of me because I was still smoking weed. As if they are at all comparable, but hey, misery loves company. We ended up talking about how he came from an abusive childhood and that he was no longer in contact with any of his family. He said he was in Portland on his own, taking care of himself. The only truth here was that his childhood was abusive. I had no way of knowing how many characters he was capable of playing, and I bonded with him. I believe this was his intention.

Weeks later and my poor decision of texting him for rebound sex would then lead me here. Everything with Zackary moves fast. He keeps you on your toes. Whenever he felt me slipping away, he would love-bomb me or buy me something. I hated it but grew to take it as a sign he cared. My father did the same thing with my mother. I know this about my father. I just couldn't see what was right in front of me. I don't need things. Every time I would try to explain to him that I didn't want gifts or money, that I just needed him present and to help around the house or with groceries. Every time I would say a back rub means more to me than clothes, he'd tell me "Acts of Service" were him being my servant. Him doing the things I did for him would make him my servant. Fuck, writing that out and reading it back is rough. How did I go 3 years without intimacy, honesty, and care? 

Kathy said that the day I almost relapsed had to have had something stand out more than any other time. I told her I couldn't really place it. That I had gone to work like usual. I was tired, sore, and lonely just as I was every other day. That day though, as I was cleaning up a few things before clocking out it hit me. I wasn't going to make it home without hitting a bar. I went to the bathroom. I tried to breathe. The fan was so fucking loud that day. It rocketed my head. Noises were too much. I just wanted to breathe; everything was closing in on me.

I sat in my car for over 30 minutes in what is referred to as "white knuckling" (LINK). When I finally thought, I could start driving without going to a bar that is what I did. I had to get home quickly. I couldn't make it. I ended up in a Goodwill. Walking around and around and around the aisles. I needed to pass time. I kept telling myself I just needed to wait it out. That I wouldn't lose my date; October 13, 2019. I got back into my car an hour later but then stopped at a Trader Joe's because once again I knew the exact bar I would go to. I walked around the aisles and bought things I didn't need. I had plenty of food at home, but I just needed something to make me feel better. I did make it home after the grocery store. When I brought up that I almost relapsed Zackary was unphased. I knew that I needed to be honest about my shortcomings but in that moment, I knew I really had been doing all of this alone. He didn't care.

So when I started to talk to other people and laugh more like my old self, and when I went out instead of going right back into our "home" I felt a shift. When I wasn't around him, I felt better. What I thought was my anxiety being out of control was actually our relationship. I was unhappy. I was unsupported. I was a pocket pussy that he enjoyed choking and throwing around.

"The majority of victims (79%) were strangled by an intimate partner, and manual strangulation was the most common method (83%). A total of 38 victims (38%) described a history of domestic violence, and the same number lost consciousness while being strangled." 

Follow that Link to learn more ^

The truth is, Zackary almost killed me. Yet I stayed. I took his demons and made them my own. I wanted to believe that abuse in childhood couldn't ruin a person. And I was right, it didn't ruin me.

Without Me

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Living For Myself

After ending a nearly 3-year-long relationship living more fully keeps happening. I feel like I've come full circle or maybe I'm restarting but with better people and a better head on my shoulders. I don't know shit from shit. What I can say, is that it feels like I am heading in some sort of correct direction for the first time in my life. All I needed to do was dance like no one was watching and be hugged without malicious/alternate intent behind the embrace. Healthy human touch is something I haven't had enough of in my life. I am devastated for that part of myself, but also so proud of the resilient part that has somehow brought all of me, my pieces and scars, here. I think Kathy (my therapist) may have been right when she said I am strong. I sure as hell haven't felt like it, but if I weren't strong then how would I be jotting this out right now? I should be dead. Not because I am an awful person, but because I have done awful things to my body. Others have done awful things to my body and mind. I don't know if I'm a soul or a ball of energy or a random occurrence, but whatever I am: I'm coming for you world.

Words have power. My voice matters.
I won't hand my will over to another human ever again.

I can't change what has been done to me I can only make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else on my watch. If I see something, I will say something. If that gets me killed, then I hope someone shares my story and brings attention to the fact that women can't stand up for themselves without the fear of being wiped off this planet. People want to take our light and they will take it if we let them.

Today was a good day. A really good day. I didn't smoke weed to get through it because I didn't need to. I drank water. I went on a hike and explored Sacramento with someone I love in a way I can't quite explain. I ate food in a fairly normal manner. I went to karaoke by myself. I asked to sit next to 2 friendly looking faces only to find out they left Mormon Corp. 5 years ago. I was invited to a birthday party next month. We exchanged numbers! They didn't pressure me to drink once. They even bought me a soda water.

Today is a reminder that I can fight for good in my life. I do not have to sit in the muck that I have repeatedly been thrown in. I get to stand back up and walk out. More than once if I must.

Coffee & Nicotine

A newfound meaning of survival, in the form of caffeine and nicotine. I feel like that's all I've been able to put in my body these last few weeks. I haven't found that happy medium of healthy portion sizes. I've realized while reading through my old posts that I've been dealing with this since I was a teenager. I binge or I deny. Just as with many other substances in my life, I suffer from an unhealthy relationship with food. As I sit here in the home, I have rebuilt for myself for the tenth time that stability has never been something I am familiar with. I remember this amazing human being that I used to follow on Instagram said something along the lines of:

"A cycle of trauma must become a circle of healing."

Generational trauma is arguably a pandemic all on its own. Even if we think we've escaped it we haven't. It is something that takes a conscious effort in every choice we make throughout our day. My mother had an unhealthy relationship with herself, her body, and food. This struggle exacerbated by my father who made comments about her weight and constantly belittled her. So I grew up unable to accept my own body. Let us be clear though, my mother has always been too good for my father. I believe that is why he had to break her down and reform her as his wife and property. Mormon Corp. has everything set in place to enable these behaviors.

It took a stranger becoming a friend and then becoming a lover to remind me that my body should be worshiped. Not just by a man, I'm not saying that at all. We should respect ourselves. We should know what we like and do not like. We should be able to say no, so that when yes comes around we wholeheartedly believe it and have it respected. I can say no. I can say no to a drink. I can say no to sex. I can say no to binging myself asleep with 4,000 calories. I can say no to a line of something that makes me feel up. I can say no to covering a shift at work. I can say no to going out when I am not in the mood to socialize. I can also say yes, when I want to. I guess I just need to want to say yes. That is something I will be bringing up to Kathy (my therapist). How do we learn how to say yes or no when that choice was not allotted to us in childhood?

I want to be happy. I don't know if that means I will live to be 80, and I really don't think I want that. But I want what little time I have left in this existence to be happy. I just need to learn what that means for me. My happiness is my own. Sure, I will need help with anti-depressants for the rest of my life, but that's okay. I've been dealt a shitty hand over and over and over. So why have I never left the table?

I don't want to sit here anymore.

...

 

 “No one is carrying the aftermath of the trauma you have endured inside of their body. They are not paying the consequences. They are not managing the healing process and recovery. Therefore, their opinions are secondary to any and all things that help you heal.” 

-somewhere on Reddit

Cowboy, Take Me Away

Happy Valentine’s Day

Tory Talbot Hall (trigger warning)

I think Tory took more than my trust the night he did what he did to me. He made me both feel and not feel. I guess that's what trauma is. Sometimes you feel too much, and sometimes you feel nothing at all. Nobody really thinks their friend will try to rape them. I mean, women know it's a possibility, but I feel like we tell ourselves there is no way that particular friend will make you a statistic. I can't even remember how I ended up in his room. I don't know how long I lay there. Was it before or after everyone left? Two different stories that I can't possibly know. I can only hope that nobody there that night saw him walk me, drag me, or carry me to his room. That would make them complicit. So I hope every day that he was not allowed to take me up there, and undo my pants, and start trying to finger me while he touched himself and breathed like a fucking swamp monster. That's what I do remember. My eyes trying to open while I heard him breathing. I didn't even know anything else was happening. My body wouldn't catch up to my brain. How long did he fantasize about that moment? It must have driven him crazy that no matter how drunk I was I would not accept his advances. It must have pissed him off that I wouldn't be his. Afterall, he was man, and I obviously couldn't make that decision myself as a woman. I just didn't know how good he was. "Nice Guys Finish Last" and all of that jazz, ammiright? I guess what really confuses me is how he had the audacity to cry as if he was the victim. As I stumbled to my car by only the grace of an inner strength I have never felt since. As he knew he'd fucked up because I woke up. As he decided it an appropriate time to spill his alligator tears and act like my safety mattered to him. I would have rather crashed my car and burned to death than ever be near him again.

But now I am moving back to Utah, and although I hate the idea of being near him again, I also understand that he needs to know he will never get away with what he did to me. ACAB of course, but in this case, I think I will be making a report. Nothing will come from it for me. He however will have his name in the system. Tory Talbot Hall, how many women have you sexually assaulted and raped? How many before me, and how many after? How many women did I not protect by remaining silent? Their safety automatically on my shoulders, another burden to bear. So much weight gifted to me by such a small, pathetic, weak coward. I can't carry the guilt anymore. That guilt doesn't belong to me.

Complex PTSD

Today is a bad day.

I Eat Boys.

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Feminine Rage, Or Whatever

You can never perfectly plan for what a man is capable of doing to you. Any man could kill you. That's the problem. That is the issue at hand. It is why every time I hear a man say, "well... or but... or Not All Men", I immediately disregard them as an ally. They become dangerous, because if they aren't hurting me then they are friends with someone who will.

That is why I do not believe things will get better for us. To put it simply, you cannot take the man out of a man. Due to them being physically capable of something (Fuck! Even through a gun.) just the knowledge of that and the ability that so many, too many men have of not addressing that part, well things simply will not improve. Men who do not believe themselves to be dangerous, do not believe they know any other man in their circle who is capable of such things.

So we will keep being killed. We will keep being raped. The only person that can stop doing these things is a man. It is a decision each man must understand, then they must understand that not every man understands at all, nor cares to.

Fathers harm their daughters. Husbands kill their wives; set them on fire rather than have them out there with their own last name again. Boyfriends kill us and our friends rape us. Friends are all of a sudden different when you are in a relationship. You find out Brad from college feels that you have friend-zoned him. The realization that friendship with a woman has its own title; it makes you see red.

And then you find yourself at the age of 31, a shell of the girl you once knew. It's your job to pick up the pieces and put them back together. Coming so close to picking up the bottle instead. All of the time lost, but almost believing the voice saying, "It's okay. It's better to be doing this drunk. Rest. You've tried."

February 1, 2022 - my phone 

After watching Promising Young Woman.

Renew

That was the word I used to repeat and have splayed about my bedroom. It was a sort of affirmation to myself and those around me. What did that mean to me when I was 19-23? It was a way to remind myself that I could always pick myself up again. Every day if that was what I needed. In recovery you always hear "One Day at a Time". Essentially, I realized that is what I needed even before I admitted it to myself. Alcoholism isn't the problem for me, it is a symptom. My issues so deeply rooted within me that I was racked with trauma by the young age of 11 when my father decided to look at my naked body on multiple occasions. For the longest time I didn't know what to call it. I knew I hadn't been raped although it sure felt like it. At 31 I was given space to come to terms with what happened. I was assaulted. I was sexually assaulted. The man I should have been able to trust more than any-one-person betrayed my feelings of safety. The yelling, screaming, belittling, his withholding of love and his belt or paddle slamming against my body, those are something I feel more able to heal from. But the loss of choice over my body, well that fucked me up deeply and severely.

My father first called me a slut at the age of 14. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up, but my best friend at the time was exploring that world. She was rather good and sometimes she would tell me that it was okay, and she was going to put some make-up on me. I was allowed to go to the mall this day. I fucking hate the mall now, but back then it was my escape. It was the one place I could go without him overshadowing any chance of fun and peace. Later that night he saw me. I was wearing skinny jeans, a studded belt, and a black shirt. I also had on eyeliner and mascara. He looked at me and said, "You look like a slut. And I won't have a slut for a daughter." I can't tell you if that impacted me more back then, or now. The emotions I feel from this memory range from apathy to anger, sometimes I feel sick, but sad is generally what overpowers the rest. I feel sad for that little girl. My body was his. It always had been.

I've dated men who have continued this cycle. I've been called a slut, ho, skank, crazy, bitch; all by men that have claimed to love me. How can someone love me when they internally and externally hate women? I was talking to my therapist two sessions ago. We were getting to the end of our session. I remarked that I think my father hates women. She said, "I would say so." That validation kind of got the ball rolling. How many men have I dated that hate women? Very few men will admit to hating us, but actions speak louder than words. Incels exist for a reason, do they not? Every man is an abuser or is/was friends with someone who has harmed one of us.  We need to see accountability here, or things will never change.

Every time I hear of another woman beaten, set on fire, raped, murdered, or missing after last being seen with her partner or after repeated attempts to stop harassment, I think to myself: men hate us. 

I am fucked up because of my father. That abusive cycle continued in the men I have given my time, energy, body, and even love to; and with every moment my body became an object to possess. I will not let these men destroy me. It is my responsibility to rise up, no matter how unfair this is. I must set fire to those parts of me which have been corrupted by hate, manipulation, and violence. I will not become another statistic. I am more than "the crazy ex".

Drastically Rearranged

I met someone. I can't really put into words what it is like to talk to another human being and then realize you've spent the better part of your life disengaged or dimmed. Sitting in silence doesn't feel awkward, it is more of an understanding that you are thinking and that's okay. He's an open book that I want to keep reading. Hell, I would read him a handful of times, I'm sure. I'd probably learn something new about myself each and every dive back in.

We went to a "Silent Disco". 10/10 would recommend to anyone who loves music.

He never touched my body. In fact, he stayed about a foot away from me for 98% of the night. A stranger touched me and the words, "he touched me, but he didn't need to" kept playing in my mind. I really had to focus on not letting go of the fun. After that though I snapped back into living in the moment. There I was with a wicked cool person who was letting me be a woman having fun. There were no expectations. He even asked if he could touch my headphones before he touched them. And all of a sudden it was like: BING!

He respected me more in that one fucking encounter than I've ever been respected in my life. He is not from The U.S., and it shows. I'm not a fool. I understand that misogyny exists everywhere. It's a fucking plague. However, he addresses that part of himself so eloquently that sometimes I find myself trying to dive into his brain. Is he a professional con-man? Is he a Narcissist who has perfected his skill?

Needless to say, I got home today and cried. Therapy has opened up a lot of memories and although I want to understand myself better, I've gotta lay it down straight: this is hard. I haven't loved myself enough. People have sensed that about me and they have taken advantage. Men, lots of men. People enjoy making fun of women like me with a term coined as "Daddy Issues" because even the abuse from a father must be placed back on the little girl.

I'm tired of being used. I'm tired of the blurred lines of consent. So let us recap:

Yes is yes. Maybe is no. No is no. Yes can become a no at any time. Yes can become a maybe, which is still a no. One yes now does not mean yes in the future.
 
Silence is no answer which is NO.

Hey Tory Talbot Hall, when a girl is passed out it's called rape.

Meetings With My Therapist #1

 Kathy reminded me that we are our own worst critics. Instead of seeing a victory as a victory we see it as a loss. Every day I don't drink is a victory even if it was shitty, hard day.

I've been bone-shattering mortified reading my older blog posts. I've been mortified by a handful of things. My rage was consuming me at such a young age. The treatment I accepted from both my father and those I would go on to date. There is a correlation there and if I'm being honest, it's terrifying to scrape over in therapy. I'm mortified that I was capable of not addressing my internalized misogyny, racist beliefs, and prejudices. I am not that girl anymore. I will address it. I will feel the feelings. I will be disappointed. I so easily could have drowned under that rage and hatred. It's easier there. A huge part of recovery is accountability.

This is a victory. I now understand how judging someone by the people they've slept with is not okay. It's none of my fucking business. This is a victory. I now understand that having a cop fuck with you outside of your house and then let you go with just a warning is a privilege. There are bigger things in play. This is a victory. I now understand and comprehend that Obama's skin color didn't have any correlation to his time as President. (This was especially hard to read. I am so, so fucking sorry.) Obama failed us because he is a U.S. Politician. Politicians as a whole tend to not be very good people. We the people, are failed and exploited every-single-day. This is a victory... sort of. I mean, the world is fucked but at least I am not naive to that any longer. *thumbs up*

I sort of can't wait to really dive into what went on in my life to cause so much anger. As women it is so easy to be placed in a box. We are crazy, or too sensitive; if only we could take a joke. Women are expected to do this and do that; what those things are varies by the man showing interest or not showing interest but still feeling the need to comment. Men have had plenty to say about me. Men have taken my body and made it their personal plaything. I've been a mother to grown men. I've been a stepmom to kids I didn't want to care for. (My fault for dating men with kids. That won't happen again.) I've been a maid. I've been an accountant. All labor that was unpaid for.

The box titled crazy became too comfortable and familiar for me. My hope is that with a better understanding of myself I will find a better understanding of those that helped me enter that box, and therefore fully understand myself. My present existence is a swirly mess -HOLY SHIT- being an adult is hard. Parents aren't just raising children. They are creating an adult. Think about that before you make a life that is not choosing to be made. Are you helping create a better world? Will you die for them?

October 13th, 2019

October 13th, 2019, that was the day I walked into an AA meeting. It was either that or suicide. Those first three days all I could manage to do was spend my time hitting those rooms. Crying eventually turned to sounds of a toad, my body had nothing left to give. My first meeting is where I met her. Met her is an over-statement. I couldn't talk much. She walked in like a movie star. She was quiet but I knew she had entered without seeing her. She sat one chair away from me, that chair remaining empty. We were the only women in that room. She slipped me a note at the end of our meeting and walked out just like she had arrived. You felt her exit. In the note was her name, her number, and the message that I could call her anytime. I knew she meant it. This was so unfamiliar to me. I finally felt a release of some pain. By the time I got outside to maybe try and say something she was a silhouette surrounded by sun. She turned down a side street. She was a scene from a movie. She is always a scene from a movie.

She helped me that first night. She helped me get through those first few days, which turned into weeks, and then months. She was there every time I wanted to give up. She wouldn't even let me think of it. She encouraged my love of plants and I fondly remember the day we fit a small tree into her car and giggled the whole time.  A few months ago I was told she had relapsed.

~

I met him at meeting two. I knew from watching him that he was carrying pain. He smiled and laughed though and that was nice to see. We both headed straight towards the coffee and then sat at opposite sides of the room. During that meeting I entered back into crying. He was watching me, I felt like everyone was watching or trying not to watch. I was wiping snot on my pants. I don't even remember when I last washed my hair, but he wasn't staring at me with pity or disgust. He just looked sad. He slipped me a note with his name, his number, and a message that said I could call him anytime. I knew he meant it too.

He helped me that first night. He helped me that second day.  We poured our coffee together. We sat together. When he realized I was running on empty he found me a way to get home to pick up a few things. (I was staying with an old roommate due to my failing relationship.) He reminded me I needed to eat and that I needed more than coffee. He kept me going. Yesterday, I found out he tried to commit suicide.

~

That date, October 13th, 2019; no longer feels like a beacon of hope. It is the beginning of a countdown. When will I relapse? When will I decide to end things? She is strong and magnificent. He is capable of compassion in a world that tries to stomp that out. Who am I? Can I even be who I need me to be?

I am 31, and I still write.

I have been through so much. I wish I could say things got better. I've decided to share some things I've written over the years. Some from paper but most from my phone; everything that I just need let out.

I eventually entered into a world of alcohol, drugs, more rape, more sexual assault, drug dealers, and more dangerous men. Let us get real, I've been dealing with dangerous men my whole life. I'm ready from here on out.

This is going to be random. They are going to be my ramblings. This is going to be out of sequence. But it will all be me. The before me, me now, the me I hope to one day become. Just winding around, because that's where I am now. I'm clawing my way out of my own swirling depths of chaotic despair.