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PreScript: Mindways sent me an email asking if I'm okay --he hasn't heard from me much, and noted I haven't been posting. His email is a good thing --I like reminders that I exist. This is my response. From the start of writing it, I knew it was going here, and not just to him. I talk about sex, and I talk about rape. So, you know. Trigger warning.
Dear Darker.
I am not okay.
That wasn't what I was going to say in the first draft of the email, my first attempt at a response. I was going to say that I am okay, just busy with my new job and a little low on logisticating energy. I liked the hedge you offered about holiday madness --that's certainly some of it too.
But if everything were okay, damnit, I would've replied already. Fast, quick, breezy, and done. And I can't send something like that, because it's not really true right now.
*most* of what is wrong right now is just one of those small subtle spirals where more and more things go undone, until suddenly the weight of accumulated responsibility is impossible to struggle free from. It's a cruel catch-22 that depressive behaviours reinforce themselves. My room is a mess, which makes my mood sour, which makes me want to just curl up in bed and forget the world, which leads to my room being a mess. The way to fix it, of course, is to just start working on the pile, small steps, one at a time, more and more until I can breathe again. I have never been good at self-discipline.
I would be just fine if my room was clean and my grading was done and my hair was brushed and my wishlist was updated. I will be just fine if I go grocery shopping and replace the brakes on my bike and file away my papers. But all of that requires time, as much as it requires energy, and both are hard to come by in the sudden remembrance of winter when I've cheated myself of sleep.
(This response is only as melodramatic as it is because I am dreadfully in sleep-debt. Tomorrow, it would not be so Much, because tomorrow -maybe- I'll be better, more aware awake alive. I'll manage.)
***
Most is not all.
The time between Thanksgiving and December 2nd every year is one of my worst times. This year, for whatever dark reason, has seemed especially hard.
In 2007, right after Thanksgiving, my laptop broke and I lost a hard drive full of three months worth of existence. It's been eight years and it still stings. It was a Monday, and the only good out of it was going to SCD for the first time.
In 2007, the next weekend, 30th-1st-2nd, I flew down to Maryland for a surprise visit. I told almost no one. I surprised my mother, and sibs, and Veronica. I saw the high school play and all my drama friends. I went to Rocky Horror. I woke up Sunday morning, being raped. I broke up with my boyfriend.
I arrived home in the evening, exhausted from little sleep and too much crying. Porter Station was my T-stop of choice then, and as I took the long escalators up, and stepped out into the night, I found myself in a state of silence. The snow had started to fall, not too deep yet, but muffling everything unnecessary. I walked out of the station and into my home. I had loved Boston longer, but that was the moment where the city shifted beneath my heart and told me it was mine.
When I tell the story flip, when I leave out the parts that sear my soul, here is where I say "the next day I call Magus and ask, 'that dance you do...is that *every* Monday?'"
This irregular stretch, sometimes one week, sometimes two, is not a time of horrific memories. That would be easy, that would be something I could defend against and manage. It's the mix that kills me, the utter elation and ceremony from celebrating some of the best things in my life, against the stark recollection of everything I lost and will never, ever, be able to get back. I suffered that relationship. I am in a city that sings of Home. The first semester of college is gone. I have learned to dance.
everything is intense and loud and vibrant and much, and my mind can't handle the noise.
***
I have noted to myself, that I didn't really exist as a person until about 2003. That's when I started keeping a better diary, having my own voice online, writing in here. I don't know what to call what happened to me at the end of 2007, only that it marked me as adult far more fiercely than merely passing my eighteenth birthday.
Eight is my favourite number. It has no particular spiritual or ritualistic purpose in my world, but it is a number I feel comfortable with and made happy by. It has, for so many things, now been eight years.
Tomorrow it will be eight years since I was fucked without my consent. Yesterday, I sobbed on the shoulder of someone who had just given me an orgasm. I cried because the idea of being given pleasure, unconditional and with my desires at the forefront, is foreign to me. I cried because if I asked them to stop, they would (because when I asked them to stop, they had). I cried because it has been eight years repairing the damage from ten months of dating and I'm still. not. done.
I think tomorrow is going to be hard too. But I will handle it the same way I have handled the two thousand, nine hundred, and twenty two days in between. I will go to my job and listen to music and write my words and dance. Maybe I will cry --that's okay, crying is better for me than nothing. And the day after, I will have one more year against the pain, and years can be weapons sometimes. Things will get better.
I will be okay.
Love, affection, all due respect,
~Rin
MOOP!
PostScript: Here is where I take a step away from the entry-as-prose to write more plain.
I am really behind on lots of things. It sucks. This is a bad time of year for memories. That also sucks. Life isn't so hot right now. BUT.
I have a job I love, and soon I will be spending more'n a week with my family. There are cool things happening all this month, too many to keep track of (in the most delightful way).
No matter what else is going on, no matter what drama or trauma my mind is putting me through, I survive it. It's what I do, it's how I function --the world is too interesting and marvelous to abandon. There are only two options, when it comes right down to it, and there are books I haven't read yet. No matter what, I survive.
I don't know how you can help. Probably you can't right now, and that's okay too. Sometimes it's how things go. Thanks for reading, at least.
<3
~Sor
Dear Darker.
I am not okay.
That wasn't what I was going to say in the first draft of the email, my first attempt at a response. I was going to say that I am okay, just busy with my new job and a little low on logisticating energy. I liked the hedge you offered about holiday madness --that's certainly some of it too.
But if everything were okay, damnit, I would've replied already. Fast, quick, breezy, and done. And I can't send something like that, because it's not really true right now.
*most* of what is wrong right now is just one of those small subtle spirals where more and more things go undone, until suddenly the weight of accumulated responsibility is impossible to struggle free from. It's a cruel catch-22 that depressive behaviours reinforce themselves. My room is a mess, which makes my mood sour, which makes me want to just curl up in bed and forget the world, which leads to my room being a mess. The way to fix it, of course, is to just start working on the pile, small steps, one at a time, more and more until I can breathe again. I have never been good at self-discipline.
I would be just fine if my room was clean and my grading was done and my hair was brushed and my wishlist was updated. I will be just fine if I go grocery shopping and replace the brakes on my bike and file away my papers. But all of that requires time, as much as it requires energy, and both are hard to come by in the sudden remembrance of winter when I've cheated myself of sleep.
(This response is only as melodramatic as it is because I am dreadfully in sleep-debt. Tomorrow, it would not be so Much, because tomorrow -maybe- I'll be better, more aware awake alive. I'll manage.)
***
Most is not all.
The time between Thanksgiving and December 2nd every year is one of my worst times. This year, for whatever dark reason, has seemed especially hard.
In 2007, right after Thanksgiving, my laptop broke and I lost a hard drive full of three months worth of existence. It's been eight years and it still stings. It was a Monday, and the only good out of it was going to SCD for the first time.
In 2007, the next weekend, 30th-1st-2nd, I flew down to Maryland for a surprise visit. I told almost no one. I surprised my mother, and sibs, and Veronica. I saw the high school play and all my drama friends. I went to Rocky Horror. I woke up Sunday morning, being raped. I broke up with my boyfriend.
I arrived home in the evening, exhausted from little sleep and too much crying. Porter Station was my T-stop of choice then, and as I took the long escalators up, and stepped out into the night, I found myself in a state of silence. The snow had started to fall, not too deep yet, but muffling everything unnecessary. I walked out of the station and into my home. I had loved Boston longer, but that was the moment where the city shifted beneath my heart and told me it was mine.
When I tell the story flip, when I leave out the parts that sear my soul, here is where I say "the next day I call Magus and ask, 'that dance you do...is that *every* Monday?'"
This irregular stretch, sometimes one week, sometimes two, is not a time of horrific memories. That would be easy, that would be something I could defend against and manage. It's the mix that kills me, the utter elation and ceremony from celebrating some of the best things in my life, against the stark recollection of everything I lost and will never, ever, be able to get back. I suffered that relationship. I am in a city that sings of Home. The first semester of college is gone. I have learned to dance.
everything is intense and loud and vibrant and much, and my mind can't handle the noise.
***
I have noted to myself, that I didn't really exist as a person until about 2003. That's when I started keeping a better diary, having my own voice online, writing in here. I don't know what to call what happened to me at the end of 2007, only that it marked me as adult far more fiercely than merely passing my eighteenth birthday.
Eight is my favourite number. It has no particular spiritual or ritualistic purpose in my world, but it is a number I feel comfortable with and made happy by. It has, for so many things, now been eight years.
Tomorrow it will be eight years since I was fucked without my consent. Yesterday, I sobbed on the shoulder of someone who had just given me an orgasm. I cried because the idea of being given pleasure, unconditional and with my desires at the forefront, is foreign to me. I cried because if I asked them to stop, they would (because when I asked them to stop, they had). I cried because it has been eight years repairing the damage from ten months of dating and I'm still. not. done.
I think tomorrow is going to be hard too. But I will handle it the same way I have handled the two thousand, nine hundred, and twenty two days in between. I will go to my job and listen to music and write my words and dance. Maybe I will cry --that's okay, crying is better for me than nothing. And the day after, I will have one more year against the pain, and years can be weapons sometimes. Things will get better.
I will be okay.
Love, affection, all due respect,
~Rin
MOOP!
PostScript: Here is where I take a step away from the entry-as-prose to write more plain.
I am really behind on lots of things. It sucks. This is a bad time of year for memories. That also sucks. Life isn't so hot right now. BUT.
I have a job I love, and soon I will be spending more'n a week with my family. There are cool things happening all this month, too many to keep track of (in the most delightful way).
No matter what else is going on, no matter what drama or trauma my mind is putting me through, I survive it. It's what I do, it's how I function --the world is too interesting and marvelous to abandon. There are only two options, when it comes right down to it, and there are books I haven't read yet. No matter what, I survive.
I don't know how you can help. Probably you can't right now, and that's okay too. Sometimes it's how things go. Thanks for reading, at least.
<3
~Sor