I heard about this a little while ago, from another blogger. She has a lovely site called the silent wave. And I felt like sharing something. No, scratch that, I need to share this. It’s been eating at me from the day it happened. Maybe It’s already died off? I don’t really care to be honest. Why should It matter? And besides: I don’t think I could share anything more personal. It’s such an act of faith to trust that people won’t take advantage of your openness.
Obligatory Content warning: If you have had similar things happen to you, this probably will upset you and bring them back to the surface. (Wherever ______ is an ommision for that reason)
I had to go back through my old diary to remember most of this, and for the most part is direct quotations from the entries at the time. Anyway, this isn’t about an event per se, but rather a time and place where I discovered There was an event at all. The mind is a funny thing like that. It’s quite happy to lie to us if that means we survive. accuracy? na. Let’s go for efficiency. You know, I think that sexual abuse in all it’s more serious forms are far worse for the victim than murder. I mean, When someone kills you uou don’t have to live with yourself after the fact. The world just keeps on turning. But for you, Sounds race past without recognition. The world seems dull and muted. Joy? shame? Pain? Like? Dislike? Things just are. Bury it all deep down where not even you can find it.
I’ve been pretty isolated most of my life. In my earlier years, I went to school came home, and there I stayed, save for when hell froze over. I also hated being touched. Eventually I found myself at the end of my schooling. That’s where the story starts. Before I left I confided in a teacher about my gender issues. They just happened to be married to someone up at the hospital who knew someone who could help. It took a while, and a few deleted e-mails and a sunburn later, but Eventually I saw them. Among other things, they were worried about how Isolated I was. So, they suggested we Enroll in this drama class. I figured, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing to lose. Few months later, in I went. The first class was pretty uneventful, I went in with my brand new skinny jeans and shirt that didn’t cause me horrible dysphoria. I walked in with the size sticker still on! it was so embarrassing.
There were people my age! Actual Young people. And girls! Actually, there was another thing that happened before that. I was doing jury duty. It all seems so related. I kid you not, every single case I was was related to either pedophilia or “sexual abuse”. Really. There was one time where The person accused had 5 charges of assault and 5 “counts” of ____. “You are accused of bla bla with bla bla using ____ to ______, without their consent, reckless indifference to their lack of consent, and generally indifferent to their lack of consenting. do you plead guilty or not guilty to this offence?” They repeated this speal a few times for each charge. They cracked this hilarious grin at one point. They knew what was up.
It was almost funny. I had a pork sandwich in my pocket when I went in. The security were like: “yes, that too”. And then I go through the scanner. No beep. Shocking! Well I’ll be darned”- they quipped to themself. It was a sandwich! just a sandwich. I mention this because I have a growing suspicion that these things happened for a reason. This happened about a month before The first class. It was actually pretty fun, even if I felt like a fish out of water. The next week I almost got lost, but I waited and followed some boys in. Here I directly quote my diary:
“We started with a “spitballing exercise” where we kept saying words related to the one our partner said. Saying assassin might make them say creed. After that some of the boys started talking about this video game called life is strange. At first in the context of photography (Polaroids, etc), and then About this part where a girl goes to a party and got drugged and sexually “exploited”, after which they were the recipient of scorn, shaming and name-calling as a result of out of context video footage people uploaded. I wanted to get out of there. I don’t understand why, but my legs started shaking. I physically felt a “wrongness” and “out of space”, and out of body, as if I was floating. I really don’t know how to describe it. Breathe. IN. Out. IN. Out. Better?”
Why would I react that way? It continues: 3rd week: So, Had the shakes again, ended up just walking out. Hated it. I went there to get away from the internet and what are they doing? Taking about it. *facepalm* It took so many deep breaths to stop shaking.
I’m not sure if I remember what we did. Anyway, The first few weeks were not so bad. The 4th time we had an older guy teaching. He seemed nice enough. This time we had to read some lines about a girl who dropped out of school and gets an (lovely topics, I know.) abusive boyfriend. I tried as best I could to keep my voice level and suppress the shakes, but you could still hear it in my voice. “Oh, you’re a good actor” No! My voice was quivering for real! I also got accused of being gay because the word boyfriend just rolled off my tounge without me batting an eyelash. People were quick to come to my defence, naturally. Of course I wasn’t! Ps: I’m not into girls- make of that what you will. 🙂
I’m sorry if my tone is so cold and dry. I really am. I’ve gotten so good at maintaining my composure. The next entry is a little… Upset? I won’t include it. Anyway, they unveiled their brilliant project that week. it had a message! So progressive! Much social commentary. It was about a ‘date rape’. Much like that stupid video game. Almost exactly like it ), actually. Well, with 3 or 4 pages of annoying slang thrown in. It took every ounce of discipline I had not to shred that script into a million pieces. I hated it. I scrunched it up pretty bad though. The next few weeks continued in a pretty predictable fashion, And I reacted much the same way. Well, eventually we hardened ourselves. Did I really freak out the other times? I started to doubt myself. But I stormed out in the end, and I never came back. Ever. I tried to tell the person I was seeing what had happened, but they just congratulated me on being so sensitive, and that some of the other girls were really upset about it too. It was like they didn’t even hear what I said. My mother was the worst.
She straight up mocked me for trying to find an explanation for what was happening. Past lives? Pfft! me and my Stupid fixations. I don’t know what it was. I was just exploring my options. It made sense. I learned to shut up eventually. I also started having these sensations, flashes of imagery. Memories of memories. My throat being constricted. Being pushed, thrown into something. Lying there…. Heavy… so heavy… Nope. I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t. My fingers won’t obey. And I’m about to burst into tears. I don’t get it. Why? I don’t remember anything. I’ve never really told anyone about any of this. Not properly. I don’t know what to say. Reading those entries has turned me into a train-wreck. I just want to curl into a ball. Or break everything. I spent so many months burying them. And here they are. I don’t know what to do. I showed someone the draft of this and the first thing they asked me is whether I made the “story” up or not.
why is it that way? I don’t understand. I still don’t know what happened to me, or when or why. I certainly would love to know. But something tells me I won’t find out anytime soon. All I know Is That I’m tired of feeling alone. Maybe the scars won’t wash away. But isn’t that what makes us who we are?
Well, Screw it! Let’s hit the publish button. That’s what being dissocitive is for, right? *rolls eyes*