Hello, world… Yep, it’s a girl. 

 I once read that when you kill yourself, you’re not trying to kill one person (your self) so much as to destroy the world. Either way, you won’t be around to philosophize about it.
I want you to know right off I’m writing this because I was raped and this is…probably… for rape victims. This is for rape victims who, like me, seriously mulled over how to answer Hamlet’s desperate question, to be or not to be, and who understood little but their own cowardice in life. This is for girls who have hated their cunts, for women who were called sluts. This is also for anyone who likes cats and writers who go off on badly timed tangents and have somewhat macabre senses of humor in the face of traumatic things, and dull things as well.

This is also for my husband who will once again wonder why a good, cathartic blog like this has to be ruined by me occasionally talking about the raging Satan creatures that live in my gastrointestinal tract and their latest evil machinations, and my other inflammatory views on life.
Basically it’s my blog and I can write whatever the hell I want, and I damn well will, and Oo ee! Does that feel good. And no in this world better take credit for what I write here- these are my memories and opinions and snobbery and jackass assertions. Not any one else’s, blah blah disclaimer disclaimer.

Um.. Sometimes I will randomly add my doodles. I just decided. My art isn’t that awesome but it is awesome to me, please don’t make a profit off of it (but tell me if you think it is worth anything besides sentimental value!! ) …..

Fuck is a four letter word that is generally not used in polite society. So is

Rape.                       ..Shame, shame, shame, shame.. 

It was four years ago almost to the month, and I can say the words now without physically reacting. I’m writing in part so that if you were raped… Maybe you’ll want to kill yourself, like I tried to, or maybe you accepted the shame and that of your mother’s horrible screams and tears, but aborted your wee fetus in horror and hurt, like me, pretending that you were just a careless sex fiend. Ha! If you are reading this and you were raped, I’m writing because I realized no one seemed capable of listening to me, or understanding, and I was too broken to be strong. More women than I have ever contemplated have been raped, and I only knew the smallest portion of them. I joined their ranks, as we all did, involuntarily. Every one carries a secret, some are terrible. Here is mine, so you know you’re not alone with that muscularly exhausting fake smile pasted on your face and the pretend allergies and pretend life. Yeah, been there.

August 2016

‘The fear has gripped me but here I go”. Good song, breezeblocks.

Wow. I just had to take a deep breath because my throat is tightening. What do you think I should start with? Ah.. These are the questions I asked myself afterwards, when I could think: why did it happen to me? What kind of woman, girl am I to have let it happen? How could he do that to me. Hm. Will he die a fiery death before I can get to him?

I’ll start off with the sin. I’m not religious. I gave up praying to a god that defied reason long before this… But I believe in the meaning of sin, and have seen and lived through enough evil acts.

Write about the rape. Don’t think, don’t hold anything back (free advice passed down from the counsellor to me to you): 

I’m lying facedown in his parents extra bedroom, where his sister sleeps. That abominably ugly fire truck red dress, complete with flames, is on me and it’s long, down to my ankles. It’s a gift from his overbearing mother, I wore it to please her. I’m half crying half staring down at the bed, not really seeing anything, feeling numb because earlier that day he had hit my thigh. I was supposed to be angry but the feelings were very nebulous, I couldn’t seem to feel any emotion clearly defined. My brain felt a lot like thoughts were short circuiting. I felt weak and tired, mostly. He came in, I remember the door stayed partially open. The sun came in through the window opposite the door. I remember I was sick, I had just come from the hospital, a week. He had yelled at me there, saying I was talking to other men and cheating. He never brought me my birth control that week. But then he was on the bed and I just skip to the part of lifting the skirt, pushing it higher and me wriggling away and crying. I had been refusing to talk to him as punishment for hitting me. I don’t remember any of the sensations of his body in mine, only me pushing my face into the bed and crying and trying to crawl away. I don’t know why I can’t remember more details. Repulsive as they are..
This haunts me of course, you can see I never verbalized a no. I never kicked him in his nuts, or twisted his penis, or screamed. I wriggled away and cried. I immediately began a years long hatered of my body because of an excruciatingly acute understanding: my vagina was wet at the time of thr rape. My pussy, cunt, all those helpfully nasty ways to describe it were right, after all. It became a bloodletting leech, anathema, an insult and a sin in itself. It wasn’t good or beautiful or neutral. It fucking sold me out. I wanted to cut it off, it was weak, loathesome. It made him think I wanted it.

Afterwards, not so many moments after he ejaculated into me, I fairly calmly told him he raped me. I asked why. I do remember very clearly his reply, “I thought it would make things better.” I wanted desperately to believe him.

 My burning mind grew more hateful of myself after I was finally physically away from him, months later. Because for awhile, I chose to stay. College educated, independent, and in the end, a coward. I had chosen to believe that he didn’t mean it, and when I found out I was pregnant I told him and tried to be happy. I told my mom over the phone, an ocean away, listened to her scream and wail, then the concerned voices of my sisters. Being Indian, she took it quite hard, if the words ‘scream and wail’ don’t paint it clearly enough. I made plans to marry and accepted the way he continued cheating on me. I daydreamed a martyr-like life of giving up everything for my child, and I talked to my belly and tried to close my mind to anything other than just going through the steps until eventually I died. No joke, those were my thoughts. Very dramatic. I basically resigned from being a thinking, feeling person.

…But I did leave, when my peace corps contract was up, December of 2012.  I even told the medical officer, but just that I was pregnant. Apparently I’d have to be flown to Washington, D.C. for an abortion. I declined. That meant I had to face this head on, make a permanent decision, and that many others would know at least that part of my secret.

I flew home as normal, and by then my mind kept blaming my body and my self more than it blamed him. I don’t know why. I hated him, but I wanted to cut myself to pieces.  I did cause myself a lot of physical pain, and for those few moments after a cut or scratch, I felt mental relief.  Maybe because he was out of reach to hurt, and I believed that my body was weak and betrayed me and deserved to hurt, too. And it was close at hand. For years I needed someone or something to take the pain and hurt, and my body became my own ‘whipping boy’. Whenever I felt horrible, I would find a way to hurt my skin, even insulting and cursing my body as if it were something separate from me, something I wanted to cast away as a traitor. My female form as a dumb, unthinking beast. The reason I was raped. 

I could not accept that he could choose consciously to do such a heinous, barbaric action, to control me and impregnate me by intention. I knew it was true but from the first few moments after it happened, I fought against that truth, second guessing everything, justifying, denying. When I was physically far, far away from him, I realized the depth of that horror, and I immediately needed to end it, needing to know, Why, How…could anyone rape a another person? I went a little .. Very..crazy over the question. And I got no answer, no end. So I continued to hurt myself. 

So that was that. Not too many months after I was home and depressed and jobless (no car, living in the country), I got very drunk with a guy who seemed to have very large muscles and a very minute bit of brain matter. But mom said, go on dates and I, depressed daughter, threw myself in equally brainlessly, though by switching it off. I drank too much to drive moms car home and so I slept at his house. Not finding him attractive, all I cared to do was sleep. I woke up intermittently, drunkenly crying about my mother who had lectured me about drinking too much to drive back. ….

apparently that’s a turn on, triggering this weirdos’s persistent lusty embraces. I was alert enough to say no, over and over, and fell back asleep. I remember saying no. The next morning he was very happy, explaining that we had sex because he ‘persuaded me’ to change my mind. I don’t remember anything of it. Though this probably counts as rape, at the time I didn’t care. Mine was a broken, stupid, traitorous body, who cares what happened to it. I saw him a few more times, then I left for an overseas trip. His droning angsty messages aside, when he sent me a huge unwashed green shirt with prominent, giant sweat stains ‘so I could remember him’ it made me laugh and puke a little, and that was the end of that.

He never thought he did anything wrong, and I didn’t care about my honor and rights enough to correct him.


Self therapy can suck because there is no time limit. No one to guide you or, very importantly, haha, cut you off. You just think and think until it’s 3am and you either have to pee or shoot someone to make your mind shut the fuck up. And that bullshit can go on for years! No wonder I look like a wrinkly bat now.

Time to let go of my clenched jaws and soothe an elevated heart beat. All my anger comes too late on these matters. Well. Til next time, unless I give up this, narcissistic fools errand. I mean, come on. Blogging! Ha!  I blame my spouse, who said (nicely) that I talk a lot and need to make one. 


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