You know, I don't really know how I feel personally about the trigger warnings that the feminist blogosphere has been talking about lately, but I am also definitely not an asshole, so have a:
Ok, so the point of this blog was to try to give voice to everything I was thinking and feeling in remembering, and then acknowledging, and then trying to heal from being raped. And I am going to try to be as honest as I can possibly be, but you know what's harder than writing a blog about being raped? Getting yourself to figure out WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE FEELING about the rape. Because I am so epically good at pushing all those feelings and emotions down (I couldn't even remember what really happened for nearly 3 years) that by sheer force of habit I am totally unable to easily grasp what I myself am going through. It's a little like getting hit by the waves of an invisible sea. You end up suffering from these symptoms, that come out in weird ways and at weird times, without ever being able to see or understand or get any grasp on the disease.
So, here's what's going on: nothing good.
I am in the middle of finals. I have four of them. I am really behind, because this is just how shit goes. I am tired and cranky and stressed. And what happens when I am tired and cranky and stressed? I become very bad at taking care of myself. All the work I have been doing to try to manage my disassociative disorder and get healthy did not just fly, it like warp-speeded, out the window.
So not only am I trying to handle stress and really study and fucking memorize the Federal Rules of Evidence (which: ehhhhhhhhhhhh), I am also fantasizing about starving myself. I have daydreams of putting a gun up my vagina and pulling the trigger. I wish to cut huge chunks of flesh out of my sides and throw them to the ground. I want to take a machete and split my entire middle open and let my innards bleed out. I spend a good chuck of time every hour telling myself how fat I am, how disgusting I am, how I would love to do nothing more than escape this body. I can't make it stop. When you're raped, you can never get away from the scene of the crime. So, for me, I just immediately revert, when I am tired, to imagining doing brutal violence to my body, because that crime against my body has been written all over it and in it and it feels like it has even gotten into my veins and the marrow of my bones and I want to make it go away. I want it to stop.
I don't want to do this anymore.
But, you know, I don't really have a choice, do I?
I want to make it clear that I am not in danger, and that I am not suicidal, and that no one need worry. This is just how rape survival goes. At least for me. And there is an endpoint to this, sort of, and my last final is the 30th, and I can rest and again begin the work of healing. And this is lucky, because many women do not have endpoints to the other stresses in their lives, and they are in a war zone or a continuing dangerous situation or are struggling to feed their families or don't have as good a support system or live in a culture that blames them for their own rape or any of the other horrid things women have to face every day. More than anything, more than even how much I want to hurt myself, I am grateful.
So, if the blog is a little erratic, I apologize; this is going to become an annoyingly self-serving space for me (ahaha, as opposed to how it is always ANYWAY, right?). If you keep reading, then thank you. And come April 30th, I promise: I will personally, and with great emotion, have a drink (or several!) to toast you. Girl scout honor.