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Timing is everything…and right now the time tells me I’m too sad to write fiction

I am continuously struck by fortuitous timing, and the fact that I wrote a fictional post, and yet I can’t seem to come up with a single word that will point me in the direction of chapter two.

The fictional post is supposed to be the first chapter of my new novel, Angel’s Fall, and yet I’ve got absolutely nothing. That being said I am not the conventional writer, my writing is mine and mine alone. I have no interest in traditional publishing, I want to give it away for free, so that people can read it right as it’s written.

I don’t have a why, it’s not because I’m lazy or afraid to option my book to traditional publishers, it’s because that’s how I work, and yet I am stuck by the idea that the reason I cannot write is because I don’t want to validate the abuse that I suffered.

I say “we” often, but the truth is that there were thirteen boys and me. I was forced to have sex with them or to suffer their company as long as our controller’s decided, I wasn’t given free reign to do whatever I want the way that the boys were, so in reality it wasn’t “we” it was “me.”

There are a lot of people that are expecting that one day I am going to write a tomb that details the abuse minutely to give validation to what was done to me, that somehow will excuse what the boys who turned into men did when they gang raped me.

The truth is that abuse has permeated every fiber of my life, and it’s taken away my ability to write.

My main character is like me, a woman filled with great power and yet surrounded by men, I have no interest in telling that story any more. It’s done, it’s passe, but mostly it’s too close to home.

I keep thinking that if I hold on long enough the story will write itself when it’s time but the truth is that writing used to be an escape for me, now it feels like work. Work I am supposed to be doing so that my abusers don’t come back and kill me for telling the truth.

I’ve used this website to tell my truth in a variety of ways that helped me survive, I’ve made sure that I am protected and the things and people and places I want to write about no longer inspire me.

I don’t see inspiration in abuse any more, I see hurt and anger and I don’t want to deal with it.

I am not asleep any more – by that I mean I have acknowledged what happened to me and I’ve been angry. I’m not angry any more, I am just bored.

Or maybe I am still in that deep seething rage phase, the one that’s burning so slow I don’t notice it. I’m not entirely sure.

Christmas this year wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great but it wasn’t terrible, which is the first year in many a year I’ve been able to say that. My mom cooked Christmas dinner at a hotel for us, we spent all week there spending time together.

It was lovely actually, and I enjoyed myself, with the exception that everyone drank without worry but for me. Both my mom and my aunt are worried about my drinking, which is rather ironic since my mom barely drinks, and my aunt drinks like a fish.

My Doctor says I’m okay to have a drink here or there as long as I’m being careful, which I always am. I deliberately do not drink by myself, and I almost always stop at three at the absolute most. Two if I’m feeling safe, three if I am feeling very safe, which lately I am.

The nightmares haven’t stopped, they just changed forms, but all that matters to me is that I can’t write fiction the way I want to.

I keep being struck by the fact that my last real counselor was also one of the men who beat me the night I was gang raped. I can’t for the life of me figure out how I found him, or why fate brought him to me, or how I could forget until I remembered, but I remembered distinctly that he was there that night, and the Police aren’t or haven’t done anything to prevent him from doing it to someone else.

I think that’s what it is that’s bothering me so much, that’s the thing that breaks my heart. These terrible things happened to me for twenty six years all because of Keith Rainier, and no one gives a fuck. They chalk it up to me being crazy, because that’s the easiest way to describe what happened to me. So I get to be the victim for the rest of my life, instead of having what happened to me validated by the same people who are paid to make sure that gang rape and child sexual abuse don’t happen.

I am going to be posting a Go Fund Me in a few weeks to help raise money for the three Pride events that I want to attend, in costume and with my love letters so I am kind of excited about that…but in accordance with the rules of New Years, I am not actually going to plan anything else.

All I can think about right now is the fact that I am too sad to write.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

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