I have never been the kind of person to truly wish harm on other people, I’ve wished people to burn in hell, but I never meant that literally. I am just not a mean person by nature, I don’t go out of my way to hurt people I claim to care about.

So maybe that’s why I can’t quite understand internal mysogony, even as I  used to participate in it.

I grew up around people who always deferred to the men in my life, and so I learned at an early age, by friends family and abusers alike that what men wanted men got.

When my girlfriends hid guns or drugs from the cops for their boyfriends it was assumed that was part of the consequence of dating those guys. When they got beaten up they got what they deserved because they should have known better.

I was raised to believe that men were superior to women, but it was my mom that helped set me free from that belief by living a life that showed me she didn’t need a man to survive.

It’s only recently I have come to the conclusion that although I am certain I want children in my life, I am not entirely sure I want to have a man in my life.

I am sure there are people out there who think I just need to find the right partner, and while there is a certain amount of truth to that, I am just not in this place of seeing myself wanting to be with another human being in an intimate way.

I think they call it A – Sexual, that’s what I feel like I am becoming. The idea of inviting human beings into my life is so traumatizing that I am having trouble writing my fictional book because I would much prefer my main character go it the fuck alone.

Much like me she isn’t interested in interacting with other people at the moment, but without people there is no story to tell, only self reflection.

That being said I also understand this comes from the insecurity of knowing that I have been so badly abused I am unable to fully trust another human again. If abused dogs could talk I think they’d understand how I feel.

Yesterday I ran into rapist number three, the third I’ve seen in the last year and a half. He called me a bunch of names and went out of his way to make me feel unsafe, because that’s what rapists do. He told everyone in the store that I accused him of rape and played the victim while I found myself unable to breath.

I remember how he raped me from behind, I remember that he threatened to murder the children of a friend of mine, threatened to rape them while I watched. I remember all of the things he said to me that night, and the fact that he destroyed the family I had somehow managed to carve out for myself.

I will die before I let him touch me again, and the calm and serenity I have been feeling the last few weeks has completely turned to ash in the last twenty-four hours.

I spent all of last night crying myself to sleep, worrying that they might come through the door at any moment and blocking the door just in case.

Today was hard because I started to write and I really felt happy about what I was writing, I went out to see a friend, came home and deleted all of it.

I know it was the right choice because it wasn’t a truth that I want to tell, but that being said I am having such a hard time remembering what is truth and what is recovered memory based on lies I told myself to survive.

I am so fucking tired.



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