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18-11-2005
I don't know where to start.
Start at the beginning. I'm 8 years old, I think. But I can't begin there because that's a picture I really can't see right now.
Who am I now? Lost girl going through a major existential crisis. It's been ongoing for the last few years.
29. Almost a BA in political science under my belt. I'm told I have talent, potential. Years of destruction, self inflicted or at the hand of others, have taught me to not believe anything. It will have taken me 2 more years than average to get the degree. But Mrs. E. says I should look at how well I did the work I didn't run away from. Most people with stories like mine don't usually make it that far, it takes strength.
I feel like the weakest person in the world.
I want to issue a warning before I go on. I plan to describe moments of my experience here and many of them aren't pretty. It won't be about sensationalist details, it's about accusing. Saying who really deserves the blame. I can’t be that person anymore. I need to be able to say what happened to me.
I'm 17. We're in a black Explorer and we're driving to Laval on highway 15. I don't remember anything between that picture and the following one when we’re in an elevator in his apartment building. We get off. I remember walking down the hall and it had red carpeting and lights next to each door. In his apartment. First doorway I see walking in is the bedroom. Then a high tech living room. A dinning room. A large dinning room table, the kind that you see in nice houses with tasteful wood furniture. Sit here, I remember. Looking at him and not really understanding. We were supposed to talk. There are signals going on in my head that something is wrong, but I listen. I sit there, on the table. Then he tells me to lie down. I remember looking at him but I don’t remember his face.
A month earlier. My dad is in Cancun for 2 weeks with his girlfriend. My favorite cousin comes over for a few days. I've never been left alone in my life before. Military dad's perfect obedient girl gone that week. Never had a beer, never smoked, never did drugs, never slept with someone. That week I did it all. I had sex with him twice, and one night I called and asked if I could sleep over because I had run away from my dad's house and he said I couldn't because his girlfriend was there. It don't remember anything about how the first time happened. Anything about how it felt. But I remember every detail of the room.
The guy with the table fantasy owned an escort agency. The other was the first guy who told me I was pretty. The first time I was molested I was 8.
I can't make love to R. because I remember the rooms instead of the people. I focus on them.
I can't make love to R. because I have perfected the art of consciously removing myself from the act. Childhood defense mechanism. Don’t be there.
I feel like a pause is necessary. I wonder how you feel.
I wonder if I'm allowed to write about this. I wonder if I'm narcisistic and just need an audience.
I feel dizzy writing this.
Objectively. I just can't have sex with anyone without tuning out of it. The way I learned to tune out starting at 17 was to let another name do it. Chloë was her name. She made 70$ an hour.
I can't make love because I can't not rely on the 'Chloë' I invented to do it anymore.
With R. it was different. He had ample opportunity to make a move before, I even told him it was easy, but it wasn't the right time. He got my trust instead. He was like a horse-wisperer. Ease up slowly first. He knew to.
We talked about it. At first we were just joking about casual sex, then we slept in the same bed 3 times before we actually had it and it wasn't casual anymore. I told him that I had an issue with sex and control and that I needed to not take control and that probably made no sense to him. I was unable to say more, or explain why of course. Except to say that I was trying to live my life differently and I knew which things had to change.
In an email before that, I told him if he was looking for great casual sex, I was really good at it, but he wouldn't know me long term. If he was into knowing me like I was with him, he could know me longer. I don't know if he thought about that when he was in my bed and had me fall asleep in his arms. He wanted to but sensed something was not right so he didn't? He earned my respect.
Respect and trust. A man. A first for me.
Maybe if I write about all this I'll understand how to fix what's broken about me. I know it's about relearning how to deal with feelings.
As I'm writing I'm thinking. I’ve known this guy for years. We’ve only started to see each other outside class for 2 weeks.
I'm thinking so many things and so many images. I have a vivid imagination to begin with so it's not really easy. My thing is analyzing political content in great literature. I'm drawn to imagery, it latches on to me.
I wonder if there is anyone here that shares a story similar to mine. I wonder what it would be like to talk to someone that’s lived it too.
I know that last year's stats were of at least 80 minors here, Montreal. There has to be so many more on the web.
I hate numbers, they’re too big.
csg
I don't know where to start.
Start at the beginning. I'm 8 years old, I think. But I can't begin there because that's a picture I really can't see right now.
Who am I now? Lost girl going through a major existential crisis. It's been ongoing for the last few years.
29. Almost a BA in political science under my belt. I'm told I have talent, potential. Years of destruction, self inflicted or at the hand of others, have taught me to not believe anything. It will have taken me 2 more years than average to get the degree. But Mrs. E. says I should look at how well I did the work I didn't run away from. Most people with stories like mine don't usually make it that far, it takes strength.
I feel like the weakest person in the world.
I want to issue a warning before I go on. I plan to describe moments of my experience here and many of them aren't pretty. It won't be about sensationalist details, it's about accusing. Saying who really deserves the blame. I can’t be that person anymore. I need to be able to say what happened to me.
I'm 17. We're in a black Explorer and we're driving to Laval on highway 15. I don't remember anything between that picture and the following one when we’re in an elevator in his apartment building. We get off. I remember walking down the hall and it had red carpeting and lights next to each door. In his apartment. First doorway I see walking in is the bedroom. Then a high tech living room. A dinning room. A large dinning room table, the kind that you see in nice houses with tasteful wood furniture. Sit here, I remember. Looking at him and not really understanding. We were supposed to talk. There are signals going on in my head that something is wrong, but I listen. I sit there, on the table. Then he tells me to lie down. I remember looking at him but I don’t remember his face.
A month earlier. My dad is in Cancun for 2 weeks with his girlfriend. My favorite cousin comes over for a few days. I've never been left alone in my life before. Military dad's perfect obedient girl gone that week. Never had a beer, never smoked, never did drugs, never slept with someone. That week I did it all. I had sex with him twice, and one night I called and asked if I could sleep over because I had run away from my dad's house and he said I couldn't because his girlfriend was there. It don't remember anything about how the first time happened. Anything about how it felt. But I remember every detail of the room.
The guy with the table fantasy owned an escort agency. The other was the first guy who told me I was pretty. The first time I was molested I was 8.
I can't make love to R. because I remember the rooms instead of the people. I focus on them.
I can't make love to R. because I have perfected the art of consciously removing myself from the act. Childhood defense mechanism. Don’t be there.
I feel like a pause is necessary. I wonder how you feel.
I wonder if I'm allowed to write about this. I wonder if I'm narcisistic and just need an audience.
I feel dizzy writing this.
Objectively. I just can't have sex with anyone without tuning out of it. The way I learned to tune out starting at 17 was to let another name do it. Chloë was her name. She made 70$ an hour.
I can't make love because I can't not rely on the 'Chloë' I invented to do it anymore.
With R. it was different. He had ample opportunity to make a move before, I even told him it was easy, but it wasn't the right time. He got my trust instead. He was like a horse-wisperer. Ease up slowly first. He knew to.
We talked about it. At first we were just joking about casual sex, then we slept in the same bed 3 times before we actually had it and it wasn't casual anymore. I told him that I had an issue with sex and control and that I needed to not take control and that probably made no sense to him. I was unable to say more, or explain why of course. Except to say that I was trying to live my life differently and I knew which things had to change.
In an email before that, I told him if he was looking for great casual sex, I was really good at it, but he wouldn't know me long term. If he was into knowing me like I was with him, he could know me longer. I don't know if he thought about that when he was in my bed and had me fall asleep in his arms. He wanted to but sensed something was not right so he didn't? He earned my respect.
Respect and trust. A man. A first for me.
Maybe if I write about all this I'll understand how to fix what's broken about me. I know it's about relearning how to deal with feelings.
As I'm writing I'm thinking. I’ve known this guy for years. We’ve only started to see each other outside class for 2 weeks.
I'm thinking so many things and so many images. I have a vivid imagination to begin with so it's not really easy. My thing is analyzing political content in great literature. I'm drawn to imagery, it latches on to me.
I wonder if there is anyone here that shares a story similar to mine. I wonder what it would be like to talk to someone that’s lived it too.
I know that last year's stats were of at least 80 minors here, Montreal. There has to be so many more on the web.
I hate numbers, they’re too big.
csg
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