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I honestly feel that doing anything about it was the worst mistake I'd ever done. Moments after it happened, I felt that nobody would believe me. Even after I took a shower, I knew what I was doing was washing away evidence (he claimed it was consensual and everybody took his side anyway, so it didn't matter). I hope if I ever get raped again that he kills me. I don't know what I'd do it if ever happened again.
I had the weirdest trigger that happened a few months ago, that all I can remember is that I felt the rape all over again, the reaction from it, in my body. I don't remember where I was or what triggered it. I might've written it down in my paper journal. It lingered for me to log it, but then I didn't come here soon enough. Maybe I wanted it to go away, but it just hovers over me, vaguely. The awful thing is: what if all the women in my family had been violated? What if all the men in my family had violated someone? These were the thoughts that came to mind the same month it happened.
The one good thought that occured to me a few months ago is that I'm still here, going about my life, working, pursuing my love of acting, spending time with family and friends, and that that asshole rapist didn't completely get the best of me. I don't know what he was trying to do or prove by not taking no for an answer and treating me like he had the right, but I"m still here. When I realize this, I usually feel stronger. It's my mantra. I will always hate that it happened at all; I will never forgive myself for it happening in the first place, regardless of how strong/weak I fought him off/reasoned with him. A decent guy wouldn't have done what he did, if all those who disrespected think he's decent. Any time a man is labelled as decent by anyone, I automatically think there's something in his past where he violated someone. When I'm heartbroken, I feel it in my chest. When I think about the incident and how I was disgustingly disrespected, all I have is balled-up rage that won't come out of me. It's there and I can sense it. I can't cry about it because the rage had taken over. It's some sort of monster, some beast or toxin that's sitting in my chest. It's my pandora's box where I trap all my emotional crap and garbage I don't want to inflict on anyone. I try to keep a sense of sanity within myself and my surroundings by trapping it within. I fear someday something will burst it open and I won't be in control of it anymore. I'm bound to snap. Maybe when I'm in my mid-40's, when I turn 50, or tomorrow. Who knows if it'll even happen at all?
I hope I'm celibate for the rest of my life. All the sexual abuse I've suffered in my entire life is attached to my body, inside and out, and there's no way of excorsizing it out of me.
I'm not even trying to torture myself or be my own worst enemy. It seems that whatever I try to do to preserve my sanity or to prevent more pain and anquish only does me harm.
- I'll never be in a serious relationship and find true love, from either a man or woman.
- I'll never know what my true sexuality is because it's been a hinderance, like a wood tick.
- I'll never be romantically happy.
- I must be clinically depressed or something to feel like happiness eludes me.
- I have my moments of happiness, but to see it as a goal only makes me miserable.
- I want to be perfectly content with who I am right now, but that's not possible.
- I'm scared that I'll live a long life never having found love, but it's a life I'll have to accept to get over the fear.
I could go on and on, but I wouldn't be able to read this? Pffft!
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