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About Viola

  • Birthday 02/06/1989

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  1. Victims Anonymous

    My friend got me into To Write Love On Her Arms Day, and I thought, great, we can talk! We can talk about the awful things that have happened to us, we don't have to feel dirty, we don't have to pretend to be happier than we are, we don't have to live with the shame of someone else's crimes. It's a lie. No one wants to listen, because no one knows what to say. They'd rather pretend that the things that don't happen to us didn't exist. And you start to think, well, everyone else is quiet about it. Everyone is alright but me. More and more you think that you're the problem, that, without you, everything would be okay. More and more, you're on your own with your own twisted logic. Here is the truth My (screen) name is Viola. I am not a sad person. I love music, art, literature and drama. I cook and clean for my friends, I am their shoulder to cry on, I am their storyteller, and poet. I am usually very bright and bubbly, playful if a little childish. I love Villa Lobos, Ginastera, Berg, Jolivet, Lustig, Stravinsky, Berio, Piazzola and Bach. I'm 21. For the past 18 years I have been molested, for a year I was raped. Last year I secretly swallowed rat poison, slashed my arms and thrown myself in a lake. I was happy, I loved my friends, I loved uni, but I thought I had to die to protect the ones I loved from the evil in me that made people rape me. I don't know how I survived. If asked, I would say that I stopped trying to die because I'm stronger, but really it's because I am so bad at it. I promise I'll be better tomorrow.
  2. It's a fundamental flaw in the design of humans that we can't hibernate. It would be useful, when digesting emotional trauma or unprecedented quantities of icecream. Be sweet to yourself, let yourself adapt. Go out of your way to indulge yourself, and find things worth waking for, even little trivial things, like violets and the aforementioned unprecedented quantities of icecream. The bigger things will come. (and you are loved)
  3. Stepford wife, anyone?

    My housemate got angry at me the other night, because I knocked over a glass that was left on the floor. It didn't break, but it was full of mould. Much as I love my housemates, they do tend to hoard dishes until they grow legs and escape into the wild. The morning after I was brooding about it, because I had washed the dishes and made dinner for the whole house, and there I was washing dishes again. Somehow I managed to convince myself the best way to show my frustration would be to make him a full breakfast, and squeeze juice by hand. I'm a feminist! Why is my first instinct, when a man is mean to me, is to cook and clean for them? (P.S. I recently got my perps out of my life, and I LOVE having stupid mundane problems like this. Beats the whole life and death stuff any day of the week.)