My abusers

My first abuser was also my first boyfriend and the first male I had ever had sex with. He was two years my senior and attended the high school that neighboured the Catholic elementary I attended. It was my last year before high school and I was already a misguided youth. I hit an overwhelming depression (and most likely PTSD from previous years of bullying) when I had turned twelve and it pretty much stayed with me ever since. This was my second elementary school, I had switched schools to escape from a bully who only followed me to continue to make my life a living hell until she graduated a year before me. So, just to put this into perspective, I was already dealing with a whole childhood full of adult problems that I shouldn’t have had to face for many years to come.

Enter “Patty”, a 16 year old high school student. We met on our lunch periods at the local diner. He was one of the few other “goth” boys I had seen, or even heard of for that matter. Naturally, we gravitated towards each other. It was hard being young and different, but here was another oddball. I immediately wanted his attention but initially wasn’t attracted to him at all; he had pointy, yellowed and plaque-caked teeth. They looked like a rat’s teeth. His complexion was fair but pock-marked and swollen, like he had been beaten with the puberty stick a few too many times. He was tall and thin, very thin. His eyes were ice blue completely devoid of all emotion, to the point where it was uncomfortable to stare into them for too long. He just had a very unsettling aura around him. I was young and naive, he was all I had known a man could be. I didn’t realize that he wasn’t normal, that he was disturbed. I just accepted him as he was, believing he would do the same for me.

I don’t remember how or why we started dating. I remember he had to woo me for a little bit, butter me up. Luckily for him and unfortunately for me, he was (and is) a master manipulator [Forgive me if I get stingy on the details but I spent a lot of time blocking these memories out. There are big chunks of my past that I don’t remember. I’m writing this to help me remember. This is part of my process.] One day he presented me with a Cradle of Filth album, wrapped in tin foil. After we broke up, I pieced together that he had


I’ve been neglecting this blog

It’s hard to believe that my fall could’ve been worse than my summer but it definitely was. 
I don’t even have the energy to explain all of the fuckery that has gone on, not yet.
What I can say is that I’ve failed school, fucked up my work observation and cannot bear to be around people.
I hate almost everyone because everyone has been making me feel so alienated.
People have been using me as a place to dump all of their negativity. 

Peter and I fell in love, we dove in head first and I want to marry him.
I know I’ve said it before but this is the first time that I’ve actually meant it.
But he’s turning out just to be as abusive and every other man I’ve ever dated.
It’s quickly becoming not worth it and I’ve been preparing myself to say goodbye to him for good.

There is no hope. There is no sanctuary. There is no one who will not or has not hurt me. Purposefully or inadvertently.
I’ve had time to put my physical and mental illness in focus. I’ve been doing my best to keep myself healthy but it’s of no use when I’m dealing with non-stop abuse from either my mom or Peter. There is no one else. Everyone has enough shit to deal with.

People have been so cruel to me lately. I feel like I’m bearing the weight of the world.

There is no fucking relief.
I hate who I have become and I hate who I have been.
The percentage of my life that I spent not being an insufferable thunder cunt,
I’ve been fat and sad.
I’m incapable of not hurting anyone I love, 
I feel trapped in this body,
I feel trapped in this house.
I hate that the only reason I’m alive is because of other people.
The pain of being alive is fucking insufferable and I don’t have any other choice.

I just want to set everything on fire.

Fuck everything

And every one.

I have not one piece of sanctuary in my life.
My mother’s abuse has grated on me for too fucking long,
my rapist is actively trying to infiltrate my friend group and fucking have me crucified,
and the one person who I thought was sanctuary from this living hell has done nothing
but reinforce my triggers and through that perpetuate my abuse.
My doctor is one of my abusers, someone I am dependent on for the foreseeable future. 

Everything that comes out of my mouth is just black fluid;
a soup of everything that has died inside of me.
A never ending fount of sticky, inky pain that spews forth every time I try to speak.
Or even just to take a breath. 

The spirits here have been trying very hard to tell me the story of the land.
There is so much weight, a lethargy caused by the forces if nature bearing down on the people.
There is much pain, much death. Unpleasant deaths.
I feel forlorn. Grieving.

I feel heavy, wet wool. Water so cold it paralyses you.
Sinking. Always sinking.
Always starving. 

I have so much respect for the Icelandic people.
They are the strongest of the viking clans, the celtic clans.
I feel my ancestors pulling at my coat tails, saying “Hey, I’ve been trying to talk to you this whole fucking time.”

I’ve come to realize that I have made a grave mistake;
I need to be held accountable for my actions but I do want make it known why I am pleading guilty. 
I turns out that I have been fighting for the wrong side, for longer than I thought.
In the last 10 years of my life, I was a victim.
I was a victim of abuse, a victim of disease, a victim to abuse.
This was and never will be my fault.
It isn’t my fault that people, real, physical people have been purposely gas lighting my soul.
So that one day, when I flicked a match on to really see what was going on, 
I self destructed.

But what these people didn’t expect was for me to survive.
I didn’t implode, I seethed.
I waited in the shadows, by the light of a roaring fire,
forging my words in the fire that was lit by their very wrath,
tempering my armour,
sharpening my blades.
I couldn’t emerge until I learned to smoulder.
A slow, controlled burn.

And I did.

But in that process, people would pour water on my coals.
Disrupt my process.
Other times, I’d allow it to burn too bright.
I would blind myself, not able to see that I was directing the fire in the wrong direction.

This cyclical relationship of wrath and shame overtook my entire life.
But I’ve figured it out and I must atone. 
I’m sorry to have hurt those in the process,
but I am not sorry for those who didn’t think I was worth enough to try and understand. 

I am discovering for the first time that I am human.
I am not a monster, psycho or ice queen.
I am just one, regular human being, trying to heal.
Trying to heal through people ripping my scars wide open;
lashing back out at me when they see that I’m bleeding. 

So what was left was a bird trapped in a cage.
With broken wings and endless fingers prodding at my injuries.
I am not a science project, I am a girl.

I am a survivor.

Why your feelings don’t matter to me right now

My house is my sanctuary, it is the only safe space I have.
So when you violate my safe space and my human rights, you are not invited.
This place holds many memories.
I was raped the first time in this very room.
Why did it happen?
Because he was angry because I had promised earlier in the evening that we would have sex.
Despite my initial protests, he proceeded to disregard me as a human being and grabbed me like I was a fucking doll.
He took my pants off and laid me on my stomach and began to penetrate me dry and roughly.
I was so ashamed and so shocked that another human being could dehumanize me so easily that I laid there, biting my pillow so that he couldn’t hear me crying.
I was afraid that if he heard me crying he would get angrier and hurt me more. 
This was the first time that I completely detached from my body.
My body wasn’t my own at that point.
This was also the first time that I had ever been made to feel ashamed of my existence, I felt completely embarrassed that this happened to me of all people.
My mother had always raised me to protect myself and be strong.
I knew if I didn’t protest it would be over sooner, but I also felt like I didn’t have the right to protest.
I remember lying on my belly, silently crying into my pillow and staring at the blue shadows my blinds were casting across the entire room.
I remember thinking, “Is this rape?”

When he finished, he got up and looked at me in disgust.
He went to the bathroom to take care of the mess he made and then he left in a huff.
I laid there, face down on the bed until I heard the door close.
My body hurt, I might have even torn.
But instead of feeling angry, I felt violated. 
I felt embarrassed about what I allowed to happen to me.
I also felt like I deserved it.
I waited up, lying on the couch in a house coat, waiting for him to come back.
When he did, he told me I was an idiot for waiting up for him.
I somberly followed him back to bed.

You cannot being to comprehend how this one moment completely shattered my entire world.
You cannot begin to understand how even so long after this ONE event of MANY (many more than twice, I’ve come to realize) haunts me in every thing I do.
It haunts every thought, every social interaction.
Just existing causes me so much pain and it is so overwhelming.
I feel like I’m locked in this body, like an iron maiden.
Every breathe I take I can feel the sharp points dig into my flesh. 

And YOU have the gall to tell me that I’m dragging this trauma into your fucking personification of rape culture?
You have the fucking audacity to tell me that I’m being negative for the sake of being negative?
You foolish, naive fucking child.
You may think that because I have to bear this burden every fucking day it makes me weak and that because I can’t just “let it go” I’m letting it rule me, but NEWS FLASH, I am and have been in control of this darkness for longer than you can fucking comprehend. 
I’m so strong from having to carry the weight of the world that I make it look easy. 
I make it look graceful, like a fucking dance.
You are the weak, foolish one.
You have no power in this domain, in my space.

I do not care about your feelings of sexual frustration or a general lack of attention.
That is not my job. It’s also not my job to apologize or even give you a fucking head’s up if I change my mind.
Fuck you. 


I hate that I’m only considered relevant if I’m existing in relation to a man.
I hate that whenever I speak up or point this out, people just begin to think that I complain too much.
Or that I don’t have a sense of humour, even that I am high strung.

Trigger trigger trigger trigger. 


I found a list of models who have died in the last thirteen years
So many suicides
Why hasn’t anything been done about this?

Women being disposed of so often,
they wear out in less than 10 years.