So it always seemed to me like I had two choices. I could either cry about it, or find a way to laugh at it. You know, the abuse and the trauma and the blah blah blah. And the why the heck can’t men just keep their hands to themselves.
You know. That stuff. The nasty stuff. The, I can’t even bring myself to say the word stuff. I dunno. Other people seem to be able to hashtag me too about it like Billy Hell. Like it ain’t nothin’.
Did I take it to heart harder than most? It’s just some people seem so off handed about it. Kinda casual and open. Some of em almost like they’re proud of it or something. Unless of course they’re bullshitting about it. But why would you?
It’s fucking awful. A living nightmare.
Anyway. The long and short of it is I could either find a way to smile, or I could just curl up and let the past own me. Just settle in to being a victim of circumstance and situation. Surrender to being overpowered emotionally and psychologically and I guess spiritually, as well as physically.
Just lose. Just be beaten.
But frankly, my reaction to that has always been ‘fuck that noise’.
I’ve always joked that I’m a happy go lucky pain in the ass level optimist, trapped inside a hazardously damaged miserable bitch. And that’s true I guess, to whatever extent. Although some may seek to challenge my chosen characterization of the situation. And they sometimes do.
But hell, this is my dumpster fire. I’ll call it whatever I want.
I’m not an aggressive character at all. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m so head over heels in love with the world I could just cuddle it so tight its eyes pop out. Hardly a fighter.
Somewhere deep down inside me there’s a hell of a scrapper, who simply will not be beat. And that’s that.
But also. What happened happened. And it was worse than I seem willing to admit. Certainly worse than my mind seems to be able to cope with. Pulling off all kinds of compartmentalization trapeze tricks to get by. Leaving me with a presumably less messy mess of disassociation and mental bitch shit to deal with.
Whatever the case.
That horror is inside me and I just have to live with it. It always has been. Or at least it seems that way.
I get glimmers of memories from before….well….you’re a grown up. You know what some men do to vulnerable little children. Again. And again. And….
Yeah you get it.
I sometimes get flashes. Brief impressions of who I was before. I was a sweet kid. So affectionate and full of love. Such a happy little thing, so fascinated and enchanted by the magic of the world and the sheer beauty of people.
I love who I was. It’s just they’re buried trapped under so my ghastliness and ugly crap, I can barely see them.
Yep. I was a sweet kid.
But then I found out that monsters are real. That some people have the kind of animal instincts which relate them more closely to wolves or sharks than human beings. We are an animal species after all.
I shy away from those glimmers of me before the horror. It just hurts too damn much to be who I am, knowing who I was. Why the hell can’t men keep their hands to themselves?
Do they have no mercy, no pity? Do they have no humanity, no empathy at all?
Nope. Some of them don’t.
I’m still in here. I’m still me. Kind of. Mostly.
I’m still alive. Although I feel compelled to confess that much of the time I wish I wasn’t. But I strive to free myself of that feeling. I choose to keep fighting and trying and rising. I choose to keep smiling and laughing.
I drive my partner to groaning and cringing distraction with awful jokes. I say the silliest shit just to practice and exercise that part of me that needs to stay fit and healthy for the fight. That scrapper who just won’t stay down.
That happy go lucky punch drunk pugilist.
And although some days, I’ll find my soul screaming in agony for the final release. Just overawed by the horror, with tears streaming down my cheeks for no particular reason. There’s something instinctive inside me which just keep moving forwards. Even though a significant part if myself is trapped in memories, or rather knowledge of the past.
Stuck in the actuality of the more brutal facts of reality. Hey, cool. I did a rhyme.
I like to imagine that it’s bloody minded defiance which keeps me going. Willful disobedience. I like to think that I have a rebellious streak that refuses to submit. But that’s just something I tell myself because it amuses me.
It simply isn’t true. I was never a mutinous child by inclination. Believe it or not, I was a very polite and well behaved kid. Probably too much so. I was too easily held down and fucked. Too easily owned by horror.
It was all just to sudden and so shocking. So surreal and terrorizing. And it kept happening over and over until it became a rel thing. A trap. A snare I could not escape. I guess I must have just frozen or something. Whatever.
The truth of the matter is, I can simply see no other way than to get to my feet and just keep moving forwards. Because the only other choice is to lay down and die. And as I have said before. Fuck that.
At this point in my life, so many basic things are simply beyond my abilities. But what I can do, I hold dear and keep precious. I love to write. I love to tell weird sexy stories. Although I’ll tell you a secret.
For as explicit as some of my material is, in truth it’s all about love. I take the perceived monstrous aspects of myself and turn them into characters. I take myself as I am now and the person who I might have been as well, render them as fictional characters and find ways to love them as they are.
I think I do puerile smutty literature quite well, because I actually love my characters. They’re not just fuck puppets putting on a show. They’re aspects of me I’m trying very hard to learn how to love.
Actually. Now I come to say that out loud….it sounds a little….I dunno…?
But it is what it is. And I must admit also, that I put my characters in sexual situations because I’m a kinky minx too, plain and simple. It might sound odd given my background and experience, but I do seem to find ways to be me. To shine through the shit regardless, in my own particular somewhat slutty way.
I guess that well behaved kid I was, was destined to grow up into a writer of naughty smut. All sweetness and light on the outside but wantonly sinful and wicked on the inside. I like that idea very much.
I’d love to publish my work and sell books and whatnot. And maybe I can get that done some day. But for the moment, such things are simply beyond me. The trauma as it is right now keeps me functioning pretty low level.
But be all that as it is, for the time being I’ll just stick to telling my stories here for you. Yes, you. I’m happy with that for now if you are too.
Thanks for ploughing through