An open letter to those who didn’t listen

So many shows these days depict rape. I had no idea what my body was meant for or how it should be treated. I didn’t realize how many times I was raped until these shows came out. I guess I can love and hate society for that. I’ve been raped 12 times. This is my interpretation of rape of course but this is an open letter to you. The guy who didn’t listen to me when I said no.

I woke up so many times without my underwear on wondering what happened with only a vague, very vague memory of talking to you at a party. I was up in Binghamton visiting an ex from high school and I drank way too much and was left a lone. The next morning, I woke up not a CLUE where I was without my underwear on. I remember waking up asking where the guy went and the guy in the room didn’t even know who he was.

How could I put myself in that position? Why did I let you take over my power?

I was powerless. I was completely powerless. I hate remembering those moments. Maybe that’s why I drink, to forget them. Not confront them in shame. I’m ashamed of how you made me feel. I’m ashamed of how you made me think of myself and my body.

No one ever told me my body was special growing up so i used it. I used it to get the attention I didn’t get from my father. I used it to cover up the fact that I hated being treated poorly but being treated poorly was all I knew.

I’m afraid of my bed because of the acts I committed in it. I sexted with guys I never met, I had sex with guys I met that day, guys who I said no to, guys who kept pushing.

This is to you, you pathetic individuals who i said no to and you didn’t stop. I wish you stopped, I wish you realized how much harm you were doing my body. How many nights I would drink away the pain only to wake up to the reality that it was still there. This is to you, the guy who lied to me, the guy who said he lived here though he didn’t, the guy who said he had a great job but was in limbo, the guy who said he cared about me but didn’t. Even my friend raped me. Rape is a terrifying word. It’s harsh and mean and scary. It’s a very REAL word.

I make this promise to my future family, I will tell you each and every day how important you are and how important your body is and your mind and how you should never be treated without respect. I will teach you to have control and understand self worth. I will teach you to say no and mean it and have the recipient understand it. I hate that I’m 31 and feel this way. I’m ashamed of my scars, i’m ashamed of the ticks on my headboard. I don’t want people to know.

No one knows who I am but at least I’m telling someone. I’m telling someone, I didn’t need to put myself in that position time and time again. I didn’t need to give someone my body when I wasn’t ready. I didn’t need to get yelled at for saying I wasn’t ready or for being a tease. I don’t need you and I don’t need your memories haunting me. I have self worth, a whole LOT of it. I have self love. I will overcome this one day. But I also know that the hate and my anger comes from the lack of communication about it.

I’m terrified of being judged. I’m scared of being made fun of. I know family and friends love you, but why would I do that to myself. Why would I do something for their enjoyment. I didn’t even realize what an orgasm was until I turned 30 and with the man I know I’ll spend the rest of my life with.

So wait, wait for the right person, wait for the person who will make you feel special and loved and wanted. Wait for the person who will respect you. You are more than a one night stand. You are more than their lack of self control. They knew what they were doing was wrong, and I’m sure they lay awake thinking the same thing.

It’s a scary world out there. Alcohol makes it go away for me, sometimes. Then I see a show and I’m wrapped right back up into it. All over again, the images flash through my mind, the scenes run through my brain – I see them all over again and I just want to cry. I won’t say I won’t cry again, I’m sure I will. What you did hurt me. Far deeper than my self harm would ever amount to.

I said no to you. I kept saying no. I was passed out. You should have stopped.

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My dad went to jail and I went to a party

Today is May 23, 2017 and today my dad went to jail. He called me at 4 pm from a police station telling me he’d be going to jail for three months. I talked to him about his apartment, he told me about mom’s paperwork, I said I love you and we’d speak soon and we hung up. I cried. I’m still crying on the inside. He sounded so sad. I texted my family and boyfriend and dear friend to tell them. They all said it’s for the better. Which it is. But how is this my life?

My dad’s in jail and I had to go to a summer associate party tonight. I had to put on a happy face and act like what just happened didn’t happen. I even sent a happy birthday text (with confetti) to a coworker.

Life goes on. That’s what my coworker said last week after the Times Square tragedy. Life goes on. You never know when it’ll take you or how you’ll go so live in this moment.

Is this how we are supposed to live? In “this moment”? I’m locked in this life where I don’t know what I’m doing, who I’m surrounded by and have this sorority life smile to life.

He’s in jail for a DUI he still doesn’t understand he got (“for swerving or something”). He’ll be there for three months. He doesn’t even know how he kept his finances together but his sponsor does. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. I don’t ever want to see someone I love be taken for granted and I feel like his sponsor is doing just that.

Who do you speak up to? What to you do? Do you pray? Do you talk to a counselor? Do you talk to your family? Do you talk to your friends? Someone is always going to judge you. Someone is always going to think less of you because of the situation you’re in. I’m ashamed to say my dad’s in jail. And today was the day that became real. I don’t know how to live life knowing that. Why is that reality? What is that the truth?

I’m going to hear from him when he’s given time away to call. And this is only the first round.  He has to go back for another state. This hurts. A lot.

Today will always be the day my dad went to jail and I went to a party. That’s my life. I hide. I hide away from my reality.

College – the wonder years.

My roommates decided spring break meant Cancun. I had no money, let alone money to go on this vacation. I begged and pleaded with my parents and they offered to “loan” me the money to go. I was an idiot. I should never have gone on this trip. In preparation for this trip, I was inundated with pictures of skinny girls and signs on the fridge saying “Don’t eat”. I didn’t eat. And then I ate and then I threw up. I was suggested to purge when I was a sophomore in college. That was the end of me. I was obsessive about it. I had a serious problem. I’d eat, then throw up then eat then throw up. The throwing up was so often it started to hurt so I decided to force myself to walk to the store about 2 miles away to get candy to chew and spit back out, no more swallowing. I’d eat just the broth of soup, ate a 1/4 cup of cereal once to show I ate dinner with only a splash of milk. The hunger led to lack of sleep so I started taking sleeping medicine, advil PM. I had no pain, just wanted to sleep. I couldn’t sleep without it. I was home one time and my mom pointed out seeing my hips – I tried to deny it but about a month later I was walking back to my apartment and I called my mom and told her I had a problem. I was diagnosed with acute depression which led to me binging and purging. I remember stepping on the scale at home, I was 96 pounds. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore and no one could say anything besides me.

I felt better for telling my parents, it wasn’t a secret anymore. People knew. The therapist didn’t help at all. I was in a horrendous relationship and lied to my ex about what the therapist said to try to get out of it. I never ever told the real story. I used it as a means of control. Little did I know how that addiction habit is still in my life. A habit I still can’t seem to break.

I’m 31 years old and afraid of the dark.

I’m 31 years old and afraid of the dark. Night terrifies me. I’m going to bring it back to when I was a child. I had immense separation anxiety. I would ball my eyes out if my mother left my side. I even went to camp once and my mom offered to give me benadryl. I’m not saying that was the reason this started, but it started my addiction habits. I must have been 8 and I knew exactly the feeling of being lulled to sleep by medicine – drowning out the noises and fears. Fast forward to college, sophomore year. My roommates bullied me into going to Cancun for a vacation, I had no idea that would lead to the unveiling of my addiction formed many, many years ago.