We're all in tears from a world that's broken

Aly

[seascapeofagirlonthemend]

Emailed my 6th grade teacher out of the blue today and I feel like she’s talking about someone else. I was quiet, but I’ve never pictured myself as someone who “knew exactly who you were in life” that just seems like such a bold statement. I can’t help but think about my assault and wonder if that’s when everything went fuzzy. If that was when I lost my way. Probably. But it would be a shame to give someone that much power over me.

[seascapeofagirlonthemend]

Trigger warning: sexual assault, suicide

I think the hardest thing for me about being sexually assaulted last May was not the assault itself. It was my inability to accept that I have been altered. I’m no longer that girl. I cherish her. I love her. Some days I miss the fuck out of her. But I’m not the same person I was when I woke up that day. There was about a week where I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed. Then I did the next best thing for myself: I worked. I have two jobs. I started picking up extra shifts anytime I could. I started working so I wouldn’t have time to process it. Or to feel it. I stopped sleeping. If I slept I had dreams about it. Or nightmares to better put it. I cut all ties with my friends at the time. I stopped talking to most of them. Lucky for me two weeks before I had been kidnapped and it was easier to blame it on that than it was to admit something was seriously wrong. Then I found out I was pregnant. And that threw me off kilter. I had no idea what to do. Afterwards I worked even more. The aftermath of a sexual assault is mind numbing. It’s angering. It’s frustrating. I yelled more times at my mother for trivial things than I’ve ever yelled before. I didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone what happened until way after the fact. So I stopped eating. I stopped looking in the goddamn mirror. My body was not my own. It didn’t feel like it belonged to me. I was a stranger. Five months after the fact I told a coworker. She was the only person who recognized the change in my behavior and asked me what was wrong. No one had ever asked before. I broke down. Nine months after it happened I had a dream about the way he pulled my hair. The next day I cut it all off in the bathroom of my best friend’s house. I had been talking about it for weeks: some drastic change for the hell of it. Then that dream was the final straw. I’m not the same person that I was. That’s okay. I miss who I was before this happened. I miss being able to sleep for more than three hours without waking up from a bad dream. But I am still whole. It took me a long time to be able to talk about it. But I’m finally to a place where I think I can for the most part acknowledge what happened to me and recognize it’s not my defining moment. My defining moment was waking up the next morning in August after I had swallowed an entire bottle of pills the night before and realizing I was not going to let him win anymore. He wasn’t going to control my life any longer. He took so many pieces of me that night in May. I am still slowly getting them back. I wasn’t going to let him have anything else. I refuse to let him have anything else. My defining moment has been the fact that I won’t let him take me away. Over a year ago I decided I was going to heal. I am still healing. I am still fighting to find a way to love myself. But I’m so much better than I was.

[seascapeofagirlonthemend]

May 31st, 2017 — Trigger Warning

2017 was the year I lost every part of myself I loved. To understand May 31st, you really need an understanding of my entire year. I went from being really high, and happy. To reaching my lowest point and not being able to verbalize what was wrong. To anyone at all. It’s a funny thing. The happiest year of my life was also the saddest. I thought the worst thing that would ever happen to me was Lucy dying. At 15 years old, she had to be put down and that was hard, but it still doesn’t compare to what was to come.

In April of 2017 I applied for a job working in an after school program. I thought I didn’t get it, because after my interview, I didn’t hear back from them until May. May was a good month. I got my dream job. My first day was May 12th and I was so happy. Excited to be working with kids. And then life happens, the unexpected happens, and suddenly May became a really terrible month. I was kidnapped leaving work on Thursday May 18th. That changed me. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Tracy had nothing on the person who harmed me on May 31st. 

I went to a party with an old friend. I didn’t even drink: alcohol at least. I ended up being taken advantage of. For a long time I didn’t even know by whom. That’s a weird thing to be so in control of everything all the time, and lose it all in an instant. Pieces fly by. Pieces of who I was before, but mostly all I have is the aftermath. 

Waking up. Waking up completely numb. Waking up alone. Waking up cold. Waking up broken with no recollection as to why I was even naked. No idea where I was. Or where my car was. Or my friend. Nothing. No understanding as to why there was an ache between my legs. Anything really. 

So what does one do when her world spins out of control? What does she do when everything she knew just fell apart and she can’t breathe? She can’t even imagine, but that’s all her mind does. Does she cry? Does she call her mom and ask for help? Does she call the police? 

Any of those things seem like the appropriate thing to do. But she didn’t do any of those things. She got dressed, everything but her underwear. She never found those. She requested an uber. And sat and listened to the driver joke about the wild night she must’ve had to look the way she did. She smiled, and forced a laugh. But her mind was blank. 

When the uber took her home, she thanked him. Then promptly keeled over into the bushes next to her house and threw up. She threw up until her dad came out because the dogs were barking. She did not cry. She just told her mom and dad she wasn’t feeling well and came home early. 

Her mom told her to shower and try to sleep. She did. Oh man did she shower. But she did not cry. She just sat there and tried to piece everything together. She tried so hard. 

I can’t talk about this girl like she’s me. I can’t admit that she is. I don’t know why. But this girl got up the next morning after not sleeping too well, and went with her friend Eddie to the graduation of one of her best friends and all of her coworkers. She plastered a smile onto her face and just tried so hard to get through both ceremonies. She wanted to die. 

The aftermath was a very long road. It included a pregnancy scare. Which turned into an abortion. And she went through that alone. She has never said rape out loud. She has mentioned sexual assault to about three people. And it took everything in her to be able to talk about it. She doesn’t. I don’t know if she will. Three people, none of who she was really close with until recently know. That’s May 31st 2017 for you. 

I lost almost everything. I almost killed myself. I almost drank myself into oblivion to cope. Sometimes I still want to. Somedays I still feel like screaming. Mostly I just want to disappear. I want to quit both jobs. I want to cut off everyone in my life. I want to cry. But I can’t. There is a disconnect. I feel it. People sometimes see it. I’m suffering. In a body I no longer see as something that belongs to me. But I also know I managed to work every single day I was required to between May and now. I have not called in once. I forced myself out of bed, every single day. And sure I skipped a lot of classes last semester. But I worked my ass of regardless. I have not let myself give up. So I won’t. I’ll see where this goes. If I’m capable of healing. I hope I am. 

I hope there is light at the end of the tunnel. I hope I’m capable of love. And when I say that I do not mean a romantic love. That’s something I’ll never be capable of. I have lost too much trust. I am not capable of trust in the romantic sense. I’m too fucked up. But I hope one day I learn to love the pieces of myself that I’ve neglected this year. I hope I see myself as worthy. I hope I start believing my existence matters. That my body isn’t my own personal hell.

This last year, I have learned how to fight for myself. I have learned how to eat when I’m not hungry. I’ve learned how to exist in the hollowness of my body. I’ve learned to be patient with myself. Mostly I’ve learned how to stand up on my own two feet again.

[writingsforwinter]

After my rape, I did everything I could to erase all remnants of my rapist’s presence. I unfriended and blocked him on Facebook. I blocked him on Gmail. I blocked him on Moodle, for crying out loud, our school’s open-source online learning platform. I got rid of all his clothes I borrowed. I got rid of every gift he ever gave me. I shredded any photos I had of him. I blocked his number. Deleted all his texts and emails. I deleted all my parent’s emails on their account and mine that mentioned him. I removed any gifts I’d bought him from my order history on Amazon and Etsy. I threw away the notebooks, exams, and papers from the one class I had with him as a preceptor. I removed all photos of him from my Facebook. I blocked his friends’ Facebooks and his family members’ Facebooks. I blocked his Instagram and his family members’ and friends’ Instagrams. I stopped eating at restaurants we used to frequent. I never rewatched any movies we saw together. I blocked every single Facebook account that I could find with his name even though I knew they weren’t him. I didn’t set foot on his street or anywhere near it for years. I stopped ordering the coffee drink we used to order together. I deleted photos of him and me off my parent’s camera. I stopped drinking the flavors of alcohol we drank together. I didn’t go anywhere near his old dorm until I had to. I untagged his name from all my Tumblr posts. I stopped watching all the shows we watched together (to this day my heart drops when I hear of the shows Archer or Game of Thrones). I went to therapy. I went to inpatient treatment. I went on meds. I went to the hospital. I avoided any college events he might attend. I avoided the academic buildings he might have classes in. I dyed my hair. I got piercings. I lost pounds and pounds of weight. I started going to the gym. I got rid of the birthday and Christmas gifts from his mother. I threw away the ticket stubs from the movies we went to; I threw away the receipts from any events, concerts, or restaurants we visited. I threw away the clothes he bought for me and the jewelry I bought when we went shopping. I threw away the clothes I wore when I stayed over at his home during winter break. I stopped listening to the musicians he introduced me to. I didn’t talk about it. I tried not to talk about it. I reported him to my college. I asked them to prevent him from contacting me. I thought about a restraining order. I blocked the anonymous friends of his who sent me Tumblr messages. I met with my college every time his friends contacted me. I asked my college to warn me whenever he would be on campus after he graduated. I wanted to take a night class after he graduated but found out he was auditing it as an alum, and so I didn’t. I stayed inside my dark bedroom for the three hours he was on campus for that class after he graduated. I wrote it out. I wrote about it. I didn’t write about it. I started a journal for survivors. I got a job educating others about rape. I reported other rapists. I avoided the tours he led on campus when I worked during the summer. I launched into angry crying rants against strangers on Facebook when they were victim-blaming other women. I didn’t say his name. I had a friend who was dating someone with his name and I said “__’s boyfriend” instead. If I saw his name in books or journals I called the character “the asshole” instead. I tried to stop liking the breed of dogs he owned. I closed my eyes every time my parents had to drive through his hometown. I clenched my fists until we passed through into the next town. I stopped expressing affection. I lost trust, or chose to put it away. I asked a friend who made rape jokes if he had ever raped anyone. He hadn’t. But I stayed scared anyway. I blocked his friends’ numbers. I avoided looking at them. I stopped listening to my favorite song because he used to play it on the jukebox. I stopped asking for waffle fries in the dining center because he used to order them too. I unmatched strangers on Tinder who looked too much like him. I swiped left if they had his name. I forgot to eat. I joined an online support group. I donated money to RAINN. I read about the rape kit backlog. I took a different route home. I wrote a book about it. I kept screenshots of his confession in a folder just in case. I told myself it was bad, or it wasn’t bad enough. I avoided vanilla candles because he had one in his room. I took down the posters he gave me. I joined in on jokes about how boys who watch Fight Club are shitty people. I stayed inside during orientation. I blocked his fellow orientation leader on Facebook. I stopped talking about orientation. I never mentioned who my orientation leaders were. I thought about calling the police. I took sleeping pills to avoid lying awake for too long thinking about it. I went on walks. I went on too many walks. I slept when I wasn’t in class. I cried when I wasn’t in class. I left class when the professors mentioned rape or sex. I asked for academic accommodations. I took time off work. I said things were fine. I said they were fine. I wrote him long letters then deleted them. I smiled through it. I blocked his friends on LinkedIn. I blocked his family members on LinkedIn. I blocked him on Twitter. I blocked his exes on Facebook. I warned one of his new girlfriends. I blocked the one after that. I got the college administrator who victim-blamed me removed as a keynote speaker for an event on rape. I started hating Jenny Holzer because her work was written on sculptures in the garden he took us to for orientation. I missed Jenny Holzer. I kept hating her. I didn’t go back to the sculpture garden. I left campus buildings when I saw his friends. I stopped eating dinosaur chicken nuggets because he used to make them for me. I followed every date rape story in the news. I left movies or the room during rape scenes on TV or in movies. I learned what trigger warnings were. I started using them. I started asking for them. I told my blog readers not to ask me about rape. I convinced myself he could never touch me again. I didn’t go to winter ball because he assaulted me the night before. I asked a friend to spend the night the day before I reported him.

I don’t want to hear anymore how survivors don’t do enough.

[naramdil]

a message for brown eyed girls 

yes, her eyes are blue. yes, every love song is about them. every poem compares them to the sea. but you, you have eyes of amber and onyx. your eyes are the gold people desperately try to pull from the ground. her eyes may hold the depth of the ocean but your eyes hold the magnitude of a black hole. your eyes carry a weight too heavy for even the ocean to sweep away into it’s abyss. your eyes are anything but ordinary. 

[josiesaltzmam-deactivated202311]

Lauren talking about people assuming she was bisexual when she was younger.

[oh-my-puddin]

[sappharah]

i get slightly gayer every time a girl takes her hair out of a ponytail and runs her hands through it

[itsborderlinebitch]

i get gayer when girls put their hair up

[cl3m3ntin3]

i get gayer when i see a girl

[amanda-fior]

I gayer girl

[deanoru]

gay

[wnq-writers]

I think you need an adventure, one with a wild laugh.

B. E. Barnes (via wnq-writers)

[monty-green]

reminders for the young wlw out there

it’s okay to want to have sex with a girl

it’s also okay to be totally terrified at the thought of having sex with a girl- internalized homophobia affects all of us to a certain extent

it’s okay to want to make out with a girl for hours on end (seriously, it’s totally an okay thing to think about)

it’s okay to fantasize about girls, even in a sexual way. you are not dirty for doing this.

you can absolutely wear clothes that are stereotypically lesbian, such as flannels. in the same note, you can totally cut your hair short if you want. you aren’t perpetuating a stereotype, you’re embracing who you are

you can also completely stay away from any clothing that would signify you might be a wlw (especially if you’re in a situation where the suspicion that you’re a wlw could cause you harm)- it’s completely your choice, just don’t shame anybody that does decide to take on that style.

it’s okay to not immediately date a girl once you come out. take some time to figure out your feelings, it’s okay. you’ll find somebody that you want to date in your own time, or you can just decide you don’t want to ever date anybody. that’s also perfectly okay.

it’s okay to dream about a future with a wife

it’s okay to hold your girlfriend’s hand in public and be affectionate in public. it’s not gross or icky, it’s good and cute, i promise.

it’s okay to come out to everybody you speak to (there’s nothing wrong with you, and if people judge you, they’re the ones who are wrong), but it’s also valid to only come out to a small select group of people. both approaches are fine.

it’s okay to masturbate while thinking about girls. it’s okay, you’re not weird for doing this. it’s a common thing.

it’s okay to watch movies or tv shows with wlw, even the ones that are cliche and really cheesy. if they make you feel validated and happy, continue doing so.

being a wlw is not shameful

you are not broken

you aren’t somebody that needs to be “fixed”

your thoughts and feelings are valid

you are not alone

you are loved

[weaux-deactivated20170327]

my sexuality is important to me because it took a long time to love and accept it.

[lesbianwives]

i need to be softly kissed by a girl

[dateagirlsuggestion]

Date a girl who makes it feel like there’s a sunset in your chest every time you look at her

[comadidas]

[atmoxphere]

ig: dssmari

[esmeybe]

things some girls do that are cute

-scrunch up their nose when they smile/laugh

-long hair: put in ponytails. bonus if the ponytail bounces

-curly hair: just cute no matter what ?? 

-short hair: b e d h e a d

-running a hand through their hair absentmindedly when they’re thinking

-also having short hair but it’s kind of grown out past its shape so their hairs just really floppy

-wear clothes that are too big and the sleeves go over their hands

-flannel shirts

- b l u s h i n g

-get really excited about things they like and their whole face lights up when you mention it

-being happy

-love their pets a lot

-squint when doing makeup like it’s the most complicated thing ever because tbh it is

-sing/hum under their breath thinking no one can hear

-love their friends a lot

- ;) 

girls are such a blessing oh my g o d

[acutelesbian]

We never give a second thought to what happens when we make a habit of telling young girls they’re beautiful. It’s all with the best intentions, of course. But it needs to stop. Don’t tell her she’s beautiful, not when she’s still forming the foundation of her identity. Give her something more solid, something that can’t be yanked out from under her feet so easily. Don’t tell her she’s beautiful. Anyone can do that. And anyone can take that away from her. Yes, she’s beautiful. But for her sake, don’t let her grow up believing that’s all she is. Tell her she’s brave. Before she can even speak, tell her she’s invaluable, that no matter what the mirror reflects, she is worthy of love. Painfully few woman genuinely believe that concept. It is your responsibility to teach them. Teach her young so she never settles for less. And when she’s out on her first date, you won’t have to wonder if they’re treating her right or not because you taught her what she deserves and what’s unacceptable. You’re her first role model in this life, so set the bar high. Show her. Show her what it looks like and what it feels like to be treated right. When she starts school and a boy teases her on the playground, please, don’t tell her it’s a crush. Don’t teach her that being belittled is a sign of love. It will take her well into her adulthood to unlearn, if she even makes it out alive. From the moment she begins talking, teach her that her voice is a deafening force. Let her know that what she has to say will always be more important than the structure of her cheekbones. Remind her daily that she is overflowing with potential and she is in complete control of how she uses it. Show her just how resilient she is. Make sure that when she’s faced with her first heartache, she knows that her worth doesn’t waver just because someone else can’t see it. Remind her that a human heart is the only thing in all the universe that still works exactly as it should even when it’s broken. Show her that she’s capable of remarkable things. Give her the skills to believe it. It may sting to accept, but the only thing she truly needs from you is the ability to never need anyone but herself. Let her know that everything she’ll ever require is already within her. And don’t let her ever doubt that. Listen to her. Carefully. Not with intent to respond, but to understand. Never drive her to seek out acceptance and validation from the crowds. No matter what her figure is or how it changes, say nothing. Instead, show her how to eat healthy, how to care for her own body, and how to never feel ashamed for the space she occupies in this life. Teach her about consent. Make sure she knows that it’s mandatory. In every situation, with every person, it’s a requirement. Let her know that her body is an empire and she is under no obligation to let anyone in. Don’t force her to hug the grown family member she barely knows. Don’t let her spend any part of her life convinced that someone else’s feelings ever trump her comfort and safety. It’s crucial she knows that. Don’t tell her she’s beautiful. She needs something more. She may not understand at the time what it is you’re giving her, but believe me, there will be a moment in her adulthood that she notices most people are just then learning all the things you taught her every day of her life. One day she will see what a difference her headstart made. So don’t tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she’s brilliant, that she has so much to offer, that she has what it takes to accomplish all the things she aches for. Teach her that success isn’t linear. It’s not a contest or a race. Pull out a map so she can see that there’s a thousand different paths that lead to the same destination. Let her know it’s okay to take the scenic route even if it takes longer. Tell her it’s okay to get lost and it’s okay to pull over as long as come sunrise, she’s moving forward. Show her just how courageous she is. Remind her of all the previous times she felt so weak and hopeless. Make her remember that despite the way that pain dug its claws in her, she made it out alive. She found peace once again. If you give her the strength, it won’t matter how low she feels at times. As sure as the sun will rise again, so will she. Warn her of the reality, that there will be people drawn to her for skin deep reasons. Tell her it’s okay to be flattered, to enjoy the attention, to let it feel good. But you make damn sure she knows that she was not raised to be somebody’s wife or mother or other half. Drill it into her head that she is not half of anything, that she is complete and whole all on her own. Embed it in her DNA that from the day she was born, she was perfectly equipped to win every battle she finds her in, and not because she’s beautiful. But because she’s brave. She’s strong. She is intelligent and relentless. She is kind and valued. She is worthy and capable and there is not a force in this world that could dim her spirit. She will conquer at every turn because you taught her how. And in that perfect clarity that goes with hindsight, she will finally understand the magnitude of what you were molding each time you held her so safe in your arms. And she will know she’s beautiful.

(trm) on raising little girls (via acutelesbian)

[nukua-deactivated20121023]