i'll water your flowers first @yourflowersfirst - Tumblr Blog

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the church was in my rear view mirror. i held tissues to the blood pooling down my face. one of your hands gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise as i drove. “well, i’m sorry,” was all i could choke out. you didn’t look at me, not once. you hated looking at me but at least you replied:

“god. jesus, fucking fuck. tell me if it hurts. does it hurt, jena, does it really hurt?”

all the memories of you do.

when you left, you left for good and i knew you would not come back. the way i knew the kitchen table. the way i knew the orchids and good coffee and dogs. i knew that you were just done. you found a girl who was sickly sweet, dewy, and not so round and smudged. you preferred her to me and i couldn’t blame you. i’d leave me for her, too, if i could. i knew we would not even stay friends, and i knew you’d leave all my shit that was in your bathroom drawer in a box at my apartment doorstep. when you left, i painted my nails and ate a grapefruit and i wrote you a letter. i knelt on the floor and stared at my wrists. i looked at my stomach in the mirror and wondered if things were different, we’d still be laughing in bed, kissing lazily. i never sent the letter. i never will. i knew you would not come back and you never did.

#day1909

recovery, 5 months in

if there is a hell, i thought, this must be it. i have died and gone right to hell.

never in my life had my heart beat so hard and furiously. like it was fighting to stay afloat in my sternum. i was no stranger to palpitations, but this felt different. urgent. alarm bells went off as i tried to stand up and get to the bathroom at work.

my coworkers were talking about cookies. maybe that’s why i was so panicked- how long had it been since id eaten one? a year, two? even over christmas i didn’t let myself have any, not once during that whole day of cookie baking, and on the holiday itself, i just purged it all out if i did give in to the craving. i didn’t let myself scratch an itch without punishment. anyway. the idea of eating a cookie was enough to send me into overdrive, apparently. fight or flight at the thought of warm, homemade cookies. i felt bile rising and falling in the column of my throat.

i stumbled, i locked myself in a stall at work and tried to fight off another wave of nausea that accompanied my racing heartbeat. stars floated around my vision. quick, sneaky little things. i felt myself panting. a dog that just needed to be put down already.

i rushed to the toilet and let everything come out that needed to. third time that day and it was only 9:15. when i woke up that morning, this had been great, as i weighed in at 82.4 pounds. the numbers made me happy but i couldn’t really stand up or walk around. going down my stairs had winded me to the point of heaving, and, despite what my scale said, i still felt huge. i pinched my stomach and thighs with my nails, hard enough to bruise. stupid, fat, wasteful girl.

i washed my hands until they were raw and candyfloss pink. my heartbeat ticked up even faster, and the cramps in my stomach somehow got even worse despite my emptiness. the pain was double what i’d felt back in january- except now, instead of calling ambulance and letting them tube me again, i just wanted it to end. i didn’t want to feel good. i didn’t want help, or comfort, or care. i didn’t want to ache anymore. i just needed an end. i reached out and tried to touch the floating motes of dust that clouded my vision.

seconds or minutes, i couldn’t tell, but i was out. my head thumped against the side of the wall. sweet stream of blood, i opened my mouth and swallowed it all whole. disgustingly saccharine.

i pressed some paper towels to my head lifelessly. as though i even cared what happened to me. i was finally skinnier than id been in 8th grade but it wasn’t enough. i was angry, i was tired, but mostly i felt nothing- id never felt so much nothing before. clumps of my hair came out with the blood and dropped pathetically into the sink. dead purple eyes stared back at me in the mirror, my bones jutted out awkwardly, my skin was yellow from my kidneys and liver failing. i was the ugliest thing id ever seen. and im sure you’d agree.

no, i thought to myself. even my inner monologue voice was weak and thready. i am beautiful when i am skinny. i am strong for resisting food. maybe if i take up less space, everyone will find room for me in their lives.

i washed my mouth out and left the bathroom, still pale and wobbly from fainting, but i knew i needed to leave. i could hardly hold my head up, let alone do my assessment id had scheduled that day at work. i still wanted to run that day, too, or at least get to 10k steps. my exhaustion wore me to the fucking bone.

i knocked on the door to christian’s office. delicate and soft. “hey. um, i need to leave. i need to go home. if that’s okay.”

“i was actually about to send you home- you look awful.” my boss attempted to make me laugh.

i tried to smile. it felt broken and bent on my heavily lined face. “i don’t know if you noticed, but my eating disorder is really, really bad. maybe. sort of. i don’t know if im gonna make it.” i said the last bit quietly. though i’d thought about just accepting my fate and dying slowly, the fact that it was happening now terrified me.

“i kind of noticed. you look so… small,” my supervisor seemed to struggle to find the right word. “i’ve never even seen you eat in the 7 months you’ve worked here. are you getting treatment?”

“no way, i can’t,” i replied instantly. autopilot. “part of me thinks it’s not even that bad. you know, maybe i’m being dramatic or something. i’ve been like this for so many years. i’ve never even actually tried to get better.”

“you should try. you’re stronger than you think, and i believe in you. you can’t do this job without taking care of yourself.”

i started to cry for the first time in ages. a blubbering mess in christian’s office, tissues crumpled in my hand. “i know that. i love working here. i just… i want to be perfect.”

slightly too honest, perhaps. but i was done. i was down and kicked and bruised. i just wanted the ringing in my ears to stop. please, please go easy on me, i begged god.

“i understand. go home today, take the weekend to recover. eat something yummy, and start over. you can do this. if not…”

“yeah. i know.”

i floated home- i don’t even remember driving and leaving early that day. i could hardly stand up. all i could do was collapse in bed, and call my mom, clutching my bones tightly.

“mom. i think im dying.”

even laying down, i still felt out of my body, i felt my organs shaking under my skin, struggling to keep me alive.

“can’t say i’m surprised,” my mom sighed sadly on the phone. “please, go eat something. please.”

the begging made me want to cry again.

“i can’t, i can’t do this, i finally hit my goal weight. i’m so close to being skinny, mommy.” i felt weak and pathetic, but i couldn’t hide the twisted urge to lose even more- somehow. despite the fact that i had nothing left to lose except further organ function and more hair. i hadn’t gotten my period in who knows how long, and i didn’t even feel emotions, all i felt was starving, constantly. anything else felt foreign to me.

“you passed that a while ago and now you just look scary. i’ve seen your recent photos. please. it can be anything, especially if you fainted. what do you have?”

“keto bread, 2 cups of nonfat reduced calorie yogurt, uhhh… maybe some old peanut butter pretzels that are stale.”

“eat the pretzels. slowly. please, you’ll feel better.”

“i can’t.” i wanted to eat them so bad my mouth ached with it. despite my constant never ending hunger, i hated feeling anything in my stomach. the concept of gaining everything back, all the fat and squishiness id worked so hard to get rid of- i felt like a caged animal. my whole life, i had wanted nothing more than to be a small pretty little thing you want to keep. how sad and pathetic and lonely.

“you can. jena- you can. you have to. i can’t lose you.”

something in me snapped. a 10 year old wire was cut at the sound of my moms teary, pleading voice. “i’m scared.”

“i know, baby. do it anyway.”

5 months go by. longest, hardest 5 months of my life. i did, in fact, do it anyway. i did it scared, i did it crying, i still do it with the lights off every night when i shower. i hadn’t realized how hungry i was. my body finally started to feel safe and wanted to make up for 10 years of not eating. at first, my appetite scared me. it still does. but i want to feel safe, that’s all i’ve ever wanted. i find it strange now, romantic almost, to look back at the girl i was. the one who never thought she’d make it to 24, the one who came so close to kissing death. the one who kicked and screamed at the very thought of eating. sometimes i miss her. i miss how small and little she was. the intensity of it, the rawness. but i don’t want to go back. i never want to be such a shell of myself again. i like recovery, sometimes. i like peanut butter and having boobs and light in my eyes and my moms smile when i eat her homemade treats. i like going to the movies with my best friends and not having brain fog clouding everything i do. i drank coffee with cream and sugar and milk this morning. i let myself cry over the weight gain. but i put in the work anyway. recovery is not a one time decision. i wake up and decide on it multiple times a day, and it’s draining, and it’s beautiful.

at the end of the day, my mom is always right.

#recovery

he likely doesn't think of me and never will again. i like this thought- of being a ghost, of disappearing entirely. there's a comfort in that.

driving home from the liquor store. his car was warm. i think about the way he said "home" and not "my home". he took off my boots for me, he ran his fingers over mine. he kissed the backs of my knees

and i cried because i’d never felt beautiful until he did that for me. he always bought my coffee and he watched my favorite show with me. his lips were on my

forehead.

it felt like the real thing.

after we were done, it was like he paid for it. the pit in

the bottom of my stomach that has made a home there knocked on my front door. what a time for life to get extremely busy, all of a sudden. with his marks still on my neck.

i'll never see him again.

he had green eyes, so i wanted to sleep with him. green eyes flicked with goldenrod yellow, leaves laying completely still on pool water. "i could drown in those eyes," i said to him.

the fact of his pulse, the way he pulled his body into mine, out of shame and desire, it made me visceral. his skin was barely keeping him inside. i wanted to take him home. rough him up like a cowboy. get my hands inside him and see how much damage i could really do- like crashing a test car. i wanted him to want me and he was very beautiful, i imagined how he'd kiss me with his eyes closed, pretending i was a girl with soft brown hair and teeth without a gap in them. he'd moan a name that isn't mine.

"i could drown in those eyes," i said. he just stared at me. i flicked ash onto the ground. it's summer, it's suicide; i'm helpless in sleep, and drowning at the bottom of the pool.

guilt and anger taste the same on my tongue. sour. a stale cigarette i keep in my pocket to knead my fingers in when i feel dirty and used up. i can never remember which one is supposed to be virtuous- the guilt or the anger. does that make me your bad thing, your wild thing? something worth hunting across the country to eventually shoot and put out of its misery? you want to kill me more than anything else. 3 quick shots to my stupid infantile brain. this feels like love to me.

i am turning numb. what happened to me doesn’t seem to matter. sometimes i feel angry, but most of the time i feel nothing. i’ve never felt so much nothing before. all i’ve ever wanted these past four- no, wait, five- years is for someone to hold me lovingly, tenderly, softly, and say, “it wasn’t your fault. god knows that. sometimes things are made to be broken. when the glass tears your flesh and the blood stains your skin, i hope you forgive yourself, sweet girl.”

my teeth ache, with how saccharine your voice could be. if you cared. i want to chew and spit you back out, if only to taste you yet again. you stare at me with disgust, i know i’m gross. i’m rotting from the inside out, there is something filthy festering inside me. the smell of decay haunts my breath even now as i sit and write this, perfume lingering on my collarbones. i know you want to forget me. i know you want to leave.

the years really have meandered on and i don’t remember when, but i began liking men who spell trouble. i like them rough, haggard, and i kiss their calluses with my mouth, cupping their names with the sort of reverence i’d once only held for songs of worship. the same hymns i now sigh into their shoulders, into the crooks of backs, into parted thighs.

they hurt me hard enough to leave a mark. i feel a sick jump, a thrill, every time they eventually walk away. maybe the familiarity is comforting, after the abuse i suffered from kyle. these are men that wear more than just rings. my jewelry is on my skin in patches of jagged lines and i tell myself it’s not a type, not a habit. my gentleness and love comes easily to men who tear me apart. long sunsets, the smell of grass, deep woods, moss. that’s all me.

in that sense, i’ve never stopped being desperate, kissing them with fury, and i’ll always just be the bullfighter- the cowboy they dream of on summer nights, once they have a wife and 3 kids. a wistful “what if?” because they miss my lasso. i am only a few floating images. motes of dust. the crickets chirp long after sundown; the men of my past miss my sweet blood and pliant skin. my name is barely a footnote in their lives- i am not thought of, not pretty. but their names are in an impossibly large dictionary, and i wonder when i started keeping a list.

~~~

oh god, i laughed, almost tripping and cracking my teeth on the sidewalk. fuck. dude. look at her. she has long mousy hair and blue eyes. like the ocean. she’s so skinny and beautiful- you can literally see her collarbones and her cleavage from here. holy shit-

so what? does it really matter if she’s pretty? he tried to ignore how stupid i was behaving, eyes never meeting mine. i handed him a warm beer. the kind that i think tastes like shit.

i twirled around, smiling, humorless. he didn’t get it. i lose! i lose! she wins, she wins. she looks like that and i look like me. i come in last place compared to a girl like that, every time. obviously, it matters. she has pretty straight dark hair and no freckles and i look like something stuck in the drain of your tub. have you even seen me? i am ratty, tangled, flat, messy. ignored and gross. i should just end it now. my words felt ugly in my mouth.

jesus, he got up and began to walk away, toward the music and the girl, the bottle tight in his hand. jena, you’re so fucking annoying.

i’m gonna wear that like a badge of honor.

none of “that” was a compliment. okay. be quiet and let me drink in peace, or i’ll honor you again.

yes, ma’am. he wanted me quiet, so i was, but i followed him into the crowd anyway. girl smiled at him, he smiled back. i grinned- i love being right- and felt my heart go liquid warm inside my sternum. i left the bar alone, as i usually do, and i waited with hitched breath for you to text me. it took a few days, but it happened. you were hers. i really tried to be good enough. i can claw at my face and scream all i want but it doesn’t change anything. the anger sits hot in my belly, always a low simmer, and i’m waiting for someone other than me to fan the flames. peach pits are poisonous. this is not a mistake; girlhood is growing fruit around cyanide. i will never be for your swallowing.

all this time, i waited. i’m very good at waiting, patience, when it comes to things like this. i am just a lonely little dog. i waited and waited, and it felt endless. i waited for the punishment that never came, the agony that would rip me apart. i expected it more than i expected to wake up in the morning. every slow sunrise while i drink my coffee, i run my fingers over my scars and think, well, will i finally get what i deserve?

#day1882

i pray to the warmth in your voice, summer unfolding softly behind your eyes. let it linger, i beg, just this one time. i laid my head in your lap, that hot august night, in the field by the creek where i once scraped my knee in middle school. we kept almost kissing, that night. lips pressed between words. my bated breath that smelled like cherry lollipops. the sun hasn’t risen. the moon hung low enough to touch, fingertips soft, as if scared it could shatter.

you drove me home, begrudgingly, at 3:08 am. i leaned out your car’s window and allowed the wind to fuck up my hair- my hair that happened to still smell like you- your smoke, the earth, leather, old cars.

i try to tell you i adore you as we sit in my parents’ driveway, garage light attracting fireflies. the words don’t come out right, spilled milk curdling on my tongue, fast and messy. letters clotting in my throat. i wonder if silence is your devotion: if you hold the quiet like a thread between your teeth, if not saying my name feels as deliberate as swallowing.

it’s like you punished me for loving you.

i didn’t love you halfway. i loved you when you were cold, when you said nothing for days. when you shut the door in my face. i waited outside anyway, shivering in the empty hallway of your absence.

honestly, i wish you’d look me in the eyes and just spit it out. tell me you hate me. not with distance, not with silence. use your voice like a blade. cut me open with it. make me bleed something eternal.

i remember when i traced my finger across the ridges of your jawline for the first time. “you have such a lovely face,” i’d said to you. “does it get you everything you want?”

“almost.”

there was something so significant about that one word it put a hitch in my breath. desiring you was a feast i’d only allowed myself to indulge in once. for the rest of my days, i was starving-

i’ve gotten into the habit of imagining you. you shuffling through paperwork, stirring coffee, running your hands through your hair in the shower. i imagine the music you hum under your breath. the sway in your step. the scratch of your finger on your cheekbone when you think too much. i picture a soft “hello” tossed my way, a glance toward me that feels everlasting.

but then the coffee goes cold. the water runs out. the music stops before i can ask it to stay, before i can even ask what song it is.

i am a selfish woman. how selfish of me to claim a man like you as my own, so gentle and soft hearted. i am selfish because i know you deserve a better woman- one who isn’t bitter, tainted, dirty…

i am trying to be that woman for you. sweet and easily digestible. it isn’t an easy task for me, admittedly. my body is crimson red and i taste like endless summer paranoia. death- she lives in between my thighs. i saw god in the backseat of your car, in a sun eaten orange peel, in the elasticity of strawberry smoke. you kissed my spine, your tender clavicle touched mine. with uncaffeinated drowsiness, you dropped me home.

july is now seeping into august sluggishly, blood dribbling onto a white shirt. i think of you often. i want to get better. i want to sink to the bottom of the pool. another summer spent with red stained lips, the smell of tart sleep, liquid tylenol. i want to bite my teeth into life and suck on the marrow, but i am swallowing cherry pits. i will get it right next time. i will wash it off myself, clean.

we met in the back of the bar. you smiled, all knives. you said, “you don’t know me yet, but you will. we’re going to be dangerous, you and i.” found out biblically wasn’t the only way to know someone when i finally got my hands on you and tore your chest open, looking for something that would burn me.

we lived like thieves. wanted every sin that couldn’t fit inside eden, carried them out with our mouths. held our lips open with bloodied fingers to trade kisses in the shade of a fig tree. it withered as you put your hands in places desire had no name.

now, i’ve fucked enough boys to know when someone’s trying to find god. i’ve crushed the head of the snake with my heel. i’ve cut my hands trying to turn something that does not love me into something that thinks i am beautiful. i’ve stood on top of everything trying to stay one step above hell. god, i swear it’s chasing me.

i stole you from the garden for a simple reason, i wanted you desperately, and i took all its wildness with me.

“you look so interesting.”

i grinned up at him. “yeah? how’s that?”

“well, you’re not very pretty. definitely not hot. but you are a thing i’d notice across the room, remember for the rest of the day. maybe even the rest of the week.”

“you sure know how to win a gal over,” i barked out a laugh. it sounded awkward and tangled in my throat. “is this supposed to make me want to sleep with you?”

he grabbed my chin with his hand, not rough but not exactly kind either. “you already want that.”

“such an arrogant ass. your mom pays me to hang out with you, ya know.”

“i was trying to be nice,” his breath warmed me as he leaned in closer, i smelled decay and stale cigarettes and the orange he’d eaten an hour and a half ago. “you have an ugly face, but it’s one i want to keep.”

i let him kiss me, teeth scraping the snag of a tongue, i would let him do whatever he liked, whether for a day or a week, my sweet little soul bled for him and nothing he’d say would patch the wound.

summer ate away at me. picked me apart, insect by insect, freckle by freckle. the peaches ripened as i stayed in. slow, sticky dreams clouded my mind each night. in the afternoons, i sat under the willow tree and the smell of cheap cigarettes and missed opportunities hung heavy in the air. i hadn’t been kissed all month and i could swear my mouth was tingling with it. the want. august had come so suddenly. hot and sickly sweet. i was desperate for a romance, a love i could drown in, wading in your palms. instead i stayed at the bottom of the pool and stank of chlorine.

most nights i’d throw the window open and listen to the cicadas scream at me. i’d think about you. i’d lay in bed, blankets tossed on the floor, wonder what you were doing. who you were with, how you touched them. meanwhile i was all alone, a needy little thing, wanting to feed off you. (all i do is want, all i do is crave what i cannot have.) i knew i didn’t cross your mind. not once the whole summer. still, i liked to remain delusional. i took my medication and changed into my pajamas and imagined you were with me, teeth on the base of my neck, my long crimson hair surrounding us both like rich blood. i never knew hunger had such a taste until i met you.

it’s been 5 years now. just a little over. i blame my ugliness and foulness on what happened. i blame it all on what he did to me, because it’s easier that way. if i am being honest with myself, i know its my fault. what happened to me when i was 6 was not my fault, sure (i dont even remember most of it) but what happened to me at 19 was all me. i was asking for it. begging, really. i was bad and the universe punished me justly. the blood seeped onto his old couch every time he did it. i wonder if the stains are still there.

#day1866

i really am like a dog, whining, am i good enough for you? was i good? am i a good girl? cute at first, maybe, but mangy and unruly and irritating the second you’re around me too long.

all night long i hope you will stake your need for me into my heart with a rusted knife. tear me up, baby. i can handle it. do you cry my name in the dark like i do yours?

while i can’t have you, i long for you. i would miss my plane to meet you for coffee. i’d take an uber across town at rush hour to see you for 10 minutes. i’d wait outside all night in the storm if i thought you might open your door for me in the morning. i’d let you feed on the dark parts of my brain- the ones that wail, the ones that run away, the ones that do not want to be touched. i don’t like to be touched, it’s true, but it’s a strange dislike. i don’t like to be touched because i crave it too much. i want to be held very tight so i will not break into pieces on your kitchen floor. don’t sweep me up and throw me out, please.

and i found photographs of our school, on the day we met- i thought that you were so beautiful. it was love, i guess.

the worst part wasn’t the rapes themselves. no. the worst, most nauseating part about all this, was the fact that it felt like no one believed me. my story wasn’t enough evidence. i’d never felt more alone. and i’d never felt so much nothing. at the end of the day, i was a scared little girl with nowhere to go, nothing to eat. i felt like i had to apologize for inconveniencing everyone by experiencing my own trauma.

and here’s what always happens- i’ll be blunt. no flowery imagery this time, no silky smooth prose. i meet someone. or reconnect with them, the distance palpable but not a complete deterrent. they adore the things i say about them. they don’t like me or care for me, but they do love my attention, the words i reserve only for them. they let me believe they actually want me.

something shifts later, something changes. they get bored. they get desensitized to my words, my affection. they find someone better. someone prettier, skinnier, more easily accessible. they prefer someone with less baggage. someone easier to be with. they abandon me on the street, whining like a dog.

later: whether it’s weeks or months or years. they almost always reappear and come back. they realized how much they missed my words, my sweet constant compliments. they still don’t think i’m very pretty but whatever, i’m forgiving, and the cycle repeats. being a writer is a curse and a blessing. i am a cracked object, band aids and gauze covering the whole of my stupid freckled skin.

i want to give up. just stop. but i can’t. i am a lover girl at heart, i’d rather be used like this than never feel intensely again.

i’ll lay on the floor.

touch me till i vomit.

you have my permission to not love me. i am a lowly cathedral of dead bolts, and i’d rather burn myself down than change the locks.

i stared at the wall, at a half dead fly trying to escape my room, desperately attempting to open the window. i watched its wings fall off and i stared until the doctor came in, banging the door open, causing the fly to stumble to the ground dead. my eyes moved slowly. they upped my dose; everything around me had blurred edges.

“mind if i take a look?”

i said nothing, but i outstretched my arms and legs to him, the gauze lazy and half hearted. the doctor hummed. “i need to see underneath. make sure there’s no infection.”

i didn’t move. the doctor tentatively came over and undid the bandages, and i imagined my mother crying again. i winced at the aching soreness. “am i gonna live?”

the doctor smiled, thinly. “yes. no infection. i’ll make sure it all gets cleaned up good, though.”

i rubbed my arms where they stung. i hated the concept of that- of getting cleaned up. i felt unworthy of my sin being washed away. better treatment than i’d ever deserve.

“you eating all the meals we’re giving? your weigh ins aren’t showing any progress.”

“you can leave now.”

“i’ll take that as a no.”

i waited too long for you. years and years. i will devour you, love you into flame and ash. from the base of your neck to the arch of your eyelids, your beauty makes a slave of me. i want to eat you alive. i hope you want to devour me just as badly. it’s in every look, every message, every laugh, every smile, every scratchy pen mark in my notebook when i should be doing work. all of my devotion turns violent, in the end- normally i’m the one getting knifed.

i’m sorry i’m such a stupid crybaby. i’ve gone years without anyone that has cared about me and meant their words. i’m sorry. i’m scared you’ll leave me. i am nothing at all aside from mousy and a creature with frizzy hair. maybe i’m nothing at all. just a crack where some low light slipped through. i sit on the cathedral steps and weep, your touch still fresh on my skin. i am spitting up blood and screaming. do you feel nothing? silence. do you feel nothing? silence.

i am horrible at being bulimic, you know. i hate the feeling of throwing up. i hate the rush, the fact that my body is rejecting something so vehemently. i hate the pressure in my abdomen. can’t stand the acidity. if i wanted pain like that, i’d just grab my box cutter. it’s quicker and sharper and warmer.

i’d only ever managed to vomit on purpose a couple of times. sure, drinking enough will get me there, hunched over the toilet while my friends laugh in the living room. in high school, though, i did it, and i’d always feel queasy for days after, my grades suffering more than they already did. i was bad at it, and i still am. fingers go down my throat but i can never cross the finish line.

instead i just eat as little as possible, try to consume fiber, and workout so much my legs develop shin splints that don’t go away. much healthier. obviously. the most validating thing, weirdly enough, is bruises. i won’t be happy with my weight until i’m covered in bruises just from existing.

one second.

i felt sick.

i sat at my desk, nausea creeping up on me like a slow moving tide. it wasn’t like i was actually sick. just a little nauseous. a bit shaky, sort of dizzy, especially if i stood up too fast.

i was distracted at work, too, the endless notes i had to put in seeming less important by the second. i wanted to go home and just starve myself in peace, not have to use my brain. it was how i wanted to deal with how out of control i felt. i can control one thing- food. the brain fog from lack of said food, though- dealing with that is always the trick.

“my last supervisor at my old job said eating disorders are one of the hardest things to treat,” my boss said during morning meeting today. “because food is just always there. the thoughts never go away.”

i nodded from my desk, pretending to write notes about a client i’d seen the previous day. i wanted to scream, “you have no fucking idea!”

and of course, the thought of him made me sick. he leaves a foul taste in my mouth. the same taste, i suspect, i leave in yours. i often remember how disgusting i am and feel unworthy of food. his knuckles bruising my soft skin, like i was an apple no one wanted. maybe that’s still true. i was pristine, once, but he ruined me, then i went ahead and ruined myself. i’ll never be wanted and brand new again. good news is, i’m not actually produce. i’m not a dog, either- i’m a flesh and blood girl, with birthmarks and freckles and crooked teeth and bony knees. still. the metaphor stands. i try to be so good but in the end i’m a damaged little thing no one wants to deal with.

if it’s meant to be, it will be.

#day1620

day 1,610

hold me, nicely. im so unlovely. my pain has caused

me to lose my god damn gratitude, how could i let this happen? i survived but im filled with misery. god has shown me so many things, but i cower in fear. i've seen it. i understand. sick of my own face, sick of my skin; im scared of the dark, kick my chest in. i'm known for leaning into the hand that beats me bloody, it's taught me death is like to be kinder than man. i've endured nausea every single night.

spit your blood into the cup and i will drink it down.

i kneel gently at the pew and pray and pray and pray that you will be the exception, you won't beat me bloody, so to speak. my dear, reminiscent of a corpse- you are unearthly in being. i would not change a thing of your rigor mortis for the world. id cough up flowers and slowly transform into a garden until you decided i'm worth something. you have no idea how lovely that is, how appealing the concept. how appealing you are.

i'm getting ahead of myself. i want to own, i want to

be owned. mom, if you're reading this, are you sure i was born a person, and not a vortex? i'm always hungry, i love the feeling of being starving. always swallowing. no matter how much i consume, my soul always aches with emptiness.

"i don't know," i replied honestly. "it's been 4 years, i've liked people, but it's just never gone anywhere. they don't like me back." i chugged more of my vodka lemonade with a tiny smirk on my face. the stars were shouting at me. it was awesome.

"ok, you're my friend, so i'll try to put this gently, but i'm gonna be totally honest," he replied. "it's because you're a whore."

static buzzed in my ears. the stars went dead silent. my eyes were slow from the alcohol, so i looked away from him and up at the moon, a waxing crescent. it took me 1o seconds at least. "oh." i drank more to keep myself from

tearing up.

"i’m sorry, but that's how it is. it's why guys don't..."

"yeah, yeah, i get it. it's fine. i know what i am and

what i do. i'm ok with dying alone, ya know." i didn't believe the shit coming out of my mouth. i could act as cool as i'd like, it didn't change how badly hearing the truth so blatantly hurt me. i could write a million poems, paint 400 portraits with oils, wear the cutest outfits, have the best taste in music, always make you laugh, be kind to everyone i meet - it wouldn't change what i am or how you see me. i don't hurt anyone. but i am a whore. that's all you see. not a single other part of my story. it's too late to go back and change this.

i pretend i'm ok with that.

i have friends, sure, but im the butt of the joke. people will point and laugh at my expense and i'll allow it, even though i know their worst fear in the world is to date some disgusting creature like me. "oh, i feel so bad for your boyfriend/girlfriend". i hear that more often than anything. please, go ahead and immediately dismiss my experiences. who cares what i've been through? that's irrelevant, obviously.

point is, i can smell the judgment on you. it stinks.

it's coming off your skin, and as such i will treat you like a threat. i will become nonexistent. i will cut you off the moment you think, "she must be a whore".

woe is me, even

though i’m not hurting anyone. i’ve been hurt physically and emotionally and what i did was a way to pay bills- no pain is caused. i would dissociate but that’s not the point. before all that, i have been left bruised, cut, sobbing, bleeding in a bathroom, you have no idea. yet, i am kind to everyone i meet, i treat you gently. none of this matters to you. the masses point with one hand and jerk off with the other, never mind the fact that i don't even do it anymore. please

objectify me, i'd be honored!

so i'll let my friends laugh at me. ask me questions

that make me uncomfortable, make my skin crawl. i’ll pretend it doesn't bother me. after all, this is my bed, and i shall lay and sleep in it. but not before bleeding all over the sheets. holy shit. my anger makes no difference. why did i even write any of this down?

when i find myself bleeding for the last time in an alleyway, or a bathtub, or across the bedroom floor- it will be rage who cradles my face more tenderly than god ever could. more than you ever could. more than any man ever could. it will be rage, with her calloused hands and warm heart, who thanks me for letting her burn for so, so, so very long, always silent, always under the surface of my skin. it will be rage, broken-voiced (hoarse after years of screaming for justice, for shedding tears every night for 1,610 nights), who tells me, "you've done good. i’m proud of you."

#day1610

day 1,607

t hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts it hurts, it hurts- why can’t i die?

i am the wound and the dagger, i am the members and the wheel. i am both a victim and an executioner. i will only break your pretty things. i will wring you dry and rotten. i dream of slicing open the first man who ever touched me. i want someone to devour me, consume me whole without chewing, so intense that i have no room to feel anything else. i want to settle in the pit of your stomach and burn you from the inside out, tearing away your organs and dainty smooth skin.

my rage is a domestic kind. i learned it from my mother, who learned it from her mother before her.

#day1607

day 1,524

i inhaled deeply, my legs curled under me as we sat against the windowsill. a gentle early september breeze swam through, my eyes half closed- partially to avoid the smoke getting in them and irritating my contacts.

“come onnn,” i drawled out. “say one nice thing about me. i fucking dare you.”

you smiled at me and i felt my heart leap around in my sternum. “i already have.”

“what? when? was i asleep or something?”

“like, a few weeks ago. remember that thing i said about your boobs?”

i shoved you, mostly playful, against the shaky concrete. you tossed your hands up in faux surrender. “that was not a compliment. asking ‘when are your boobs gonna grow in’? that’s straight up rude. i said something nice, jackass.”

“no, no, it’s a nice thing. look. it gives me a lot of admiration for you. the rest of you grew, but your boobs didn’t. they’re seriously committed to staying that size and i respect that. you embrace it, too, which makes it even more badass. it’s like… someone forgot to water them and give them 5 hours of sunlight every day.”

we laughed, and i passed you the cigarette, now wearing thin. my shirt sleeve rode up a bit and you saw- you saw the inside of my arm, a disgusting portrait of crimson and healed over white, like hollyhock left to rot in the yard. weeds, swarming ugly underneath my clothes. i tugged on my sleeve and looked out the window, hoping that ignoring the problem would make it go away.

this has been my strategy my whole life. it’s why my parents despise me, it’s why my romantic relationships always crash and burn. i didn’t even know why i still did that to myself. pure habit, maybe. warmth and comfort in the familiar. it has been a lengthy addiction, something i have been doing for 10 years now. it’s stupid and embarrassing. no one ever came to save me, not once in those years. only i can cure myself, and i often worry that the poison is too deeply rooted in my veins, unable to be threaded out.

you looked so pretty, sitting at my window, joking about my insecurities. i wanted to kiss your angelic face until my lips fell off- but to no avail. the moment passed. i hugged myself tightly with my fucked up arms and pretended you were the one holding me. instead, you just held the marlboro red, finishing it off without asking if you could. at the end of the night, you stood up, ruffled my hair like i’m a stupid dog, and slammed my front door shut. the sound alone brought me to tears, and i told myself it was just because i was PMSing.

#day1524

day 1,515

written 2.5 ish years ago- trigger warning (sorry)

it doesn’t normally bother me. it doesn’t normally bother anyone, if i’m being honest. many things i do bother people. i don’t eat very much, i eat too much. i overshare online. i am fat. i laugh kind of ugly. i am a disorganized mess. i am constantly losing or misplacing things. i sometimes take a while to reply to messages; reply too fast other times. i don’t stick up for myself- especially when men treat me like i’m dumber than i actually am (this happens frequently). i’m pretentious and charming until you hurt me, then i cut you off with a vengeance. i’m too much and not enough all at once. i worry at my looks often; i feel unworthy of having a face.

but this one thing seems to go under your radar.

i’m not really complaining. it’s preferable. this is just an observation. sometimes it is not unnoticed, but this comes as quick glances, an awkward face, and nothing else. subject change. strictly professional.

my roommate doesn’t even notice, and i’m around him constantly. well, he notices. he just doesn’t care, which is damn near worse. every time i sulk into the living room with new bandages on my left forearm or tops of my thighs, he hardly glances. no empathy. no questions. no, “why would you do that to yourself?” none of that. he will tell me he is going to order food, or go lay in bed if it’s late enough. i nod robotically. we are very mundane. we are simple, quiet, gentle. we are not physically intimate. he does not touch me. he is just a good friend. any sweet words we had for each other died up and shriveled in the sun. occasionally he will sit near me until i feel my skin crawl from overstimulation. we hang out twice a month like clockwork, and every night in my bathroom, i run the sink faucet and cry so hard i vomit. but the rest of that is for another time. i allow this treatment. it’s what i deserve-

wait. let me backpedal. i was wrong. one person has noticed and acted in turn- my mother, of all people. i look in the mirror and occasionally see her eyes staring back at me, green and sad and overworked and used by every man she’s ever encountered. history has repeated itself in me, her oldest, her most resented. anyway, she took the old boxcutters out of my childhood bedroom, so i can’t cut myself open whenever i visit ohio. it drives me insane. i scratch at myself with my nails, but it doesn’t do much good. the endorphin and dopamine rush isn’t the same, the crimson doesn’t appear without the tool she has taken away. i love that color, as cliche as that sounds.

i was shooting today and the bright studio grade lights lit me up like a christmas tree. a relatively pale one, but still. every freckle, scar, and bruise was visible on my body. the particularly angry and pink self inflicted wounds stood out. this is what got me thinking. my costar was next to me and didn’t even seem to notice. if he did, it likely filled him with disgust. the director didn’t notice, i know this. if he had, the shoot would have stopped. it would never have been released. most consumers can’t focus if a model has obvious dark imperfections. i know a girl who once had to leave a set early because her stretch marks were too visible. distracting, the director told her. something she can’t even control and she got sent away anyways. like a leper.

but i finished the shoot today. took it like a champ. dissociated the whole time, my mind wandering to the ocean and seeing my dog again. i remember fake smiling and how badly the kitchen table was hurting me. (modeling is never comfortable.) and of course, i remember how vile my scars looked. i still have to shoot more tomorrow and the day after, and my thoughts will wander right out the window while doing it. i tell myself it’s not a problem and that my sexual trauma never resurfaces. definitely not. but. kyle wasn’t that long ago, in hindsight. right? am i still allowed to grieve?

when i was a teenager, first cutting myself at age 13, i didn’t really have a motive as to why i did it. i’d never seen anyone do it before, but i gave into one intrusive thought with a kitchen knife, and suddenly i was addicted. i liked the buzz that came after. the cleanup, the care. i liked seeing physical evidence of something i had control over. starving and losing weight wasn’t quick- seeing blood gush out of me was instant gratification. whenever someone did notice my arms, i denied. denied all the way to hell. i used to have real, actual, cringey dreams that someday a boy would romantically kiss all the scars on my skin and tell me i'm beautiful anyway. but i'm not beautiful. to most people, me doing that to myself is just an annoying habit, like nail biting or snoring, if they even notice i do it. i once bled too much once and my mom had to take me to the hospital- maybe that’s why she took my boxcutters in adulthood. to prevent me from bleeding out again. it was acceptable as a 17 year old, but at 23, it would just be embarrassing, and an expensive hospital trip. my friends wouldn’t even send me a cheap dollar store “get well soon” card. they wouldn’t even notice my lack of texts in the group chat- perhaps they’d feel relief that i finally shut up.

i don’t know what the point of any of this is. i’m still going to cut myself, and no one will stop me or care, and i prefer it that way. showers will still burn sometimes and i’ll still keep nexcare bandaids in full stock in my bathroom cabinet. none of this is a complaint, i hope you know that. they’re just my thoughts. i haven’t slept much these past few days.

maybe it’s a physical release. the mental and emotional release is my writing, the shit no one reads. the rest is physical release. i am a caged animal, teeth bared, hoping you get too close so i can bite your hand clean off.

so. authors note. i wrote this a while ago, and it’s been sitting in my 50,000 word google doc ever since. i wanted to post it now. i’ll let you figure out why.

#day1515

day 1,509

“look at me,” kyle grabbed my face roughly. i pulled back. to no avail. the tendons in my throat sang with pain. “you are nothing but a slut. no one will ever respect you. do you understand that? you’ve embarrassed me.”

i stomped out the fiery urge to bite his hand clean off. “i don’t even have anyone except you in my life anymore. i have only ever done what you told me to. what more do you want?”

“i want you to be mine.”

“i am yours. if only you were a little nicer-‘’

“what? what did you say?” kyle shoved me, not hard, but enough to cause me to collapse onto the cat-stained couch with a hmph. “do you think anyone will treat you better than this, given how disgusting you are?”

i thought about it. i rubbed my jaw and cheeks where they ached. “no. i guess not.”

kyle invaded my space then, leaving no room for protest. he was on me. incessant. parasitic. he kissed me so hard i bled. it wasn’t sweet or loving, it was all consuming, leaving no part of me left. he sank his teeth into my collarbones, making me bleed there, too. i squirmed, trying to escape, but he was twice my size. i gave up. my body froze, went slack against his harsh skin. fighting would only make it hurt worse. “that’s it, you whore. my whore. don’t fight this. you know i’m what you need.”

i started crying, really crying- it made no difference. i drove back to hilliard that night, the space between my legs sore. my back warm with blood and fresh scarring, and the cicadas were singing as i wheeled past- echoing what kyle said. i’m just a whore. no one else would ever love me like this. he was the best i deserved.

the lamb may bleat and cry, and that shiver of fear may crawl up its spine when it sees the knife. but it knows not to curse god, it knows not that it was born for sacrifice. it only knows the betrayal of the shepherd who’d raised it, once loving hands become violent. you have to understand, this was how kyle and i were. that’s all i was.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

“hey. look at me, please.”

my mother didn’t sound angry, just sad and tired. i glared at her, in a teenage girl sort of way, one eye covered by my stupid emo bangs. “you ruined my life,” i mumbled.

“i’m just trying to help you,” mom sighed. “you’re giving everyone such a hard time. so difficult. i’m sure this is all a cry for attention.”

my freshman year of high school was plagued by arguments like this. i was 91 ish pounds but i still felt like a walking monster, too big for anyone to want or notice, taking up too much space. i wore huge band tshirts and black skinny jeans every day, played clarinet, and wrote in my journal during meal times. i often loved people so hard i was afraid my heart would fall right out my chest, slithering out of my sternum and onto the ground with a splat. i was dizzy with self control and counted calories until i fainted.

“i don’t mean to,” i whined. “and it’s not a cry for anything, just let me do what i want in peace. i’m quiet about it. i promise ill be fine.”

my mom started the car- a 2005 teal saturn. “that’s not how this is going to work. you’re not healthy right now.”

“what, coming into school during my lunch period isn’t enough? you have to make my life worse, embarrass me? you have to force feed me like i’m a prized pig?”

“if i don’t go in, you won’t eat lunch,” i felt her frustration with me growing. “your doctor told us this is what you need.”

“that doctor is full of shit-

“hey. language.”

“-and you lied to me! you’ve been sneaking ensure into my food this whole time. that’s so many extra calories, fattening me right up. you’re a liar. you and everybody else thinks i’m ugly. i hate you.”

the silence was roaring for a while. i burned hot, but didn’t apologize right away. i sank into my seat and chewed at my nails until they bled, ignored my stomach growling and gnawing. finally, my mother said quietly, “you don’t mean that.”

“whatever.”

later, i’d scream the same thing at her, when she and my inpatient doctor tried to put tubes down my throat and nose, and bandage my knife wounds with gauze. the gauze and polysporin didn’t help long term. i still have white slashes on my legs and left forearm. i still have an eating disorder, too, and i am still quiet about it. my mother was right, though- i didn’t mean that. years later, i’d apologize to her for being difficult, and feel so guilty i left. 2,000 miles away. out of sight, out of mind. all i am now is the stench of blood, stench of death. unnoticed by all. i am the withered hollyhock in the yard, blooming over bones, untended to and left to rot.

#day1509

day 1,499

i accepted and who i was and bloomed into something i never thought possible. i began to hug myself tightly every night before bed. i stroked my own hair lovingly, i traced along all my jagged edges that no one else dared to touch. the pads of my fingers became my own version of poetry. my kneecaps are my favorite thing to stare at some days.

no one else enjoys it. or me, for that matter. i must be a monster; i always get barren comments about the way i look. barren meaning horrible, rage inducing, in this context. some tell me i’m still too big, too huge, too blurred and smudged. i’m too heavy, ill crush you. i am always too much to some. overwhelming, physically and emotionally, im a girl who constantly needs more, more, more. these comments tell me to stop eating. stop being a fucking pig. run more, they say. 6 miles isn’t enough. i’m still fat. fat!!! i want to carve that word into myself. i hope i’ll finally be tiny enough for them to love me.

other words spat at me tell me the opposite. that my boobs are too small, my bones too pointy. my teeth are too crooked, my collarbones too prominent, always pointing slightly slanted toward the sun. maybe you’re scared i’ll stab you while you sleep. the temptation is certainly there. you dont like the concave of my stomach. you tell me i am full of dust. empty. too small. i stopped wearing push up bras and began running, isn’t this what everyone wanted? you can count my ribs but i’m still too big for some, too little and meaningless for others. i always thought that if i got smaller, you’d find room for me in your life. “eat more,” you goad, under the pretense of care. “it’s better for you. i prefer you that way.”

the opposite of what i’ve been told my whole life.

some nights i wake up, sweaty, panting from a ptsd infused nightmare. i touch my skin, feel my lungs gulping in air. i know i’m home. no one else wants to settle in me, nest in the hollow of my pelvis. endless loneliness. i tell myself its better this way.

#day1499

day 1,482

you touch me and suddenly i’m a little less war torn. i’m not sure what peace is supposed to feel like, but i think it may feel a lot like you.

i was so good for you. i dug my heart out for you. so why won’t you even look at me? why won’t you make me yours?

maybe i’m rotten. maybe i’m foul. maybe my soul stinks so bad you want to avoid me forever.

#day1482

day 1,460- june 30. exactly 4 years.

trigger warning

pages 272-280

imagine, for a few minutes, that you’re me. maybe not the best thing to imagine. do it anyway, humor me a bit.

you’ve been a girl on the internet since you were 10 years old, due to loneliness and boredom since you live in ohio. you have few friends and feel some deep rooted desire to be special to someone. it’s genetic. since that age, you’ve been both restricting how much food you eat and a thing for adult men to enjoy sexually. that second thing started when you were 6, actually, but that’s a small detail. unimportant for now.

so, you’ve been an object from the day you gained consciousness. you eventually go into middle school and you’re ugly, the ugliest bitch to walk the earth. you have crooked teeth, glasses, and stupid red hair. not to mention too many freckles. boys ask you out as a joke or as a dare, or straight up call you ugly to your face. you play minecraft a lot and listen to pierce the veil or sleeping with sirens or bring me the horizon. you play clarinet. you have some friends, and men online still like to call you a cumslut and tell you that you have “fuck me” eyes. so maybe it's not all bad. at least you're attractive to someone. even if they are in their 30’s.

high school starts and you don’t gain any weight during puberty. you grow taller but you stay 93 pounds. you grow out your bangs and stop begging your mother to let you dye your hair. the red hair is okay, you decide. not pretty, but okay. you love marching band (specifically bass clarinet now) and horseback riding, and start dating some men and women in band but they’re all terrible to you. one in particular plays tenor drums and begs you to send nudes to him every other night on snapchat. you say yes to keep him happy, and for a time, this strategy works. he’s funny in a self deprecating way, but the deprecation gets old really fast. he's your first kiss but it's kind of disgusting. you’re 14 and a half. he dumps you over text months later.

you date a girl a year later who also doesn’t like eating. you’re forced to consume calories by the eating disorder clinic you’re forced to go to. your mom sneaks ensure shakes into your food. you still aren’t gaining weight- between marching band and purging, you stay 93 pounds as you turn 16 and begin driving. you have to be hospitalized and a tube is forced in your nose. you do finally gain a bit of weight- 93 morphs into 99. the doctors at the eating disorder clinic cheer and tell you its progress; you want to carve your skin off.

said girl is triggering you, constantly. she's losing weight and encourages you both to not eat- inadvertently. you’re toxic together but you love her a lot. your band friends are sick of hearing you bitch about these things, so you two eventually break up. men resume taking advantage of you and you’re an object once again.

you do have some good memories from high school- mostly from band, mostly the trombones and your younger sister being your family and loving you when you cannot love yourself. you treasure them and miss them all the time years from now, even though they probably don't think about you much.

as you get closer to graduating high school, you date some older guys for a time. boys in your school don't look at you twice. you’re never truly happy with them; they keep hurting you over and over. physically and mentally. your mom cries because of you a lot. your grades, your mental illnesses, the boys you date. they all hurt her heart, and yours is almost nonexistent anymore.

you graduate high school and move 2,500 miles away. it feels freeing, you love it. you can starve yourself in peace but the birth control you were forced on makes you gain weight despite eating close to nothing. you love the palm trees and cacti and dutch bros coffee. your freckles get dark due to all the sun. you get an A in your criminology seminar. you lose your virginity in the back of your shitty car to a man who swears up and down he loves you, then ghosts you 2 weeks later. you start doing online sex work. if you’re gonna be objectified and exploited, might as well make money off it. you meet vincent, one of your best friends. you and him go to local bands house shows all the time, and enjoy getting coffee and playing star wars MMORPGs together. covid happens.

you move back to ohio during quarantine, spending march-august of 2020 stuck in the rural midwest. the summer approaching is still. quiet. almost dead. cicadas cry out every night and you lay out in the grass of your childhood home's backyard, hoping to sink into the dirt.

you turn 19. you start dating kyle, someone you kind of knew a few years ago but reconnected with via instagram once covid hit. he is sweet and good and has adorable cats. though you're allergic to said cats. he is tall and big and kisses you good. you two mostly drive around exploring springfield, yellow springs, dayton. or you’re napping together, which is way less fun. your ‘96 chevy malibu always smells like smoke and warm motes of dust. the sun is out often. you and your sister are best friends and hang out as frequently as possible.

something shifts. it’s subtle, hardly noticeable. but there’s an unease, like something is about to snap. your boyfriend judges you, ignores your wants, and makes off putting comments, but it’s not too bad, right?

kyle is no longer sweet and good. somehow you missed the signs, or maybe he manipulated you expertly, who knows? something shifted in him weeks after you began dating; he is now demanding and cruel. he yells at you and calls you a whore, a bitch, a dumb anorexic. he wants things from you. always wanting and taking, never giving anything in return. his bedroom stinks like kitty litter and sweat. he tells you to stop being friends with every guy you know or else he’ll “do something about it”. you’re suddenly isolated and friendless altogether, scared shitless of your own boyfriend. one of your friends is deployed in the navy. your other friends don’t hear from you for hours, days, weeks. you disappear. if you disobey and text someone- especially a man, kyle yells at and threatens you. every time you try to break up with him, he drives to your house with a bat or knife. sitting, waiting. you tell no one. you’re terrified he’ll make good on one of his threats.

one day, he does. you’re crying at his place over your weight- is 110 pounds fat? kyle starts kissing you and feeling you, he’s getting hard. you’re not reciprocating, you’re too distraught, too full of self loathing. he starts initiating sex with you; you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he pins you down. you say “no”. he forgets what “stop” means. he isn’t listening to you begging him to get off you, to get out of you. he’s twice your size, and he has crawled in and infected any goodness you have left, pinning you down and leaving gross marks. this is the first of many times this will happen.

when you try to get away next time, a few days later, he grabs one of his smaller knives and digs it into your back. you’re crying. he’s still fucking you. it hurts. you’re bleeding from your groin and your lower spine. he doesn’t care. he spits down at you, sneers, grabs your hair so hard it gets ripped out.

you’re glad you’re on birth control now. it’s the first week of july, 2020, and you live and die at kyle’s words. whatever he wants, he gets, whenever he wants it. never mind that he lives 40 minutes away in his grandparents' garage. every time you try to leave him, he drives to your house, threatens you and your sister. the police, you knew, won’t believe a word you say. so you wait and endure, despite the permanent damage he will do to you.

you’re raped at least once a week. any sexual desire you once felt was gone, bleeding out on the floor over and over again. you have bruises everywhere except your face. your parents raise their eyebrows but don’t ask questions; you’re an adult now and can handle this alone. you have 2 friends: your sister and a girl you knew from band. that’s it. kyle looks at your activity and location, always. if you’re online but ignoring his texts, he calls you. tells you he’s coming over. tells you he wants to marry you. tells you that you’re his and no one else’s. tells you that he just doesn’t trust you to be friends with anyone else. makes you cry so often that when you go to his house, you bring your makeup to touch up when your mascara and eyeliner run.

finally, august rolls around. you have to go back to asu, go live with vincent. kyle lets you leave, but promises to book a flight every 4 weeks to make sure you're on your best behavior. you sneakily don’t tell him your apartment’s new address. the day you board the plane to go to tempe, you block kyle on everything, tell your sister to keep an eye out. he, thankfully, stops driving to your childhood home. he is out of your life.

you are finally free.

except you’re not.

a few weeks later, the nightmares begin. violent, visceral, ultra realistic. constantly reliving the assaults. online classes are impossible to focus in when you keep having flashbacks and are very sleep deprived. you wake up screaming every other morning. you never want to date a man again. not after kyle was so sweet in the beginning, but so monstrous near the end. you blame yourself. it’s your fault. you should have fought harder, screamed louder. it wasn’t “real” rape. maybe you are just a stupid slut. maybe you asked for it, maybe you should have known better and seen the signs, maybe you like it rough, maybe you provoked him. you feel dirty and used, more than you ever did at 6 years old. you have multiple panic attacks a day. your grades slip. once you had all A’s, now you’re lucky if you manage a C. you rarely get out of bed. you’re scared of most men but feel stupid for being so scared. when you do leave your bedroom, you’re half dead, a zombie. thick bags under your eyes, classes dropped, no hobbies other than watching tv and movies. no friends minus vincent, your roommate.

you get a dog named fuji who helps you tremendously. she is obnoxious and has her problems but you love her. she gives you a reason to not kill yourself, though you desperately want to. you stay alive only for fuji and your little sister. you cut yourself again, the same way you did in high school. you’re punishing yourself for being a slut, but at least you aren't dead yet. it's 2021. the scars eventually white over and fade over time, but they have still not gone away completely.

a year goes by, then 2, then 3. it does get easier- you try therapy, but it’s expensive. time, your friends, and the dry heat has healed you the most. you tell your family about what kyle did, and they don’t know what to say. they’re not outraged or weepy the way families of rape victims are on tv shows. maybe they don’t care or understand. you slowly repair old friendships he destroyed, and you build new ones from scratch, too. it feels good to know they’re safe from him. you consider pressing charges but know you won’t be believed, not by the police, prosecution, or a jury. the defense will claim you just like rough sex and want revenge after a bad breakup by falsely accusing him. plus you're a sex worker and will never get the benefit of the doubt. "where's the evidence?" people will ask, and it makes you nauseous to think that your story isn't evidence enough. you grow your hair out, continue doing said sex work, and it makes you a good amount of money. plus, it helps your confidence, and you know you’re safe in this environment. this is sex on your own terms, and you can say “no” whenever you want and know you won’t get in trouble. it's just a job- 99% acting, but there's a release in it. it’s weirdly cathartic. people judge you all the time, you get death threats from strangers. your skin grows incredibly thick. you’re not hurting anyone and you’re making money from what is all acting and making social media posts- the death threats are laughable. nothing in your mind could be as bad as kyle.

you do try to date again, a year and a half after you escaped kyle. to no avail. men still don’t want you. girls don’t notice you. this is a fact that never seems to change, even today. men lead you on but they always eventually leave, or they show their true colors and you need to leave them. many judge you for being raped or for doing sex work, or both. you make your peace with this. someday, you hope, you won’t be alone romantically. when the time is right and you meet the right person. someone nonjudgmental, someone totally safe and reassuring, warm, someone who makes you laugh and feel pretty. someone who will respect and still love you when you say “no”. you still have hope. for now, you are content to love your friends, family, dog. you do wish someone would hold you, though. someone to hold you with no undertones of violence, no threat of them leaving you like others have.

it has been 4 years since kyle first raped you. you feel mostly okay most of the time. you eat at least one meal a day, you go for runs, you got contact lenses, tattoos you designed, and hair extensions. people from middle/high school say you’re so pretty now, most likely not as a joke the way it was when you were 12. you laugh. they didn’t notice you then, and you don’t notice them now. many from high school still live in rural ohio, most stayed right in central ohio. you listen to ethel cain and it reminds you of them and that town.

your college grades have improved a lot the past 2 years. in person classes resuming and the time to heal from kyle helped you tremendously. you make the dean’s list in the spring of 2024. you only have panic attacks once or twice a month, and you only have nightmares about kyle once a week, maybe less. it’s still achy and painful but a lot less so. the wounds are slightly more cauterized. you sometimes dissociate pretty badly during consensual sex but you’re working on it. sometimes these regular sexual encounters end up physically hurting, too, leaving you painfully sore and tender between your legs. leftover damage that hasn’t healed completely from how violently kyle assaulted you. but you take some tylenol and deal with it. you write about your life and it is better than therapy; getting it all out of your system is a giant wave of helpless relief. you have a good group of friends (you think), and you’re looking to rent a new apartment now. you still have your dog and your job and you graduate college in 5 weeks. you will probably start your "real" job at terros health not long after that.

you’re nosy. one day in 2024, you look up kyle’s instagram on your shitpost account. he has a new girlfriend and a son now. the kid is about a year and a half old, and you pray to god he turns out nothing like his father.

okay, you’re no longer me now. all of that is my truth, laid out and bare. you can ignore it if you want. i just need to write it down or else i’ll go fucking crazy. today marks exactly 4 years since kyle raped me for the first time. and i want anyone out there reading this to know they’re not alone. you’re so loved by me. you’re not dirty or disgusting, you’re holy and perfect and clean. i will take care of you, i will treat you gently. show me the darkest parts of your soul and i’ll show you how it still shines like precious gold. no one took care of me and it almost destroyed me; now i have to give what i was denied. just because you endured horrible things doesn’t mean you’re broken. hell, look at me. i nearly died a bunch of times and i’m still here; my heart regrew and is bigger than ever these days, no longer nonexistent. that’s something, isn’t it? i bare my teeth without meaning to. i try to be gentle. i apologize, for now my love leaves scars. as fragmented, imperfect beings, mine is a never ending quest. a quest to find my purpose knowing my end is assured. to find the strength to continue when all strength has left me. i'm stronger than you'd think. it takes a hell of a lot to find joy even when darkness descends and, amidst deepest despair, my light everlasting.

i didn’t deserve what i went through.

no one deserves anything like this. all i can do is cope with what happened to me against my will, exhale, and try to go on living.

#day1460

day 1,455

pages 268-270

slight tw for ed

and nothing hurts like you do.

we were over before we started, before you even looked at me while you stood at your car. after years and years. the flames licked at our feet, even then. it reminded me of my demise with brennan. that twisted sickly mutually assured destruction. i always gravitate toward ruin, moth to a flame. i tried not to dwell on brennan, though. not at that moment. not while your lips and teeth were grazing the tendons in my neck, your free hand gently making its way down my chest and stomach.

“this is concerning,” you drew away to look me in the eye, hand resting on the sharpness of my hipbones. the concave of my lower abdomen. “not sure how i feel about it.”

“what do you mean?” i was breathless, desperate. you could probably taste it. i kissed your soft skin and wiggled around, needy, “don’t stop.”

“i’m just saying, i’m a bit worried,” you did kiss my neck and sternum quickly. once, twice. i hated the tone of voice. every time someone told me they worried about me, my life went to hell, and blew up in smoke. “you’re really skinny.”

i sputtered out a laugh. disbelief. this wasn’t skinny. i knew skinny. i was, once. in high school, when i wouldn’t eat for 1-2 days at a time and did marching band. when my bmi was 15 or so, when i could count my ribs, when i had a nice sharp jawline. when i'd pass out for small periods of time randomly. when i went to the hospital and had a tube running through my sinuses. when i felt prettiest. i used to parse my meals carefully, i’d chew and spit, i’d hide my food in my bedroom closet. i wasn’t nearly that bad anymore. “please be for real. i am not. i’m, like, a healthy weight. i eat plenty.”

“are you actually eating enough?” you shifted a bit, stopping the heavenly torture, and i buried my hands in your hair. it was my favorite physical part of you. thick, dark, long. i couldn’t get enough.

as i dragged my fingers through the strands, gentle with you, i shrugged as much as i could laying in the bed. “sure. i eat one meal a day, which is all i need. i don’t get hungry very often.” i omitted the fact this was probably due to my pills and years of ignoring hunger cues.

“one meal is not enough, baby,” and i melted, giggling despite the incoming lecture. the lecture i’d heard from doctors, my friends, my mother over and over. “you have to eat way more than that, especially if you’re a runner. you are so tiny and small, i’m scared i’ll break you somehow.”

“i’m fine, i promise,” i huffed, then purred your name, tugging your hair and digging my nails into your muscled back. “please. i need you.”

this seemed sufficient to shut you up for now, and you were on me again. incessant. perfectly covering me, hand wandering back down, only a mild pause at my hipbones. i tried not to feel a thrill at how you described me. tiny, small, breakable. it’s all i’ve wanted to hear my whole life. please, go on, keep telling me i’m nothing. if i’m small enough, maybe you’ll find room for me in your life. maybe we won’t have to end so tragically, after all.

#day1455

day 1,443

i think god loves everyone but me. i think god is ashamed of me. that when i scream and cry, he covers his ears, he rolls his eyes, and goes back to sleep. he drowns my screams in people praising him, but god, please, do you hear me?

i am my fathers girl. i’m not pretty, im not easy, im not soft. all i am is hollow, like dove’s bones, and i dream of being wanted; some object of desire, something heady and sweet and worthy of being held down. my agony and neediness leaves my hair messy. i tell you i love you with my whole heart. you startle, stare at me funny. but i hold none back, there is no part me that does not love you.

i will never let go. i will never be satiated. i will be damaged and scarred, you left me this way. i will continue to hunger. i have been starving since i was a little girl, always demanding more from those who will give me nothing in the end. cut your lips on my jagged edges and see how primal i can be. you’ll run away, tail tucked, cursing under your breath.

you smelled like heaven, woods, salt air, the earth. i still know you by scent alone, and that’s all that remains, now that you’re just a memory.

“so, lemme ask you something,” you started. i just nodded dumbly. “how long have you been… like this?”

i shrug. “since i was a little girl, i guess. can’t remember when i wasn’t withering away.”

you laughed. i wanted you to tear me apart, limb from limb, until my cells disintegrated. “and how long do you plan on…?”

“i don’t know,” my hair fell into my eyes. you finished the rest of my pizza, i’d only eaten half a slice. i began to shake; you took no notice. does anyone notice anything about me? could i bleed out and die, alone and invisible? “i don’t know anything.”

#day1443

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