Is it wrong to not remember the first time you had sex? I have no recollection of when it started for me, just that it's always been there. I remember my first day of school, and I can say with certainty that it had started before that age. It wasn't an everyday thing, and I don't remember everything. I guess your mind is pretty good at selectively picking the things you remember and forgetting the things that hurt you.
Is it wrong to say that in some ways, you kind of enjoyed the attention you received during the molestation; that there was finally someone there in a world of absentee parents and the empty void of older siblings?
Is it wrong to say that it was pleasurable in some ways to know that somebody liked you, and that the naughty feeling you had in the pit of your stomach was being shared by someone else on a deep physical level in a world that was empty of contact.
For me, that was my childhood, and graduating to the adult world came at an early age as well. I was in grade 9 when I was assaulted and raped.
She was a cute girl in my class - dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, innocent smile. She had been kept back a few times as she seemed to miss school more than she was there. We had a very flirtatious relationship where I sat behind her in class and her best friend sat across from me, so I was generally privy to their whispered conversations during class. Sometimes, she would bring up details of her sex life to her friend and I'm sure it was just to get my attention and perhaps a rise from me. Needless to say, I had a huge crush on her. I was sure that with her open sexuality that I admired, that she would end up in the sex industry in some way. I told her that like the song "Centerfold", when she posed naked for Playboy, she would have to come sleep with me. She laughingly agreed, but it didn't take her anywhere near that long.
It was a surprise party at her place where there were supposed to be plenty of people, but her older boyfriend and I were the only guests when I arrived. It didn't seem suspicious to me at all. I'd never been to a high school party before, and arrived early as she suggested. I expected other people to show up, and she had said she might need a few chairs moved beforehand, so there I was. There was some music on, and I was given a drink that I know was spiked with something, because even at fourteen, I'd drank alcohol before, and one drink would not affect me the way this drink did. I remember her boyfriend saying he had to leave to get something, and her flirting with me.
My next memory is waking up naked in her bed, with her on top of me, also naked, and feeling extremely embarrassed. I can't remember the words I said, as everything is fuzzy around this memory, but I know I tried to extracate myself from the situation and leave, only to find the boyfriend watching us as I reached for my clothes. He hit me, choked me, threatened me with a weapon, and forced me back on the bed, telling her what to do to make me hard and then had her have her way with me.
I guess things didn't go as they planned; maybe they thought I would be a more willing participant? - but I remember crying when she stopped, and the guy telling me I could do to her what she had done to me. Even though the incident is fuzzy from whatever was in the drink, his words from that night would guide my sex life for the rest of mine. "She took the power from you. You just need to take it back."
He was bigger than me, and much older, so I did as instructed, working my cock until it was hard, and climbing on her to fuck her. He encouraged me to hit her as I did so, and I struck her, tentatively at first, and with increasing vigour, feeling myself get harder and closer with every blow until I finished, and collapsed dazed across her. She looked at me with fear and respect in her wide eyes, and even though I didn't realize it at the time, my kink was born.
We never spoke of the incident after that. I eventually dated her a few times, a few years further down the road. He moved to Toronto and was killed by a jealous husband while I was still in high school. I wondered for a long time how much of that night was her idea and how much his. Sex with her was always intense, and in the same manner as the rape, so he may have formulated or nurtured her kink as well.
For me, I felt shameful for a long time about the incident. Hated the humiliation I felt; being beaten in front of her by someone physically stronger. Being used as a fuck toy. Hated how confused I felt about hitting her and how it could make me feel so good. Hated and loved getting off to the memory for a long time after - even to this day.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Everything that downs me...
Everything that downs me makes me want to fly.
-Ryan Tedder
I have times like the last post where everything seems hopeless to me and the darkness consumes me, tearing away at my being and assaulting my soul. Now it's not true everytime, but quite often, new moons wreck me. Full dark means darkness for my mood. I know it's a depressive state; and that the xanax and welbutrin and the like are what so-called normal people take to get them evened out again, but I've seen too many walking horror stories on that stuff. I don't believe that modern pharmaceutical medication is any better than weed.
When the moon is full, it's exhilarating. I swear I can feel it in my bones. I can tell it's full right now without even checking. Overcoming the depressive state and moving on to the manic one makes you feel like you can leap tall buildings. All those things that downed you seem so unimportant. If anything, they reinforce how strong you are, to have overcome the depression. Like the song says, "Everything that kills me, makes me feel alive."
I have several tattoos, but one is more special to me than the rest. I use it to focus myself during the bad spells like I was going through in my last post. It's a peacock on my left wrist with a small Semicolon worked in there. I get asked about it occasionally and I explain what it means in general terms. The peacock is a reminder to not be too proud. The semicolon has another meaning
If you haven't heard of the Semicolon project, it's a movement presenting hope, love, and solidarity between those struggling with mental illness, suicide, addiction, and self injury. The semicolon is used in punctuation where an author could have ended a sentence, but chose not to, because there was something important to add; sometimes something important that changes what went before to give it new meaning. Thus the story continues instead of ending.
The project, hopefully, encourages mental-illness sufferers to go on with their lives during those dark moments; a reminder that there is more to the story, so don't let it end there. People who support this cause have a tattoo of a semicolon (;) somewhere on their body.
I got the tattoo after my ex-wife was hospitalized and checked herself into a mental health facility after a breakdown. I told her the tattoo was for her. I didn't tell her of my own issues ever. I didn't tell her how close I had come to ending it several times already. And I didn't tell her I had the tattoo on my left wrist because I wanted to see the scar on my right from an earlier suicide attempt at age 12.
It was a bad cut that ended just before the artery. In those days, there was no internet to show you the proper way, and I chickened out before completing it, as I had not fully prepared for it, did it on the spur of the moment, and freaked out at how much blood there was. I told my parents I had fallen on a broken bottle. I didn't tell them I broke it and used it on myself. Just smashed it down on the river's edge and pushed my wrist down on it.
So on those bad days, I look at my right wrist and think about it, and then my left wrist to focus and reconnect, and I remind myself not to be too proud to ask for help should I get so deep that I can't see any way out.
The right scarred side:
Old scar https://imgur.com/gallery/KuzE1
The left tattoed side:
#semicolon project Proud peacock https://imgur.com/gallery/WxFYN
-Ryan Tedder
I have times like the last post where everything seems hopeless to me and the darkness consumes me, tearing away at my being and assaulting my soul. Now it's not true everytime, but quite often, new moons wreck me. Full dark means darkness for my mood. I know it's a depressive state; and that the xanax and welbutrin and the like are what so-called normal people take to get them evened out again, but I've seen too many walking horror stories on that stuff. I don't believe that modern pharmaceutical medication is any better than weed.
When the moon is full, it's exhilarating. I swear I can feel it in my bones. I can tell it's full right now without even checking. Overcoming the depressive state and moving on to the manic one makes you feel like you can leap tall buildings. All those things that downed you seem so unimportant. If anything, they reinforce how strong you are, to have overcome the depression. Like the song says, "Everything that kills me, makes me feel alive."
I have several tattoos, but one is more special to me than the rest. I use it to focus myself during the bad spells like I was going through in my last post. It's a peacock on my left wrist with a small Semicolon worked in there. I get asked about it occasionally and I explain what it means in general terms. The peacock is a reminder to not be too proud. The semicolon has another meaning
If you haven't heard of the Semicolon project, it's a movement presenting hope, love, and solidarity between those struggling with mental illness, suicide, addiction, and self injury. The semicolon is used in punctuation where an author could have ended a sentence, but chose not to, because there was something important to add; sometimes something important that changes what went before to give it new meaning. Thus the story continues instead of ending.
The project, hopefully, encourages mental-illness sufferers to go on with their lives during those dark moments; a reminder that there is more to the story, so don't let it end there. People who support this cause have a tattoo of a semicolon (;) somewhere on their body.
I got the tattoo after my ex-wife was hospitalized and checked herself into a mental health facility after a breakdown. I told her the tattoo was for her. I didn't tell her of my own issues ever. I didn't tell her how close I had come to ending it several times already. And I didn't tell her I had the tattoo on my left wrist because I wanted to see the scar on my right from an earlier suicide attempt at age 12.
It was a bad cut that ended just before the artery. In those days, there was no internet to show you the proper way, and I chickened out before completing it, as I had not fully prepared for it, did it on the spur of the moment, and freaked out at how much blood there was. I told my parents I had fallen on a broken bottle. I didn't tell them I broke it and used it on myself. Just smashed it down on the river's edge and pushed my wrist down on it.
So on those bad days, I look at my right wrist and think about it, and then my left wrist to focus and reconnect, and I remind myself not to be too proud to ask for help should I get so deep that I can't see any way out.
The right scarred side:
Old scar https://imgur.com/gallery/KuzE1
The left tattoed side:
#semicolon project Proud peacock https://imgur.com/gallery/WxFYN
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