Write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.
dealing with rape.
There is no set guideline of dealing with sexual abuse or being raped.
It often takes years of mistakes, pain and allowing yourself to be in situations that will only further hurt you to realise that you will never get over it.
It’s only when you decide to let it stop controlling you, do you reach a state of where you are most comfortable with yourself again. Maybe then, the dreams will stop, you’ll be able to deal with sexual activity, maybe you’ll even start to understand yourself and love yourself again.
Or maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll just glide through life, rather than comfortable, but comfortably numb.
I’ve found that the only way I achieved comfortably numb was when I accepted it. When I was okay enough to say that I, was raped
you have to be strong
Bullshit, you do not have to be strong, be weak if you want, cry if you need. Hate the world, hate yourself. It’s how you heal. It’s how you learn to cope, to deal, to overcome being raped.
I stopped believing it was something I could get over and started realising it was a part of my life, there’s nothing I could do to change that, no matter how many bottles I drank, how many pills I took, how many scars I left, nothing makes it go away, but you.
You lost control, you need to take it back. Stop fighting it, stop fighting yourself.
Out of everything in my useless, pathetic life, my rape, is the only thing, that doesn’t hurt me; anymore.
“who are YOU?” Said the caterpillar. Alice replied rather shyly “I-I hardly know, sir, just at the present, at least, I know who I WAS when I woke up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times several times since then”
“What do you mean by that?” Said the caterpillar sternly “explain yourself!”
“I cant explain MYSELF” Alice said, “because I’m not myself, you see”
“I don’t see” said the caterpillar
I never thought, for even a moment that a quote of a child’s book, would be the literal meaning to my actual life.
Sometimes in a sad way, sometimes in a way that brings my own comfort.
I’m yet to fully understand why.
Maybe it’s because, I haven’t completely understood myself yet? or maybe it’s because I have difficulty explaining myself?
Or maybe, it’s because I think that my explanations aren’t making sense to the person asking me?
Do we ever truly know who we are?
I still remember when boyfriend stuttered out those words, every girl dreams of hearing, “will you marry me?” As his hands shook, opening that tiny ring box, exposing a ring that I could see that he worked hard for, stumbling his knees, I felt nothing back that cliche, magical moment without hesitation, I squeaked “yes” and for a brief moment, I thought I was happy.
Happy someone finally accepted me, that’s what you do when you want to marry someone, right? Accept them?
It was only until I had the realisation that I had to wear a dress, in front of not just my soon to be husband, but his entire family. Was I ready to let everyone see my scars? Would I get to live the dream of feeling like a princess, looking to my king as he takes my hand and makes me his wife? Or would I have to sit there, and look at my wedding pictures, knowing that I asked the photographer to photoshop what the make up isn’t covering, and feel like I’m hiding myself again, and let it eat my insides because I ruined my body?
So it left me with the same bullshit thoughts and the feelings associated with the constant battles about my self harm, and suicide attempts. Do I hide myself, like always or do I expose myself, and let the world see me? Am I actually strong enough to do either or those options?
I’m not sure, with having thought about this, if he was to ask my hand again, if I would say yes or no. He is such a beautiful man, loving, caring, gives me support like I’ve never known.
Why am I not thankful?! All my life I’ve begged and pleaded to be loved, and to be loved by someone who will never hurt me, and now I finally have it, I’m constantly questioning if I’m
making the right choices
Making him, happy. A beautiful soul deserves nothing less than everything
He has talked about the infamous white dress, with nothing but passion and excitement squeezing into the pitch of his voice, giving me detailed thoughts about the moment he sees me, wearing a stunning couture gown, strapless, perfectly fitting my body.
Exposing my scars, making that beautiful dress, and that wonderful moment, tainted by my hate.
I want to be proud, stride down that isle, a woman becoming a wife, maybe I should expose myself, let his family see, let them talk, let them as questions BUT how will those questions be answered to his younger family members?
she’s sick, she has bi-polar, she can’t help it
I’m so uncomfortable with letting people see, let alone children, who’s innocence is beautiful.
Maybe I should cover up? Maybe lace sleeves wouldn’t be all so bad, I would be the same person I am right now, hidden, covered up from the world. I’m yet to find the reason why both those ideas seem so uncomfortable and depressing.
Maybe because, I feel being married is an opportunity to become a newer version of myself? Maybe it’s the day where my life actually begins.
And maybe that’s also the terrifying part? Because I will be changing? Maybe I’m terrified that I won’t change, maybe the fear is coming from the thought that it I don’t deserve it. I think, maybe, I just don’t deserve him.
Opportunities happen constantly, some rewarding, some punishing.
What helps us to decide when to take that leap of faith?
Who actually knew, that creating a blog would be considered as a technique to help you deal with your mental health, how things have changed.
I’m not sure if my blog is private, the app is difficult to navigate, I’m not worried, there are far too many depressing blogs out there for people to bother looking at mine, which is actually my preference.
Writing daily entries is no doubt going to be difficult for me, I can barely remember to feed myself, let alone blog, but, a girls gotta try. Right?
It’s slightly interesting that every word I type, I’m hearing it in my own voice, hmm, maybe that’s why online bullying is as terrible as people say, who knows.
Maybe this will become like my diary, I’m not sure though, I haven’t used a diary in at least five years.
Well. Here goes nothing.