I bet he’s happy.  I bet he has a girlfriend he rapes and manipulates, who has to suck the putrid folds of his foreskin until he comes in her mouth and on her face.  His large dick gags her.  I bet he loves that.

I bet she’s a small girl, a brunette with a cute face—perhaps a Peruana or some other Latina with a native look.  The other ex-girlfriends, the ones that have approached me with their own stories about him, fit this description.  I suppose I do, too.

He isn’t even attractive.  He’s actually really pitiful looking.  He never stood up straight, so his shoulders were constantly raised near his ears and rolled in, as if he was trying to take up the least amount of space possible.  He had the most unassuming pose I’ve ever seen a man take.

Thinking of this is making me anxious, but I’m not having a panic attack.  Sadly, that’s an improvement.  The drugs are still working.  They don’t quite solve any of my problems, but they seem to be making room in my mind for the thoughts that want to come out, that need to.  My mind always freezes into a panic attack at the mere suggestion of a situation where a man used his will against a woman, but that’s becoming less and less true.  My body still gets cold and my muscles still tense, but it’s not the shaking, shivering, choking spasms of a relentless panic attack.  I still bounce my knee for hours with few breaks, but at least I can keep my focus on my work now.

I despise the standard of living I aspire toward.  I don’t feel human.  I don’t feel, for fuck’s sake!  Goddam it!  I want to scream at the top of my lungs, I’m so angry.  This shouldn’t be happening to me or to anyone.  This isn’t what life should be like.  This is hell.  How can anyone in this fucking country, where you can think and say almost anything without penalty, stand the silence being imposed on victims?  How can our social system be so blatantly, cruelly patriarchal?  I feel like I’m being ripped from the inside, like my mind is dissecting itself with rusty tools.

If I tell anyone my thoughts, they’ll look at me like I’m crazy.

Then, it won’t matter whether I’m crazy or not.  Everyone will think I am.  As a result, my depression will deepen.  I’ll kill myself—like Sylvia Plath.  Unlike her, my writing will disappear along with me.  Ashes to ashes.

Nothing will feel good until—

Until I’m done remembering and telling.  I need to break the silence.  I need to say it all out loud for people to hear.  It just feels right.  This site has been instrumental to my healing.  It makes me feel safe with the possibility that I may never stop remembering, never stop writing: that’s a comfort.

My mind continues to whisper:

I can’t imagine what happens when you’ve told your entire story.  That’s a kind of death, isn’t it—a paralysis of the plot?

I wonder what other things may die in me.

Oh, jeez!  Ignore me, please.  I’m such a drama queen.  Don’t listen to me.

No.  That’s really self-deprecating.

But true.

Fuck.  My mind is talking too fast.  One symptom disappears, so my mind immediately conceives a new one to take its place.  What a clever fortune teller I have!

Related posts:

1. Trying Too Hard
2. Indulgence Is For Survivors
3. Freewriting Panic Attack: Holding Myself Up Normal
4. A Little Less Afraid Now
5. Freewriting Panic Attack: Waking Nightmares