I think it’s more valuable to write about how I see the world because of what’s happened to me. In writing a rape survivor’s narrative, I forgot to give a rape survivor’s perspective. I forgot myself.
Archive for the Category »writing «
Category: Andy Humanstein, Butterfly, Clara, Sam, The War with Ourselves, adulthood, childhood, clonazepam, depression, downswing, drawing, elsewhere, freewriting, medication, neuroses, panic attacks, parents, rape, relationships, sexuality, the system, thinking, trauma, uncategorized, upswing, victimization of a population, writing, xswing
2 Comments
I’m sitting opposite myself, wondering when I’ll be okay. I’m thinking never at this rate, but who the fuck even cares anymore? Isn’t it always the same? Aren’t I always dissatisfied? Aren’t I always fucked up? I don’t even care anymore; how am I supposed to hope or believe that other people do?
I don’t even care, and that pisses me off.
But I don’t know what to do with my anger. I don’t know what to say about it or even why it’s happening.
I can’t hear myself in my own head anymore. My writing voice is gone. I’m searching my old journals for it, but I’m blocked. I’m mute. I am mute. How do I begin to say anything? How do I begin to channel a voice I can no longer remember?
I can’t accept it. That’s a more precise phrasing. My voice is in here with me, but I’m judging it so harshly…
I’m afraid I don’t know what to say. I want to scream at the top of my lungs until I collapse unconscious. I want lively experiences I’ll never have, living the way I’ve been since graduation.
So, what needs to change now?! What do I need to do to be happy? Because college wasn’t it.
Category: writing
One Comment
My thoughts don’t feel worthy enough to write down. The self disgust is literally choking me. I’m nauseous and gasping for air. My fingertips are cold-blooded–my toes, the room. I want to meaninglessly fuck someone–anyone–to punish myself. I want to relive my fracturing. I want to enjoy it this time. I want to be in control. Maybe the cuming won’t feel like such a dirty secret pleasure this time.
It wasn’t even an issue until Andy from the dorms– I dream of taking a bat to his legs, shattering his hip when he’s down, thereby crippling him for life. But that wouldn’t make me feel better. Only when I know he’s dead, incapable of hurting another person again, will I feel better. Only when everyone stops cautiously whispering about mental illness and sexual assault will I feel better.
Another reason to lash myself: I haven’t yet yelled above a whisper. I need to practice screaming for a while.
Tomorrow.
Category: Andy Humanstein, The War with Ourselves, depression, elsewhere, freewriting, rape, sexuality, the system, trauma, writing, xswing
4 Comments
Recent Comments