I’m  drinking white wine.  I’m being a bad girl.

I don’t care right now.  I’m tired of being sick, being hurt, being broken.  It’s not normal.

Sang and Sam tease me, howling their sympathies.  I want to kick them; I want to scream.  It’s not right.

I want to yell, “please stop hurting me.”  I yell this during my twitches.  I guess it isn’t just the Andys I’m trying to fight off.  Every man scares me.  Every man is pinning me down in some way.  I hate them.

Well, not Sang but certainly any man I become sexually involved with.

Fuck.  When I freewrite like this, I say things I hadn’t realized.  For instance, I didn’t meant to write, “I hate them” just now.  I meant to say—nothing.  I’m drunk off little more than three sips.  Another bad decision.  I can barely type.  I want to say I forgot I was taking meds again.  Maybe that’s true.  All I know is I’m feeling loose, and I’m happy about that.

I’m tired of always thinking about the rapes.  I’m tired of remembering.  I want it to go away.  I wake up from flashbacks with my face pressed back, turned to my right, as it was the last time it happened.  I can feel his body on mine.  I can feel his weight and his warmth.

When does the rape stop being a good excuse?  When is it just me fucking up and not a sad girl who’s just trying to do a little more than just survive?  As I become increasingly frustrated with a friend, a fellow victim, who just won’t stop making excuses for herself, I wonder if I have a right to get frustrated.  Or am I just like her?  What am I doing to make sure I’m not standing still?

Okay, I’m writing.  I’m talking about it.  I’m dealing with it.

But am I dealing with it effectively?  Or is the writing just another distraction?

I know it’s not, but I have to check.  I have to ask.  I can never trust any of my own  thoughts.

I’m turning circles.  This post hardly seems worth publishing.  Nothing seems worth publishing.  I feel like I’m just saying the same old thing.  I’m tired of my own voice.  I hate—myself.

But I guess that’s trauma.