honeydew: skankier than it smells

well, this is relevant.

so it belongs here, not at hearingpeoplesuck.

i'm freaking out big time. the problem is that i keep wishing i had my mom to talk to, a mom who would support me. i just asked for a couple of thousand dollars and a co-signed lease; i said i was tired of pretending i'm okay because she likes to shame me, that i'm tired of letting her tell me i'm no good for the money dad left me and the money i threw away in gobs and wads to keep from having her determination that i deserved the incest all over me, because i had goals and they were good, but everyone said each individual idea of what had to go and what should stay was the only correct one, that everyone including me had it all wrong if i didn't do it x way or z way or mv way. 

so it all made me panic and feel worthless, then i figured out how to stick to my groove, how to turn off the rapists' voices and all the friends's voices saying, " if you don't do what i, as opposed to 50 other people and yourself, say, you are lying about being raped and all you do is worthless."  i have tons and tons of work and ideas done, and i was creative without wanting to be. i was terrified of being stupid or silly, and sometimes i only made stupid stuff because i was too scared and suicidal to think i could do better, but as long as i made junky earrings i wasn't completely divorced from myself.

right?

so i've had three men and one woman try to kill me for saying no to sex.

and i don't want to live because that means writing this, and this means greg will hate me forever too.

but greg is there and i'm still in my body, and i don't want to let that scare me anymore. i will never forget how horrible floyd's disgust feels. i made two small mistakes and one huge fucking blitz of an error in one night, and i realized exactly what went wrong when he mentioned it, but

i just feel giggly stupid and "how naive i was!" and suicidal. i didn't fuck up.

and i never, never, never went back unless i had been trying to kill myself for a few days and was really in need of a friendly face to help me deal with a few months of sexual harassment all over the city. then, right, it was mostly greg. and i love greg.

so serene. it was zen. just so gentle and so nothing, no friendship, nothing but wondering and wonderment about each other, gazing at each other and trying to see what we could never cast into another's person.

it was healing in a different way, and it sapped him none. he literally made it crystal clear that i could sit there anytime he was there. this was the man who glowered at me and tried to force me to leave just by flaring his nostrils at me like i was the devil in a sweet shoppe. i don't think there's any reason for me not to love greg for his acts and hope that he's a lovely person and gets wonderful things in life.

so...all this is happening at once: stuff i can't share without going on for ten pages, and my BVR counselor just isn't letting me be a rape survivor, one who thinks she has finally found a bottom to her hell, one who realizes that her looks make dozens of men look at her, me, like no one would miss me if i were raped and killed to silence me.

but i'm cool, funny, smart, a great cook, an amazing friend, want to adopt two wonderful little boys who would never have to worry about being hit or abused, a writer, a real writer, not a shitty one, i love myself--and i don't want to die

except

i can't get any money from my mom, who says my life is about swindling people out of money, that i lie about everything because i learned it gets me money

but i have tried to kill myself so many times to protect my abusers, my parents included...and many, many times...to keep floyd from ever reading any of this...not asked for help, tried to help everyone else because apparently i just keep causing trouble and am just good for being mocked, right?...so it doesn't make sense. suddenly i'm being treated like someone who just wants to milk my family dry when i'm only trying to stop letting everyone who says it feels amazing to watch me fail because they're so intimidated by my intelligence that it feels great to have more than i do...WIN.

i want a car because i'm in danger. i won't tell anybody who seems like the biggest threat but i am constantly in danger at night of being abducted, and of being raped, and since i'm treated like a menace for being white in my neighborhoods, i would like a car, just to know i won't be falling down on ice and snow and being dragged away.

it's happened 3 times that men have tried to make me get into their cars, and once that my therapist said i had to go on a date with a man who scared me and abducted me that way.

that's why i love greg so much. i got over the abduction and didn't really like going anywhere for a while, so i'd go sit there even when he clearly wasn't there any longer either, except maybe on call, and the calm at that bar didn't affect the brusque redhead gawker attitudes from the new kids. i knew exactly who i was.

so. i just tried to make myself die a lot; when i told ty that i was done with that and that he was done feeding my panic attacks and gorging me so that i fell apart and he got to play therapist every single fucking day...he said...because i wasn't pretty and didn't deserve a good job, money, or anything, because only beautiful people do...i would never be anything but completely deserted and destroyed. that i was only raped because i'm too weak to fight off my rapists, and that that was such a failing i was too pathetic to be respected or allowed anything nice.

he knew, i cried out, that i had been BEATEN and HELD DOWN by my rapists. that i tried to make them stop, that i just couldn't keep running in dorm hallways at night, that it just took a toll on me having guys wait until i was out of high school so they could have their turn.

i never had sex, not properly, not sex without rape or beatings, or at the very least truly violent statements about how ugly my face was, that i would never find a man who wanted me to have his children because of it. my body they literally mooned over, babbled about, once they got me naked. but sometimes after orgasm--i'd find out so much more than i ever wanted to understand--

i've tried to get rapists to kill me. i've tried to be silent so you don't think me insolent, you two. i've tried so hard to stop existing, but i miss writing and drawing, and i miss being fun--

not until 2010. i mean, thank you for that, for giving me the courage to do what every deaf friend of mine who has ever said to me, who has mentioned my looks in a derogatory way, which is: "you can only date ugly men," have actually threatened and hit and pinched and slapped me over, even men who get jealous of my relationships with other men, would not want: i trusted in my worth and uniqueness and zaniness enough to only focus on men who are physically gods and mental giants, men who are so secure in themselves that they want more than looks in a woman, in a sexual partner, and actually base looks on character...and brains and confidence...and do not respond with violence to miscommunication, anger, or mirth. even happiness was a problem for a lot of the guys i did not choose.

so all i'm thinking is...i want to live, and i want to give back to the communities i've had a lot of time to understand or realize are neglected by society and urban planning. that's all. so i'm not sure why BVR refuses to allow me to own my diagnosis of PTSD due to sexual, emotional and physical violence--it really shocked me to the core when i realized that men out there have no problem trying to kill me, and it makes me more determined to work with survivors as well as immigrants as a lawyer--i was told i couldn't handle law school and that i wouldn't be considered if i wanted a career in law due to my PTSD diagnosis and now it's apparently a deterrent to being a nurse--so now i am just freaking out because i don't get why my BVR counselor is telling me that because i was raped i'm no longer me, no longer a productive member of society.

i never knew until 2009 what men wanted to do to me. i thought it was just a bad mix of high school kids who heard rumors about who i wasn't, that the real world would be much kinder.

why do men relish raping me? i don't talk about the things they say. i don't talk about the ones who laugh, the ones who imitate my crying and insistence that they stop because it hurts. i don't talk about the ones who tell me i'm ugly during the act, just before or after.

why is it not allowed for me to feel devastated that i'm targeted by men who want to make me feel bad about myself for my looks? sometimes i'd show up and the guy would get up to leave, saying, "i just came to tell you that you should never date anyone. you're repulsive, you're dog ugly, so please stop trying to act like you're worth dating."

i don't know how to stop hurting over that except to become the person i wanted to be: self-reliant, self-assured, an amazing editor, a writer, an educator, an artist. ever since first grade.

so maybe i deserve that car. maybe i deserve to live somewhere safe. one or the other, or both. if i want to stop living in a state of panic why wouldn't the person who gave birth to me understand that i would pay her back within a year or two?

is it because i'm "the most boring person [she's] ever met"? i was seven then; my parents were married and she said that at the dinner table because she wanted me to shut up. because i'm "so ugly no man would ever marry" me? i was twelve then and she pulled over to laugh at me for my bell's palsy on the way home from the hospital when she finally saw it for herself. she said that i already wouldn't have had an easy time finding a husband and that that ensured that i wouldn't ever get one, not with my face melting. she mocked me, too, pushing half her face down and mooing. my mom doesn't actually see me as human or worth anything. who knew?

so i'm going through something huge right now. and this is really scaring me. what do i do to stop feeling crushed? i just want to be successful, but some people really think i don't have the face to be an artist. since when do artists and writers have faces to the general public?