mine.
mine is...it's the one thing i can't understand.
unless it's got to do with mosi being the very first man i had a relationship with
that was pretty fucking awesome, frank, open
and the four-letter word (i can tell because he wrote me an apology note i still have at home, and because he said it was a burden i was permitted to be honest about. i just didn't realize it would
bleed
this copiously
nine years
and mosi's moss's dust, he's really quite ridiculous, acting like rape is only allowed to hurt if the man doesn't romance you for three months afterward--and i was out of love like that, our last IM conversation clincher of clinchers:
he's a fucking slimeball, and i was right to move, move, run, leave for the lights of the coast
and i won't let a slimeball last
and that's what ty said was bad about me, that i had to actually talk to slimeballs
that it's my fault slimeballs talk to me at all
that being ugly determines my status in life as poor, homeless, invisible nobody
that my intelligence means nothing because my face vanquishes any brain cell i've got
his face too frightening for me to see what he really meant: this is the truth
this is your self-fulfilling prophecy and because you won't let me beat that into your head every day for five years now, and you dare leave me when i am the person who fixes you because i am the person who can heal, and you are the example of my success i cannot make this up, the only words of this that aren't verbatim are 'and because you won't let me beat that into your head every day for five years now'
oh, i laughed; i thought i was enough to have that licked
there's no way, jeez, you are not even doing this right--i'm the one who gets to do me, and if i write a novel over a year on my own, then that's how long it takes. if it's eight years, that's how long it takes. you don't get to tell me anymore how jealous you are of my spontaneity, my cleverness, my writing, my writing...my writing, telling me it's me who should be famous because of my fucking awesomeness and my writing...
and scream at me online for hours every other day
it's not enough!
it's not ENOUGH!
that's not enough!
more! more! more!
it's not enough! that's only two pages!
MORE!
knowing i'm on the other end screaming and blubbering and cutting my arms because (but not knowing it's the face, the one i remember on you, bunny, at gallaudet, the one when we met and you were so angry that people wanted you to date an ugly fuck like me...then telling me about how the woman who looks almost exactly like me was easy to use for sex years later, trying to dissuade me from an attraction you always get so angry about that doesn't exist. as soon as i saw you i felt exactly the same way. no fucking way am i going to date someone who is clearly a manipulative wave of charisma and judges me instantly because he hates my face?
i got jon b., you idiot, a fucking hot piece of ass...because...when we saw each other...the spark was clearly deeper than one brain together. you--you do not look into people. floyd looked into me and saw
not my rapes, not you constantly reminding me how ugly and disgusting i am, telling me i'm "eww" and "gross" and "some guys like soft girls."
all of you, trying to tell me i was never thin, that i was never normal, bunny--and you were the worst! chanda was the one who was fawning all over me, the resident butch bisexual, cooing about how i'm actually beautiful and that i can never go back to glasses--god, i'm glad i realized i have always had cha on my side, and that no one can tell me what we had didn't exist, the secret society of brainiacs, sneaking off for two hours to delight in not having to dumb down a fucking word for anybody. but i don't think it's anyone's fault, just something we needed. maybe that's where i've been getting my airs)
but
all my life
all my life...people have called me ugly
so what's his deal?
this:
ty's a slimeball. oh, he told me he would make sure i never got better. but i said he really was. because nobody who isn't a slime ball threatens you like that.
so. what if
because i was with mosi i was able to see that accepting the bad about my abusers didn't make my life worse, only better, right, this is fact--
therefore the equal and opposite reaction is my natural tendency so i don't feel too "smug"--
people say i like to lord fake rape over everyone, that it's a brandishing sword i love to say is mine
but i don't. i want it gone, and it was gone, but it came back--
so something didn't quite heal, and maybe--
it's partly because i actually ran to new york to keep anyone from knowing i had been boxing up my possessions and writing suicide letters to everyone
since the first nice truly sexual connection i had ever had was marred by rape
and he's the one i started writing terrified long e-mails to. i never wrote e-mails that didn't need to be sent
but everyone who scares me the way mosi scared me gets terrified e-mails because i am so terrified of being raped by that person, and right now it's my BVR counselor
and my intro to shakespeare professor one day because the flashbacks just were not stopping since my BVR counselor's last e-mail, and i told the professor in the end that i supposed i would just cut my losses and move on with thursday's assignment, and that was the end of that
so if i know there are important things that require that i stem that flow
right
i think i've traced it right to the source
right
and maybe...it's...that's the only rape that still fucks me up, the others really don't, right, the others are made peaceable by my understanding of life
but since that was the pivot of my pivotal change into a radical anti-rape ugly-ass motherfucker who can get shot to death, in other people's view...
...and i have come to really like this me, but i have never, ever, ever stopped wanting to put mosi in jail
and i ran and ran and ran
and i would love to see the bastard in jail
because he is a serial rapist and gender and age indiscriminate
he boasts about rape
so i'm not sure i've got much time left
and i'm just pushing it all out so i know i'm me by the time i run out of time
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