It's been four years since I have slept. I mean, really slept, with dreams, -- and without heavyy-duty sedatives that make me forget everything including what real sleep feels like.
It was four years ago on Friday, Oct 2nd that an ex-boyfriend, who I was still trying to help get back on his feet, attacked me. It's funny, I was so used to being forced to have sex-- by him and previous men (and I do mean forced: being choked, pinned down hard enough to end up with bruises, etc.), I'm not really sure I can call anything rape. It's like that word is only for women who don't know their attacker(s) or get really badly beaten or something. Just being choked out (to blackout) -- It doesn't seem bad enough to call it rape.
Although I know it was somehow different b/c I had NEVER hit, clawed, screamed (that was seriously surreal--"whoa--who's screaming? Holy s**t--that came out of me?!!) or bitten someone in self-defense during sex. I left some scars for sure--I saw photos later (by accident) of his face and his, uh, well, penis. I fought hard actually, but I didn't have it in me to bite it off when he tried to force it in my mouth. The whole Bobbitt thing--it always made me sick to think of that--weird, really, since he really was intent (and still is intent) on killing me.
We fought for awhile, but I just couldn't slip the chokehold. (I feel embarrassed that I lost the fight, that I didn't get away, that when he first grabbed me by the throat, that I just froze--even though I weigh only 110.)
And I did finally stop fighting--he was kneeling on my chest threatening to smash my teeth in and cut me up. I admit it: I stopped fighting. What's one more sexual assault, after all--certainly not worth losing my teeth (I have very nice teeth, BTW.) I was more afraid of being mutilated than being raped (again.)
I mean, he wasn't the first, just the worst. Or maybe being molested from age 4 to age 9 -- I don't really know. But I think the whole killing me thing, that's the part that turned my head around -- a full 180, you know?
When he told me I had to die today--and all because he wanted to take my car and whatever I had in the bank and go to mexico. My choices (spelled out between the nearly constant repetitive choke-to-black-then let-me-breathe-and-choke-me-out again (I'm actually smiling as I write this--that's probably under the "inappropriate affect" category) -- my choices were:
1. get high and he would smother me (I said no, mostly because I didn't want my family to think I'd OD on drugs)
2. cut me into little pieces
The worst part, strangely enough, was being hog-tied and gagged. I was afraid I was going to inhale and choke on the clothing he'd practically stuffed down my throat.
Sorry, actually, I suppose this all falls into the "too much information" lack-of-boundaries area. What I really want to know is am I ever going to stop being afraid of people? (Don't bother saying it will get better. I won't believe you anyway. I'm nowhere near that milestone.)
My last date was in 2002. (And yes, it was with him, before he turned into a monster.) I want so badly to be close to someone--no, ok, I want to be able to have a relationship with a man again, but I can't even imagine going on a date. I don't feel safe sitting on my fronch porch. I wonder how people can leave themselves out in the open, with no weapons at hand, with no clear escape route. I look at others' front patios and porches, their chairs set out on the lawn, with no fences, no barriers, and I think "That's insane. Anyone could just walk up and kill them."
Needless to say, I didn't used to think like that. Then again, used to be able to sleep, too.
It was four years ago on Friday, Oct 2nd that an ex-boyfriend, who I was still trying to help get back on his feet, attacked me. It's funny, I was so used to being forced to have sex-- by him and previous men (and I do mean forced: being choked, pinned down hard enough to end up with bruises, etc.), I'm not really sure I can call anything rape. It's like that word is only for women who don't know their attacker(s) or get really badly beaten or something. Just being choked out (to blackout) -- It doesn't seem bad enough to call it rape.
Although I know it was somehow different b/c I had NEVER hit, clawed, screamed (that was seriously surreal--"whoa--who's screaming? Holy s**t--that came out of me?!!) or bitten someone in self-defense during sex. I left some scars for sure--I saw photos later (by accident) of his face and his, uh, well, penis. I fought hard actually, but I didn't have it in me to bite it off when he tried to force it in my mouth. The whole Bobbitt thing--it always made me sick to think of that--weird, really, since he really was intent (and still is intent) on killing me.
We fought for awhile, but I just couldn't slip the chokehold. (I feel embarrassed that I lost the fight, that I didn't get away, that when he first grabbed me by the throat, that I just froze--even though I weigh only 110.)
And I did finally stop fighting--he was kneeling on my chest threatening to smash my teeth in and cut me up. I admit it: I stopped fighting. What's one more sexual assault, after all--certainly not worth losing my teeth (I have very nice teeth, BTW.) I was more afraid of being mutilated than being raped (again.)
I mean, he wasn't the first, just the worst. Or maybe being molested from age 4 to age 9 -- I don't really know. But I think the whole killing me thing, that's the part that turned my head around -- a full 180, you know?
When he told me I had to die today--and all because he wanted to take my car and whatever I had in the bank and go to mexico. My choices (spelled out between the nearly constant repetitive choke-to-black-then let-me-breathe-and-choke-me-out again (I'm actually smiling as I write this--that's probably under the "inappropriate affect" category) -- my choices were:
1. get high and he would smother me (I said no, mostly because I didn't want my family to think I'd OD on drugs)
2. cut me into little pieces
The worst part, strangely enough, was being hog-tied and gagged. I was afraid I was going to inhale and choke on the clothing he'd practically stuffed down my throat.
Sorry, actually, I suppose this all falls into the "too much information" lack-of-boundaries area. What I really want to know is am I ever going to stop being afraid of people? (Don't bother saying it will get better. I won't believe you anyway. I'm nowhere near that milestone.)
My last date was in 2002. (And yes, it was with him, before he turned into a monster.) I want so badly to be close to someone--no, ok, I want to be able to have a relationship with a man again, but I can't even imagine going on a date. I don't feel safe sitting on my fronch porch. I wonder how people can leave themselves out in the open, with no weapons at hand, with no clear escape route. I look at others' front patios and porches, their chairs set out on the lawn, with no fences, no barriers, and I think "That's insane. Anyone could just walk up and kill them."
Needless to say, I didn't used to think like that. Then again, used to be able to sleep, too.
