One Way or Another: My New Form of Self-Destruction

Simply Simon

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I’ve been stuck on this f*cking mountain for a full month. I left for one day to crush an interview and drink my body weight in assorted liquor I wasn’t paying for. I did good, though. Only had drinks bought by girls. Looked alive. Didn’t leave my or their drinks alone.

So I’ve been joking that I’m actually safer like this, because I’m stuck where I can’t reach for my death. I thought.

Turns out when given no other avenues of self-harm, I like to talk to rapists. Diagnosed psychopaths preferred.

And they all started telling me the same thing. And I don’t know what to do with it.

They don’t sense the victim in me. They sense a kindred spirit. A predator. They don’t like me because I’m a victim. They like me because they see themselves in me.

But I’m not like them. I am a victim. And I feel it.

One of them reminds me so much of one of my old stalkers I almost call him Rory. My relationship with Rory ended when he wanted to tie me to a chair and skin me alive. The last time he called me, he had gotten a gun and a car and was looking for me. He was probably back in prison when I was still looking over my shoulder. I was fifteen. He was the only actual sociopath I ever got involved with to my knowledge.

This guy is far better company than Rory. And he soothes that need to hurt myself. He’s addictive.

I don’t know what the f*ck is wrong with me.
 

Friday

Moderator
I don’t know what the f*ck is wrong with me.
Snort. Like you’ve never done thrill seeking, before? Nor wrapped yourself in the warm fuzz of the familiar.

It’s nothing wrong with you. Well, the PTSD Trauma thing, but that as met? You’re working some shit out. How much SIMPLER are these blokes -and the risk they carry- than the 30 years of Father heavyweight you’ve been pounding out? These guys are featherweights. Dangerous enough to be interesting / engaging… but they take up, what? 2% of your processing? Plus there’s the added bonuses of below.

They don’t sense the victim in me. They sense a kindred spirit. A predator. They don’t like me because I’m a victim. They like me because they see themselves in me.
It’s a safe/interesting place for both parties. There’s no work involved. Because there’s the calm space / gap between expected responses. That they’re reading you wrongly? Just goes to show how efficient a predator you would be if you decided to go hunting. That you aren’t hunting, and they aren’t hunting, is what is creating that calm space. Their MISTAKE? Is not reading you as someone who would hunt them. All they can see is through the narrow window of their own experience. They read you as a hunter, on downtime. They assume you’re like them. Their mistake. Which is a POWERFUL place to relax in. And it’s seductive as hell, not being seen as a victim, and not being seen as someone lethal to them, so don’t get cocky. It’s like people OD’ing because it feels good. Only newbies and people trying to die / DONT care if they die -as long as it feels good better better best, it’s worth the cost- make that mistake. If you’re going to go blow off some steam by by playing with predators? You can get BIT, very very easily.

So knock it the hell off, or get better at it.

If a rapist gets nervous and decides to bite? Keep in mind, you aren’t looking at getting raped. You MIGHT, as an afterthought, but that won’t be the goal since they’ve read you as a predator. Their goal will be to take you out of the game.

Rapists are scraping the bottom of the barrel on the dangerous people index. They have no respect. They won’t come to you, and warn you off, nor will they come at you directly. They’re cowards, as a species, peeling off individuals who pose no threat to them. Even power-dominance types, who enjoy a fight, or even need one to get off? Only do so from a position of strength.

What this means? If they read you as a threat, they will come at you in one of two ways; from behind, or by deception / handing you off to bigger badder predators. A common one is by serving you up as a snitch to the police to the local gang, to let them torture and kill you as an example to others.

So if you get lucky, you’re looking at a brick to the back of the head, and waking up in the ICU after having been stomped into bloody oatmeal. If you’re not lucky, you’ll get picked up by people who only see you as a symbol -of betrayal- not as a person.

Cowardly, bottom of the barrel assholes? Are some of the most dangerous predators to play with. It’s like how whitebelts f*ck up blackbelts, all the durn time. Watch your back. Or, one better, ghost up outta there, before they have a chance to get twitchy.

No need to be afraid of these assholes. They really don’t rate your fear. They’re kids/dogs on the side of the highway, just waiting to chase a ball out into it. THAT is where the problem’s start. The moment they get twitchy? Someone has kicked a ball onto the highway, and all kinds of hell breaks out. Don’t wait for that to happen, is all I’m saying.
 
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Simply Simon

Sponsor
So knock it the hell off, or get better at it.
You always know how to make a girl smile.

Snort. Like you’ve never done thrill seeking, before? Nor wrapped yourself in the warm fuzz of the familiar.
You have seen me inhabit some places. It’s just been so long since I was going to bars because I ran out of money and getting in cars with random dudes with my knife under my thigh because I want them to come at me.

I do feel better since I asked my BFF about it. She’s done this too. She is my mirror. It’s gruesome and yet comforting that every crazy thing I’ve done—she’s always been there, too.

How much SIMPLER are these blokes -and the risk they carry- than the 30 years of Father heavyweight you’ve been pounding out? These guys are featherweights. Dangerous enough to be interesting / engaging… but they take up, what? 2% of your processing?
Now this is making some sense.

And I won’t lie: I am aware I would like to rub behavior like this right in his face. The man so scared I would get a single mark on me he said no every night for ten years when I wanted to ride horses. Who hated my love of animals lest they scratch me. He even hated my f*cking bird.

Some things don’t mark our outsides. And he f*cking knew.
 
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