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Rising, Healing

I keep getting "new" memories. They're not exactly new, just looooooooong buried. The other night it was about a lock-in. A friend was in town for a regional youth gathering at church, and I really wanted to go. I had been sick, and it was pushing it since I was barely feeling better (if at all, I often just powered through illness out of necessity). My father was furious I'd think about exposing other children who may have grandparents to an illness. I went, didn't sleep (typical high school lock-in), and was punished by being kept up all the next day to do an endless list of chores. The idea was if I was well enough to go, I was well enough to be working.
 
I actually had a dream....
One where I pushed boundaries and was close to/cuddled with other men for some business purpose, never had sex with them & always before they would kiss me admitted I have a boyfriend. It felt terrible, like I was already cheating on him (which I'm not, nor do I wish to).

Then there were two former classmates from music school (university/college). They were pretty nice people in real life. But they just dug into me about why I'm not getting more done. That just accomplishing a full-time job to musicians & music teachers is no great feat. That on top of that, I'd better be working out, practicing consistently, and opening my new business.

Ouch. Harsh truth. But perhaps there's some validity. I can push myself harder to be more productive.
 
Sex.

I never really thought about connections between sex and my childhood, but my therapist has pointed out that it was never presented as anything warm and fuzzy, caring, or attached to emotions.

My father told stories... All about how to "melt the elastic off panties" with different drinks, dating ideas, how to manipulate and objectify women, stories of his own escapades. His presentations were fully scientific or horribly sexist. Even about the "best moaner ever" a friend of his was sleeping with in college, or how he rescued a girl from a violent friend's bed, since he always woke up swinging.

My mother... Was probably just sexually frustrated by the time I came along. She enjoyed laying around naked, and never wanted anyone upset about it. But after a certain age, seeing my mother's bush was not exactly something I cared to do. She would try to nibble on my earlobes, because my sister had liked it when she was little. I always thought it was weird, and wanted her to get away. Or she'd want to leave hickies on my wrist, because she LOOOOOOVED giving a good hickie, and my father would never let her (to be honest, once you have the start of a career, I agree). I almost hit her in the face trying to stop her.

By high school, my mother would complain to me about her sexual frustrations, how my father's health problems made sex difficult, and how he was "so f*cking sensitive about it" when she complained. Then it was about regrets in marrying my horrible father, how another man asked her to run away with him & she should've gone... How she tried to give my father a lap dance & he started telling her she was doing it wrong.

Then it was complaints about my father's small penis, his weight, his yeast infections. And when they did have sex, there was no attempt to veil it. They simply put a deadbolt on their door when we were kids so no one could interrupt.
 
I'm alone for now. Lonely. I'm facing a long-faced crossroads where I face or avoid my life, problems, feelings, thoughts. I want to hide again. To smoke, drink, f*ck, play, party & sleep for a week. To become the living stage persona. To be a different me who's confident, unharmable. And I know for once.......... I have to go the other way. I want a cigarette so bad. So bad.
 
I have a PTSD app... and just took the assessment (it prompts me to do so once a month, this was my 2nd). It's worse. I should have realized that before. The last month has been the most difficult in a long time as I dig everything up. But I'm really, really hoping it gets better soon.
 
One small burst of energy. I am DETERMINED to hold onto it. I need to organize and clean my apartment, I know that if I can make it a beautiful haven space that I will be happier and healthier.

My dissociation has been TERRIBLE lately. I don't think this is some sudden turning point (though I wish it were). But I do hope it's the start of progress.

(later): And the start of progress! I will soon once again have a functional office :-) Just in time, since my boyfriend is giving me his "old" computer (as a video game guy, he just built a top-of-the-line machine, and I get his very nice previous one). It also pushed me to set the keyboard back up, and will hopefully inspire future continued aims to keep writing/practicing more often.


(even later): I realize I did not need to burn the pile of paperwork/receipts/notes/etc after sorting my desk. But it felt really good to do so, and I honestly enjoyed seeing the clutter turned to ash. Apparently, starting at a different spot in my apartment really is helping. When cleaning, I generally start (out of necessity) with the kitchen. Tackling the common areas is giving me a much bigger sense of order and peace. :-)
 
I sent an e-mail to the tattoo artist whose work I liked best in Town. Fingers crossed. I really am ready for my phoenix. Some... Promise to myself, that I will keep getting up. We'll see how she responds. I'm hoping she can understand my vision, since I can't find a picture like what I want anywhere.
 
I can be quite callous. 22 years playing violin... I've heard many times how I made people cry, it becomes mundane. But tonight I walked over to thank a man and woman for paying for shots the band ordered (100th residency show), and the girl'a eyes went wide, she flung her arms around my neck and told me how much my playing made her feel... And to never stop playing because as a musician/writer/performer, she has a similar numbness.
 
The restlessness, exhaustion, and inability to sleep is back, along with the bizarre and unpleasant dreams. Hooray. Fun times. Hello, coffee. I know I must be looking tired when the bf is telling me to get some sleep, since it's usually the other way around. I suppose I'll try to listen.
 
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All day... Rage & panic. No idea why. Still teaching, trying to control. So scared. So quick tempered. So... Something. Shaking.
 
Good news is while my day just started, I'm feeling tired but overall much better. The only 2 things I can think of are the book on tape in my car (which I enjoyed), or that it may be the anniversary of being told by the police that in their eyes, "there wasn't a definite enough no in [my] story, so what happened was probably regrettable , but none the less consensual." I didn't fight back. So the police in my little hometown decided I must've wanted it. Of course! Because consensual sex always gives me panic attacks, flashbacks, anxiety, pain.

I found some odd comfort when my sister, who was living in Texas, mentioned it to a police friend there and he was pissed. He didn't understand how the police could see it that way, either. She called me back to tell me how he'd seen it, "did she say no? Then it's not consensual!"

How much of a no is a definite enough no? I've never known the answer to that question. I knew even then that my case wouldn't be prosecutable. It was 2.5 years later. It was my word against his with no evidence. That was fine. But to tell me that because I didn't fight back more that I had consented is bs.

I don't think I've put the pieces together about a strained friendship since, either. I finally went to the police because I found out something similar happened to her with the same guy. When the police called her, she denied everything & was angry with me for bringing her into it. I understand her point of view. But then the police were aggressive with another girl I knw was underrated & had known intimate details of the guy. Because they pulled her out of class & started with "we have a report that this man raped you (not what I told them), she denied knowing anything. Turns out? That night she showed up at an event touting that the police were stupid & that while she'd never been involved with him, she knew a number of other underage girls who had.
 
haha! Go me! f*ck yes! So.... this morning I had the idea that, being the anniversary of the police department calling to tell me that my sexual assault had been "regrettable, but nonetheless consensual" because there wasn't "a definitive enough no" in my story, I should write to them. I created an anonymous e-mail account, drafted a well-written letter... and and I feel fabulous. I sent it. I did it. I finally told them many years later how wrong they were, how much longer it took me to heal since even the police didn't believe me, and how with being more mindful of their words, I hope they will treat future victims more kindly, even if there's not anything they can do to help. f*ck yes. Good day. Weird Day. Happy Friday.
 
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