MOOP!

Trigger Warning: non-graphic post about my abuser (emotional, sexual)

Valentines day was one of the first times I can ever remember being at their house. They had presents for me¹ and we hung out some and...

...and.

Second base at least, tender and sweet and exciting at how new. But still so scary and still so shy because exciting is not always enough to overwhelm the sense that this is not who I am meant to be. And I was not old enough to have the vocabulary to say "no".

The holiday's not something I've paid much attention to in the last few years, no one I date really celebrates it so nor do I. And mostly I can get through it okay. Unless my brain makes that damnable connection and remembers that there was a year I celebrated it.

...honesty, Sor. *Until* my brain makes that damnable connection.

I hate this holiday for a completely different reason from the rest of you. And now I have to shove away my memories and put down my dearest Emily, and eat something quick-quick lest I faint and rush off to work, to teach. The world is never so unfair as when it refuses to stop for my pain.

Me.
MOOP!

1: Those are gone now. The only thing I still own from them is the notes. Because never before had someone courted me in words, and never since. Little notes to say "I love you", left on my keyboard or snuck into my pockets, every day it seemed. I cry when I look upon them, but there is no part of this writer's soul that could destroy them. And I don't want you to try either.

Trigger Warning: non-graphic post about my abuser (emotional, sexual)

So let's talk about it a little bit. Ain't gonna leave an elephant that big lying around without giving some explanation. I'm cryptic, not cruel.

Trigger warning, sexual and emotional abuse.

And...that's what it is, really. I consider myself to have been abused. The partner in question is kinda damaged, much more than I am. I don't think they consider themself to be an abuser, and that's fair, I guess. But I look back at what was going on, and my skin crawls, because I have so fucking few happy memories from that relationship, and that's not good.

I call the sex stuff rape, but I don't always believe it was "that bad". They never actually had intercourse with me, for instance, despite how badly they wanted to. And, you know...rape is bad. I don't want to be "that girl who was raped". So instead I'm just "that girl whose partner went too far and didn't really listen when she asked them to step back." Which isn't exactly better.

There are things that still make me nervous sexually, long after, because they happen and I Remember. But I'm working on it --no one but me gets to decide what I can enjoy-- and my current partners are both supportive and helpful. (Sparr especially seems to find it a challenge to...not fix me, I'm not _broken_... but help me scar over the damaged parts. I'm grateful for this.)

The emotional stuff was probably worse, but I don't talk about it as much --partly because it's a lot more insidious, and makes me look a lot more pathetic. There were some pretty thorough incompatibilities in our relationship, and they caused my partner to lash out at me, due to insecurity. I wound up having to give them a lot more support than I was ready for or able to.

I don't have very good journaling for a lot of the relationship, so I wonder sometimes if I'm just being crazy, and exaggerating what happened. But then I look over old chatlogs, and find the one where they're yelling at me for spending more time talking to Veronica than them, or the one where they decide to blackmail me, and I'm...reassured, unfortunately. That's not everything they did, or even the worst of it, but it's enough to know that I was absolutely the more sane partner in the relationship (and that simply should not happen with me.)

I've been writing heavily filtered posts about it for a while now --if you want to be on that filter and go read them, feel free to contact me and ask, though I absolutely reserve the right to not let you on and never explain why. Mostly, I've been working on just trying to figure shit out, and learn how to heal. That's a big part of why I went back to therapy a year ago, to try talking to someone for a while. It did help, I think. The other thing that's helped a lot is learning more about rape culture and activism and coming to terms with the fact that there are some shitty toxic narratives that get forced into our throats from day one. I've been doing what little I can to avoid those, when I can.

There's been a lot of waffling about whether or not I was ever going to make a post like this. It's...not a secret that I was raped, abused, whatever word you want to use. Indeed, it's kindof become a thing I make sure new friends know about me, in part because this happens _all the time_. It's horrifying, and I don't want anyone I know to be able to say "I don't know anyone who's been raped" because I expect I am not the only friend you have who has. Closets have always made me grit my teeth, in part because I am charismatic and popular and I want to prove to the world that you can be a functional human being and still be [gay/poly/kinky/queer/survivor/etc]

I don't want anything bad to happen to that partner. We've split, and it's cool, they're out of my life now. They weren't intentionally abusing me, they just...had a shitty life, and it hadn't taught them how to deal with people in a functional manner. I have sympathy for that. Which is all a fancy way of saying, if you know or have suspicions, don't. Don't out them, don't accuse them, just don't. Part of my reluctance to talk about this is that I don't want to drag their name through the mud (which is why there are as few personal details as I can write) and I don't want to fuck up their life any farther --I just want to be completely out of it.

At any rate, a lot of the nerve to actually make this post --which I wanted to make for LAST Coming Out Day, but couldn't find the nerve to speak up-- is due to a recent post by Holly Pervocracy, Survivor. There've been a ton of essays and blog entries that have made it seem a little easier, made it seem like I was less alone. But that one hit me like a ton of bricks, especially the intro. I don't want to say I was raped, it seems so fucking *dramatic*. But it's true. Sometimes dramatic things happen to non-dramatic people.

Anyway, I won't say I'm fixed, but I will say I'm a hell of a lot better then I was. I have written literally thousands of words on this, private and public, since before the relationship ended even. Writing...helps is such an insufficient word. And being loved by people who aren't assholes helps, and knowing people who are from the "yes means yes" school of consent theory helps, and let's face it, time helps. It still hurts, but every year it hurts me a little bit less. Someday maybe it won't hurt at all.

Happy Coming Out Day. Sorry it's such a downer this year.

~just Kat, this time
MOOP!

Trigger warnings go both ways, abuse: sexual and emotional.