Spiralling?

So, the ‘important’ days I’ve got through, with no more suicidal ideation.  But my mood remains lower than base.  Far lower than normal.  All I want to do is sleep and avoid everyone.

I felt so paranoid and such a sense of impending doom that I asked my ex husband if I could borrow a golf club.  I used to have one under the bed in times of panic.  I’ve not required anything like that, and my fear with a knife, is that in a moment of terrible gloom, I might self harm.  So now I have this golf club under my bed.  In my head I have considered all the different places for it, and when I might use it and how I might go about prioritising my phone over the club!  It probably all sounds crazy, but I want to be prepared for all possibilities.  And this time of year there are spontaneous criminals looking for some easy money.  ultimately I don’t feel safe.  I feel vulnerable, which I consider a weakness.  But it’s also this feeling of a dragging anchor, keeping me from reaching air.

Because S took the older girls to see a movie today, I’ve promised my youngest two a movie tomorrow, I even booked the tickets to stop myself from cancelling on them.  I’m not looking forward to it at all, but I’ve decided that after the movie, I will drop them back with S and then spend some time alone.  I’ve had the kids a lot or been up at the house, and I’m feeling really overwhelmed.  I thought S might interject today and help when I left, so that the kids wouldn’t beg to stay at mine again.  I feel powerless to their asking.  He’s more interested in his computer games.  I could feel my tension rising.  He’s made dinner a couple of times (nice dinner) and taken the kids out.  Now its like he’s done his bit and he’s switched off. I’m not having that, when he’s back to work, I have all the kids for the duration of their school summer holidays and without getting my mojo back ,it will be a struggle.  I need some support.  Not least because the depression is wrapping itself tightly around me.

I need to keep going, but everything feels so hard.  I can’t really think straight.  I’m finding myself easily confused and forgetful.  Even reading – my wonderful form of escapism is getting harder.  I feel like my brain is giving up on me and I don’t want that.  I don’t want to spiral lower.  I need to get over this.

 

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The thing (the truth)

You know what, I am just going to write about what’s been happening that has caused me so much stress.  No one has said that I can’t discuss it and I’m sick of carrying it around and being careful not to mention anything.  And again, I cannot be silenced.

So, I started by blog when I was back in NZ after my brief time in the UK (18 Months) because S got ‘the job’ that was going to ‘make’ him.  Yep, heard that before.  I was pregnant with our son and I really didn’t need that upheaval, when I had a good circle of friends and a good OB here.  But he was adamant, we were all going.  It was going to be good for us.

We were given two weeks to pack our lives and move out of the house, the house I’d loved overlooking the ocean.  Where friends had congregated for BBQs, and where the children went to school just down the road.  We had, like most accumulated so much stuff, alas, most of it became charity or tip fodder.  The whole thing felt like a nightmare.  I anticipated any second that S would change his mind.  Why would I want to return to the UK??

Back in the UK, we’d miss a Kiwi summer, and were in an English winter.  I can’t tell you how depressing, back to back winters are.  S was in the job straight away, so pregnant and leaving my kids with my parents, I trawled rental properties with an agent.  I was pregnant, tired and sick and eager to build a nest for my children.  I had no help, my parents bordered useless.  They were never good with the kids and as a wife/mother, it was obvious that I could juggle all the balls in the air, still look good and not complain.  We were temporarily in an apartment, a 2 bedroom apartment which was hellish with three small children, so S arranged for us to move into a four bedroom apartment near St Paul’s Cathedral.  The area was lovely, and perhaps in holiday mode, I could have enjoyed the history and architecture and atmosphere and I have done previously in London.

But not just a house, I needed to find an OB and hospital too.  This meant many taxi trips and appointments, squeezing the odd scan in where I could to make sure my baby was OK with all this stress.

I found a house, a lovely big home a short walk from shops, off the M25 so easy drive into London city (not incl traffic!) and a fast train into London.

Our furniture was continuously delayed, so we had small pieces of rental furniture.  That were neither homely nor barely functional.  But we got through it.  Despite morning sickness and tiredness and swollen ankles, I organised a school for the kids and started to make this town our home.

I could never shake my regret at not filing charges against the man who had attacked me all those years ago.  And I felt more vulnerable than ever.

I hired a PI initially, I had to KNOW my enemy, and then I decided to press charges.

S worked long hours in the bank.  I felt I barely had any support.  My parents of course delighting that I should be a bankers wife and concentrate on being a Stepford wife.

The whole thing was a horrible, long never-ending nightmare.  But that is a different story.

As I lived in a county away from where it happened, I pressed charges through the local constabulary and then they in turn communicated with the constabulary of the area where the attack occurred.

communication breakdowns, different people on shift, new people, disorganisation and the general disregard you’d expect for a hisotric case were all part of a journey that lead to multiple psychiatric treatments, in-house care, medications, etc. I also managed to parent three kids, give birth to my fourth, and manage my life back in Blighty.  Of what life I had.  The resentment that I had towards S slowly bubbled unde the surface.  Maybe this signalled the start of our breakdown.

Anyway, there was a ‘Specially Trained Officer’ in the local police office that always treated me with such compassion and kindness.  We had a lot in common, and he was great company, funny and attractive.  He always had time for me, he never saw me as victim, he always helped by giving me legal advice and I feel supported me through the whole process.  Even in times of panic and upset, I could get hold of him.  We text each other often and after a while, people started to think our communication was probably too much.  But I didn’t care, here was a man who understood my pain, but could make me laugh and be there to mop up the tears.  I’m not sure how the line was crossed, there is no clear moment, no recollection of comment misread, or a ‘moment’ but somehow we became flirtatious.  There was an attraction between us.  He was married as well, but he told me unhappily and keen to leave.  We bonded over so many commonalities, and he made me feel like a desirable woman.  Not a mother, nor wife, nor struggling mental health patient.  A woman with desires, smart, funny and tender too.

In essence he represented to me everything my husband was not.  He listened, he advised, he held me, he spoke to me for hours.  He was there.

Anyway, he knew ultimately I would return to NZ and he knew that I loved my husband.  But I genuinely believed that there was something special, a connection.

I’m not going to justify this, it was wrong.

Fast forward, maybe three or so years later.  I’m in NZ.  He texts occasionally.  Chatty, upbeat messages, but I keep my tone civil but wary.  I am focused on my family and my marriage and I’m home.  Then he tells me that there was some sort of protest and he and some other cops got involved, things got a bit gnarly and there’s been a complaint about him.  He wonders, if asked, if I  might be a reference for him.

I don’t think that a good idea at all, and say as much.  I asked some friends in the UK and they tell me about a protest that occurred, so I know that much to be true.

He asks a few more times, implies things are heating up.  I answer the same.  I haven’t been in the UK for ages, it would be strange and frankly I don’t know the charges or what happened.

Then I receive a letter, from his office, an official letter, asking for information about an investigation into an officer during years that women made were pressing charges for sexual assault related crimes.  Of course, it was during the year that I had made my complaint (about the offender).

I thought it an odd request.  I ignored it.  I wanted no part of it.  I did query though, with him, why this letter?  He claims that someone is suggesting he was inappropriate, but its all lies and it’s a witch hunt.  Of course, I believe this because initially it seemed to be about a protest.

Gradually as time wears on, his communication comes in spurts.  Mostly asking for a references, sometimes just random, vague messages.  Once telling me he was quitting the force, felt suicidal.  It all seemed surreal.  I didn’t reply because I didn’t understand.

Gradually I started to wonder if maybe he had done something.  Overstepped a mark with someone, and if so, I had effectively set the benchmark.  As my affection was mutual, could he have interpreted that to mean that it was OK to make moves on victims?  I felt horrendously guilty.  Had I started a behaviour?  A year went by, and I carried the weight of my guilt.  What had I done?  What had he done?

So I called and obtained the name of the investigating officer.  I spoke to her.  I had to know what was going on, and why.  Hoping it was something minor, something casual, a witch hunt.  The investigation was still on going.  And I learnt that he had been inappropriate with 10 women in total (that they knew of).  All survivors of sexual assault, all with some sort of mental health issues.  I felt my heart go to stone.  Immediately I explained it WAS MY FAULT, I had been equally attracted and so he must have thought that paved the way to be with other people.  I also asked why this started off the back of a protest.  It had nothing to do with a protest.  It was a woman, making a complaint about his conduct.  I was noted in the communication through emails.  They expected I had become involved but without talking to me, they didn’t know the extent of the communication.  I had to know – was it my fault?  What had I done?

I thought back to when I saw him, always on duty, always in a police car (unmarked), it added to the appearance of a professional meeting.  Yes, somethings had seemed or said that seemed inappropriate, but he was a man and we were friends now, so it didn’t matter did it?

Frankly the whole thing is confusing.  He’s apparently claiming to be very unwell (mentally) but the argument is whether that caused his behaviour or whether he’s simply using it as an excuse.  I guess that’s internal politics because I don’t know why a resignation wouldn’t be accepted.

I mentioned that his marriage was broken and it had been a difficult year for him – yeah well, apparently that’s not true either.

In fact, I am not really the wiser as to what is true and what isn’t anymore.  Maybe I wasn’t so special?  Was he attracted to damaged goods?  Did I really know him at all?  Could these women be wrong?  Was it wrong that he spent so much time with me?  I thought he genuinely liked me.  Or was I a challenge?  Was this a game?

I mentioned to the woman who I kept my phones, I always keep my cell phones, unless I upgrade.  I have a phone and handbag addiction.  I’m not even sure why it tumbled so forthcoming from my mouth.  Even at the time, she didn’t seem interested.  I guess I pictured that Blackberry in my draw, that had been my lifeline.  So many messages communicated.  Such an integral time in my life.  Later she asked for me to send it back.  But the thing has been long since reset.  I might keep my phones, but I don’t keep my data.  She wanted things I’d told her to be written down and for me to sign. A formality with record keeping.  That made sense.

Little did I know, its been a few weeks of complete hassle.  Emails come with statements – formal looking, I’ve had to go to the library and sign and scan.  NZ Police got involved to get the phone.  I have felt scared.  I have felt further violated.  And frankly I would like to speak to the person in question and ask all these questions, did I mean anything to you?  Whats a lie?  Whats the truth?  Is this all one big mistake?

I’m reminded of the reason we met in the first place, and that adds to the seediness of it all.  I feel dirty and crappy all over again.  I’m scared.  I feel used, but I feel so stupid.

I want to believe he’s the nicest cop I’ve met, that helped me through a traumatic time.  The alternative cannot be right.

So, this is why my life has taken an unusual and upsetting turn.  I probably shouldnt have called the UK police, but I had to know the truth.  Although I don’t feel much closer to it.

Again, I’m shouldering this alone.  But I have made an appointment with my therapist to discuss this.  I need to talk, and to think about it.  I need to find where to allocate my blame.  I need to consider what this means and what I’ve done wrong here.

My self entitled rant

No one fully appreciates the trauma of a sexual assault unless they too have experienced it.

I remember when I trained with Victim Support and I heard people who were the victims of house burgleries feel violated, stating that they felt almost like they’d been raped.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not getting into a ‘who has it worse’ scenario.  I’m not going to trivialize a home invasion, and I completely understand, although not having experienced it, that it would be extremely frightening and traumatic.  In America, you can shoot someone while trying to defend your property.  And of course, people have worked very hard to accumulate these items.  So I’m not putting that trauma down AT ALL.  BUT, yes, the inevitable but, items, aside from sentimental items can be replaced.  They can be insured, they can be, well, effectively lived without.  No, I wouldn’t like it if someone stole my phone, my TV, my laptop, my jewellery, or waded through my personal effects.  No I wouldn’t feel safe for a long time after.

But how can that compare to someone forcing themselves onto your most intimate, private and irreplaceable body?  I couldn’t fight the man off of me, he didn’t care what I said or did, he didn’t even care that people heard, he was taking my body and using it for his own gratification irrespective of anything else.  I can’t replace the virginity that I lost, I can’t forget what he did.  I can never feel entirely clean of him either. My body still reacts to flashbacks, triggers, even medical exams.  I lost a piece of myself that I will never get back.  And in that, I will never be able to feel fully safe in my own body again.  For the rest of my life, I will always know that someone is fully capable of forcing themselves onto me, despite my protests – physical and/or verbal, despite the chance someone could catch him, despite my best efforts to avoid certain situations – as victim blamers and rape culture tends to denote that there is.  I will always know that this CAN happen because IT did happen.  It’s not the stuff I read on the news and thank god it wasn’t me.  Its not the stuff people can joke about and I can impishly smile and ignore it because they’re talking about me.  They’re joking about me.  I can’t live in a world where bad stuff happens when you’re in the wrong place, wearing the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, etc.  I know that it can happen when you’re barely a teenager, when you think you’re in a safe place, when the world is a big and beautiful place and bogeyman live only in the darkest corner of nightmares.

So when a trauma, as physically and as intrusive as rape occurs, there is no fix.  No cure, no healing balm.  No number of therapy sessions, no special words, no magic pills.

You learn to live with this horrible awareness, this painful notion that the world goes on, even though part of you died that night. Even though your brain can’t fully appreciate the depth of the horror, the pain of the horror and permanent reminders of the horror.

My subsequent relationship was an unhealthy one.  I trusted this person with my past experience, and he used it to gain power over me.  The person I trusted, physically held this power over me.  Knowing he could break me, mould me, control me, scare me, own me.  But to me he wasn’t the rapist.  I didn’t know the rapist, but I knew this guy.  I shared his bed.  I had sexual relations with him, I ate dinner with him, I knew his family and friends.  He was my protector, my provider and my partner.  I showered and bathed with him. Celebrated with him.  And yet he was able to push me down and take what he wanted, until the pain was so unbearable that it was hard to walk.  To squeeze my throat, to threaten to end me, to demean me and degrade me.  To ‘permit’ toilet breaks, to take my clothes, to hide me from the world.  But he was my partner.  I loved him and I thought I needed him.  I was young, he was my saviour.

Only leaving when a knife nearly took my choices away.

Only YEARS later did I begin to question the relationship.  Its validity, its impact, its power and control cycle. For so long, he had been ‘just a boyfriend.’

I have since been married (to a different man), had my beautiful kids and now I am separated.  And I take stock of my life, I consider the impact of all of my years on this earth.  The pain and suffering.  The lack of support.  How the only way I knew how to survive was to travel.  Alone.  To avoid people, to avoid relationships.  To avoid hurt.

I could play a role of wife to my ex husband, not really encompassing all that is involved in that duty.  Not fully ready to commit, or trust.  But to engage in an otherwise healthy marriage, or what I deem to be considered healthy and raise my children in a family full of love and compassion.  No fear, open communication and honesty.

In my separation I am left wondering who I really am.  Not able to trust, thrust often into the past.  No one to discuss these fears or concerns with – my choice – I get that.

But essentially after leaning on another man for so many years, I feel like I am left to grow all over again, dissect things, consider things, feel things, grieve for things.

My body doesn’t feel safe.  I don’t feel safe.  No home, no car, no person can change any of that.

So I don’t think anyone can place a time frame on trauma.  I don’t think anyone can have expectations or work along a linear healing process.

I am blind in my healing.  I always have been.  Wanting to move away, move on, not talk, not discuss the pain, the memories, the trauma.  Not acknowledging the nightmares, the triggers, my own limitations.

Who I am today is part moulded on the traumas of what I have experienced.  The fears, lack of trust, negative self talk, inability to talk out loud about my struggles, the fact that it has taken SO LONG to come to terms with any of it.  To process it, to accept it.

I make no excuses for my anxiety, I make no excuses for my mental health and I make no excuses for the way I am wired.

I will manage my mental health – that is, not ignore the advice of mental health professionals, and I will try not to blame the entire world for my pain.

But make no mistake, I have been wounded so deeply that I deserve my good days and my bad days.  My scared days, my down days, and my anxiety.

I am not entitled to anything from my marriage, but I will always have my voice.

 

Torturous night

Last night is the worst night I’ve had in a long time. I’m feeling groggy and dizzy but I need to write it out because I’m worried about my sanity and I don’t want to call on friends.

I couldn’t sleep for ages, even though I was tired. I cried on and off and surfed the web to waste time. After 1am, I thought I better try, I was plunged into sickening nightmares. Graphic and violent. I was a child in these dreams, vulnerable and terrified. I woke up in a panic attack. I felt really scared and vulnerable. I checked the time, surely it must be getting towards morning and the light will come to reassure me? It was 1.45! I couldn’t believe this powerful, debilitating nightmare that felt long could only last for half an hour!

I went to the loo, took some diazapam, tended to the fire and tried to get back to sleep. I felt restless but too afraid to take a walk. When sleep finally came I was thrust again in nightmares, painful and terrifying. Abuse, neglect, fear. I awoke in a panic, twisted, damp sheets. For a moment I worried I’d wet the bed. I stumbled to the loo, slightly disorientated. In my blundering state, tended to the fire again. It felt bitterly cold. But I couldn’t stand to have a shower, I felt I’d be vulnerable.

3am, lying in bed. Emotional, exhausted, terrified of my own mind. Feeling painfully alone, unsure of myself, suffocated by the never ending night.

Finally giving into the lure of sleep. And thrust back to a medley of terrifying nightmares. My mind reaching for something. Recreating my history, seemingly checking every corner of my mind, reliving but with a twisted abstract feel. Me, young again. No control. The dream being my reality. Seemingly lasting for hours.

4.30, bedsheets soaked. Disorientated. Dizzy with tiredness and a shortness of breath as though I’d been running. Acid in my throat. Feeling so sick, feeling alone and confused. The fire no longer a priority. Every noise sounding like a threat.

Alone in bed. Wondering why. Unsure what to do. The child within me feeling traumatised. 

So long until sunrise. Night is playing an awful trick. It’s blanketing me and never ending. I have no way of switching off my tired mind. It’s active, it’s thinking while I’m awake, trying to make sense of things.

Succumb to sleep again. This time I’m witness to my own insanity. The breakdown. My mind and body unable to process the pain, the stress. I’m lost in a world that exists only to me. I’m locked away. I’m feeling claustrophobic in the dream. I want to get away, I need to be free. But I’m both physically trapped and mentally lost in my own mind. I can see myself going through the motions, but I can also hear my brain. I’m desperately aware of the pain, of the confusion, of being lost and being held against my will by people that want to ‘cure’ me.

I’ve just woken in a panic. Restless like nothing I’ve experienced in a long time. Scared of the images, and scared of losing my own sanity.

I’m dizzy, my headaches, my mouth is dry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I need. 

Thank god it’s light now. There is safety in the light. It’s so quiet though, as though everyone else has ceased to exist. I’m alone with this turmoil, the thread of sanity.

I don’t understand why I suffered last night. I’m scared of a repeat. I don’t know how to start the day from here.

I feel physically and mentally tired. I feel afraid. I feel disoriented and caught between my dreams and my nightmares.

I don’t know what to do. 

Jeans and the increasing intensity

*****POTENTIAL TRIGGER******

I briefly brought Jeans up to date on the goings on since we last met. But I highlighted something I’d not really realised before – that when I’d spoken to the Principal I’d remained present the whole time – I hadn’t disassociated. He also brought it home that I was identifying a place that I’d been able to speak openly and honestly and done that. I’d not hidden away my past. I’d faced it. Progress?

I admitted that my week as a whole had been difficult with nightmares and flashbacks and intrusive thoughts. He told me to expect that as we were working so hard.

The conversation gravitated – (or perhaps I pulled it) to my ex. I feel the relationship was intrinsically linked to the attack because I’d confided in him. Because he kept me ‘safe’

I never identified the relationship as abusive. He started off as controlling. But I wanted to keep him happy and more importantly I wanted him to keep me safe.

I never intended to go into detail with Jeans. I wanted to summarise some aspects. Certainly avoid the humiliating aspects.

I began to disassociate. My peripheral vision was gone. Time, space no longer existed. I drifted between my ex’s bedroom and blackness. Him shoving me onto the bed. Telling me to fight him off or else I wanted it. Forcing himself on me over and over so that I was in physical agony.

I had a body memory there in the therapy room. Jeans must have seen pain in my face. He asked if I was feeling it. I felt ashamed and humiliated and I told him that and yes I felt pain. He told me to bear with it. To breathe and that it would pass.

I had an urge to cry out, ‘FUCK YOU’ and curl into a ball on the floor. I hurt so badly. My minds eye forcing me to view the things my ex did. Forcing me to remember he didn’t want to me shower. When I was upset he would say, ‘I’m not ‘him” referring to my attacker. He was insulted that I would react in a way to imply that he or I was dirty or injured.

I was a nothing. Tossed around the bed. His pleasure.

My vision was barely a pin prick. Jeans was trying to talk me back.

I felt so lost in all of it. I was the closest I’ve ever been since it happened. None of it made sense.

Jeans and I walked around the room. I kind of swayed and hobbled and wondered if I might throw up. I don’t remember much of the goodbye. I was still a bit out of it.

I lasted my session. I didn’t talk my way out of it. I faced a demon. I realise this week might be wobbly.

But I faced this memory full on.

FUCK YOU MEMORY!

Therapy and a roadside drama

Today has been especially difficult and confronting for me. Starting in the most unusual and unexpected of ways. I had just walked my dog down by the local river and we were driving home before it was time to set off for my therapy appointment. I saw ahead a woman gesticulating wildly for me to pull over. There were no vehicles ahead or behind me. I could see a Toyota Camry pulled far away towards the river on the other side, this road is a state highway and as such the traffic is fast moving. But along the river are walkways. And at various spots spaces for cars to pull off and park safely out of the way. I assessed that it didn’t seem to be a break down as the hood wasn’t up on the Camry and no one appeared to be looking over the car. I saw one large male with two large aggressive dogs and he looked angry. I put the window down on the passenger side unsure of what I was driving into. The woman was shaking, clearly terrified, she told me the men were fighting. I asked if she was ok and if she had called the police. She was and she hadn’t. I told her to get inside my car to be safe. She was shaking too much to call the police. So I did it, as it’s the hands free kit it’s quite audible from the outside, so the male came storming over demanding to know if I was calling the police. Then the second man appeared from nowhere and they started off again. Occasionally coming over to my car to bang on the windows or at one point open the doors to shout their sides of the story. My newly acquired passenger was visibly shaken and struggled to give verbal observations to the police communications, for some reason I was calm and felt able to describe the men and their actions. When the police finally arrived on scene the woman thanked me and I left. It wasn’t until I’d driven about five minutes down the road that I suddenly felt like passing out.

I think of this poor woman’s face and body language. Her genuine terror and desperate need for help. She shouldn’t have had to witness that. I think about the out of control aggression shown by the two men. How instinctively I didn’t speak to either of them, look directly at either of them, just focused on giving the information to the police communications officer. I was able to stay present. Give the registration of the Camry quickly in case he drove off.

After I had dropped my dog home and driven to my therapy appointment I talked to her about what had happened. But quite rightly she told me that I wasn’t talking about the emotions attached to it. It’s difficult for me to identify emotions when things happen. Partly because I want to shove them deep down and not handle them or feel them. But also because I’m scared of my own feelings.

I was able to talk about how seeing aggressive men reminds me a lot of my abusive ex boyfriend. How there is an element of thinking when exposed to that anger; well, what’s the worst that can happen?

I talked quite candidly about how he was the first person I ever really talked to about what had happened to me. How I had trusted him to care for me and keep me safe. But somewhere along the line that relationship had changed. The way he treated me was uncaring and unkind. Unfortunately the more detail I went into, eventually I began to disassociate. But even then as my therapist said today, I have diminished those things. And I have. I can’t see the things he did as being ‘that bad’ – I just can’t.

Facing aggressive men is always going to be a trigger for me. I hate drunk men. I don’t even like it when my husband gets drunk. I try to avoid those situations. But it happens, especially as I’m an assertive woman and there’s still a lot of men that don’t like that. So I hold my ground and seem tough, but as soon as I’m alone I crumble and break.

Therapy was difficult today because I opened up more about some of my painful experiences. I might not have done that had I not have had that encounter on the roadside.

Tonight as I write this I feel quite numb and I’m writing to clear my mind of the jumbled thoughts. I can only think that in the next couple of days things will catch up with me. I just hope it’s not too rough.

The poem ****TRIGGER WARNING****^

Graphic sexual violence

Please proceed with caution

******TRIGGER*******

Deep in the night do you think of my eyes?
Can you see the fear? Can you hear the cries?
Can you remember your words? You were soft and clear,
You said I was ok, that I had nothing to fear.
Do you think about the force and ripping my clothes?
I know just how much detail that memory of yours goes.
It hurt so much I asked if you had stabbed me with a knife,
In a way I wish You had – than I wouldn’t have this life.
When you finished you said you were sorry for hurting me,
But you weren’t sorry, you were lying, because you didn’t leave me be.
You kissed me down there, made me dirty so I’ll never be the same,
You made filthy, made me guilty and I’ll always feel to blame.

You whispered you were sorry as you quickly left the room,
I lay there in the darkness, feeling dirty, feeling doom.
My body was no longer mine,
My underwear was torn,
I was terrified you would come back, or anyone would take your slack.

I lay on top the bed, searing pain between my legs, scared perhaps I might have bled all over the bed.
Terrified and sick, nothing really made sense anymore
I hoped it was all nightmare, but I knew my whole body was too sore.

The next day I could hardly walk a step, I had to tell my friend
She took me to a clinic, I was terrified i thought it would never end.

So many vile memories and tests for things I never knew before,
A pill to stop a baby,
Didn’t even think it possible,
My friend said yes, maybe.

I knew my life had changed
I was neither adult not child
Just disgraced little reject
Set to turn wild.
Broken on the inside
Brittle on the outside
Scarred forever
Parts forever died.

One fateful night, you chose me
You did as you desired
You took away my choices
I was a girl you violated.

I know you don’t care at all
I’m just a piece of meat to you
A Virgin piece you got to break in two.

Helplines if you are affected in ANY way

US National Sexual Assault Hotline – 1.800.656.HOPE

Rape crisis UK 0808 802 9999

Rape crisis NZ 0800 88 33 00

Samaritans NZ 0800 726 666

Samaritans UK 08457 90 90 90

Crisis Line USA 18002738255