On the Female Aesthetic (Pubic Hair)

I am writing this while drunk. So consider that while reading. To me, this means that it is more honest than I normally am, rather than being more ridiculous than I normally am. Or maybe it's a bit of both? Maybe they go together more than I, and most people and situations, realize.

I'm also writing this while waiting for a video game's population to expand and therefore level me up and therefore make it easier to beat a boss. So I guess that's an important factor too.

There are so many factors to everything. It's pretty amazing, really. I think about it a lot; there's really no way to account for every factor of life when considering the outcome.

Disclaimer: I may go over this when I'm sober before publishing. I would publish it immediately, but I have no internet at the moment. So take this to mean that I am brutally and shamelessly honest in this moment.

Note to self and readers: any modifications will be to spelling and for clarity's sake, not to hide or modify my thoughts or beliefs.

I've been thinking about pubic hair. There's no delicate way to say it.

Why does it seem so embarrassing? So shameful?

Like, it's normal. Pubic hair is normal. Everyone has it.

Some people choose to get rid of it. That's fine, you do you.

As long as you aren't getting rid of it for someone else.

My first boyfriend (my ex-fiance) was constantly pressuring me to completely shave my vagina and pelvic region. So much to where I considered shaving it for a birthday present for him. I never did, because I really couldn't stand the thought of actually doing it. I trim, I adjust, I shave enough to wear I can actually wear shorts or a leotard and tights without feeling self conscious, but heck no am I gonna shave my entire pubic region. Especially not for a boy.

Like, ew. And ouch. I know some people do, and that's totally fine if you want to. I'm still slightly confused as to how you can even do that without hurting yourself. I can't even shave my legs without making it uncomfortable or itchy or sensitive for a day or two. Admittedly, it's not like I pay enough attention to really do it "correctly." I only do it because I physically can't stand the sensation of prickles while trying to sleep. It's a sensory thing due to my slight autism rather than a need to appeal to the opposite sex, or to appear "sexy" in any way.

But that's in regard to leg hair.

Pubic hair, however.

It's way more complicated to shave.

It's way more likely to result in an injury (however slight).

It has no result in my sensory obsession of prickles and physical sensation.

I am moderately self conscious when it comes to sex if I don't shave around my pubic area, but not enough to where I go out of my way. Shaving is a chore, man. Razors are expensive. They really don't last forever, no matter what my cheap mind says. People say you should switch them out once a week. Fuck that, man. Like, maybe once a month.

Well, it doesn't help that I keep losing or breaking the main part of the razor. I started buying disposable razors cause I got tired of telling me mom that I lost or broke the main part of the razor and needed not only new blades but a new main part as well.

Plus, after reading this, she may not give me any new razor parts at all because it does kind of imply that I have sex on a semi regular basis (and sex is of the devil). Even though I don't, because I'm asexual. Even though I kind of wish I did, cause my boyfriend is allosexual. He doesn't pressure me, of course (cause he's great).

Anyway.

Pubic hair.

Why is it considered so ugly? Unattractive? Unfeminine?

I should do more research on it (when I have wifi and when I'm sober), but from what I've heard pubic hair is actually pretty healthy and hygienic. I mean, as long as you yourself are also healthy and hygienic. Speaking from experience, too much shaving in any area results in itchiness, discomfort, bleeding/scabs, ingrown hairs, etc.

(I just leveled up in this video game, which proves that my patience for population growth has paid off)

I started shaving part of my pubic hair because of my first boyfriend/ex-fiance, because I thought that was what I should look like, behave like, be like. It didn't help that in ballet class I was forced to wear a black leotard and pink tights that made my very dark pubic hair all too visible when I did an arabesque or a penche or anything. I was so self-conscious about it that it did indeed influence my dancing, not only making me a less skilled dancer but also making it so that I didn't enjoy it myself. I was too self-conscious about the other dancers seeing the hair peek out of my leotard, about my (male) teacher noticing, about the other girls mentally criticizing me for not being "feminine" enough.

If I could tell my high school self anything, i'd say, "fuck them. Be you." In reality, there's a high probability that even if anyone noticed my pubic hair, they didn't care.

Yes, I have very very pale skin. Yes, I have very very dark hair. All of my body hair is very apparent, whether it's on top of my head or at my ankles. It's visible, but that doesn't make it shameful.

I was lucky enough to grow up in an environment where I wasn't physically or verbally abused for my body hair. The closest I came to such abuse was my first boyfriend who constantly pressured me into shaving simply because he liked it and said it was "sexy" and "more attractive." Since he was my first boyfriend, I knew no better. Since I grew up in the church and was taught to be relatively submissive, I knew no better. Since he told me that "in his eyes" we were "already married in the eyes of God," I knew no better.

I hate myself for all the things I did just to appease him. It has nothing to do with religion or Christianity in this regard. He didn't make me turn away from God, he didn't make me distrust religion. I blame him.

Anyway, that's not the point.

Do men hate female body hair because it seems too similar to male body hair? Is their masculinity so fragile as to be worried about body hair on female bodies? Is that it?

I don't know. I'm drunk. It looks like I really can't level up anymore unless I fight this boss, which probably won't go well since I'm pretty drunk.

I've fucking beat this boss multiple times but the save file has always fucking messed up. Partly because of me, but also because it's a fucking old emulator so you have to be super fucking speicific about saving the game.

It's Actraiser on the nintendo, for anyone that cares.

I haven't exactly said anything revolutionary in this post, but tbh I never do. In this instance, I just want you to think about it. Think about pubic hair. Think about male and female pubic hair. Think about male and female body hair. Male and female facial hair. Why do you dislike either of it? Do you have a reason? Or is it just "unattractive"? Because if you can't provide another reason, then I don't totally believe it. I say this because there's a lot of things that I automatically find unappealing, but upon further inspection, I realize I have no reason to find them unappealing. It's just that I have been taught by advertising (and other sources) that it is ugly, unattractive, incorrect, wrong.

I used to shave part of my pubic hair, if only so that it didn't show in a leotard, swimsuit, or underpants. I haven't shaved any of it in a long time because I've been to depressed, stressed, and apathetic to go to all the trouble.

Plus, when I think about it, I really can't think of a real reason why I should go to that trouble. My current boyfriend says he doesn't care. And when I don't shave for months and months, he still says nothing. When we don't have sex for months and months, he says nothing. When we do have sex but I haven't shaved, he says nothing.

Maybe I've just found the perfect mate. Who knows.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

You shouldn't change you based on social standards or the expectations of a romantic (or otherwise) expectation.

You are you.

You are you because of who you are, who you want to be, who you are meant to be.

You are not you because of who someone else wants you to be.

No one else has the authority to shape you into something you aren't.

I say this because of my abusive ex-fiance who thought he had the right to dictate how I behaved, how I dressed, how I groomed. He dictated whether it was okay or not for me to have sex. I gave him my virginity because he said it was okay. I believed that my virginity was important because of what he and others said.

But it shouldn't matter. You are you not because of who you've had sex with or what you've done with your body of how you dress or how you groom yourself.

"You are what you love, not who loves you." -- Fall Out Boy.

I have no idea what FOB meant when they sang that, but it always makes me think of my ex-fiance, of my rapist, of the countless people who have abused me in various forms.

I am who I want to be, not what others try to make me to be.

You are not reliant on other's definitions of the female, of the woman. Of the wife, the fiance, the 

girlfriend.

You can fucking be whatever and whoever you want to be;

You are beautiful.

Amazing.

Awesome.

Inspiring.

Who you want to be.

What you want to be.

I love you.

I hope you love yourself.

I am ecstatic in those moments when I love myself. They are very rare moments (usually only when I'm drunk, like now), but they are truly beautiful. I look back on these moments and am amazed, but also inspired. When I am super depressed, I look back on these moments, I read my past words, and I reflect on the honesty that I once had. It is incredibly hard to believe that things will be better, that things have been better. But it's true, despite my drunkeness or lack thereof.

Things have been better, they are better, they will be better.

They have not been easy, they are not easy, they will not be easy.

But they are. They have they have the potential to be.

I have totally lost track of what I'm trying to say, but I hope you get the idea.

Pubic hair is natural. You can get rid of it or keep it, and it doesn't matter. Whatever makes you comfortable.

I really hope I one day beat this game.

I really hope I actually do my homework and get my Masters in American Dance Studies.

I really hope I, and you, don't give up.

I sadistically hope my ex-fiance learns his lesson and realizes he's a total dick and asshole.

I recommend any and everyone read Skip Beat! By Yoshiki Nakamura. It's always been one of my favorite mangas (and anime), but is surprisingly relevant in regards to this post. The anime is only one season, but the manga is pretty long. You can still find it online pretty easily (I finally gave in and have been reading it online everyday and have almost caught up).

Well. I'm gonna turn on the hotspot and post this because if I look back at this tomorrow I'll chicken out and won't post it because pubic hair is a stupid topic and rather embarrassing and something I've been self-conscious about for as long as I can remember.

The woes of having pale skin and dark hair.

Yeah, I know, my life is so hard. (That was sarcasm).

I love you all, and I hope you love yourselves just as much. Because you should. You are valid, you are beautiful.

--Dexter

Bad Asexual Representation (i.e. me)

Currently I've been mulling over the concept of asexual burlesque. Neo-burlesque is a newfound love of mine, and at the moment my graduate thesis will be on asexual burlesque. The two terms aren't as conflicting as they might seem at first, but nevertheless I've been having a hard time just thinking about what I've perhaps hastily committed to doing.

There are actual asexual burlesque performers out there, which is comforting and awesome. I want to get that out of the way first.

The reason why I love burlesque is that it's a celebration of self: of your body, your sexuality, your everything. That's why there's no reason asexual burlesque shouldn't be a thing. In fact, burlesque is the perfect medium to celebrate asexuality. Except that burlesque is seen as a sexualized event. I can't even break away from the inherent sexuality that I see in burlesque. And there's no reason why an asexual can't be sexy. Asexuality is the lack of sexual attraction, not the lack of asexuality or the lack of being sexually attractive.

But why on earth would an asexual want to be sexually attractive? What on earth do I want to get out of that scenario? Cause it's certainly not sex. But something in me wants to be sexually appealing, sexually attractive, sexually...normal?

It's hard for me to wrap my head around it all because I've always felt like a bad representative for asexuality. All of the stereotypes fit me.

I was sexually abused, sexually assaulted. I'm clinically depressed. I'm a plant.

I'm all the things asexuals are constantly trying to prove they're not.

Which does not make my asexuality invalid.

I wrote that whole post about the difference between fear of sex and disinterest in sex, so I know the difference. I know I'm valid.

But I don't feel valid. And my love of burlesque seems to just make everything even worse.

And instead of quietly sorting all of this out in my own head, on my own time, on my own blog, I instead decided to publicly commit to researching it in grad school. Telling all my professors about it. Finding out they're super excited and have been talking to other professors about it. Finding an overwhelming amount of support for the project even from people who don't really know what asexuality is.

What I don't like about support is that now I can't just drop it. Which is good. I shouldn't drop it.

But I don't exactly know what to do with it either.

I feel the need to be blatantly obvious with my professors, my peers, myself. My experiences and biases towards sex make me distrust all of my own inclinations and feelings rather than seeming to help me find answers and information. I still have bad days and bad nightmares and wake up never wanting to think about sex or my own body ever again.

One of my professors mentioned the need to add in time for self-care when planning research, especially when the topic is emotionally close. I don't think she was talking about me, but it definitely applies. 

The reason why I never tackled sexual assault in my undergrad work was because I was afraid I would just spiral into self-destruction. I managed to get through it all independently after I graduated, but I still wonder what would've happened if I'd been forced to talk about the process and the subject while doing it.

I can write graphic truths but I certainly can't talk about them verbally.

As usual, I've kind of been writing through lots of rabbit holes and dancing around topics, but if you've read a single blog post on here then you know that's nothing new. My head is always so jumbled with this stuff that I find it hard to actually lay it all out and look at it. Writing helps in that way.

I haven't found any real answers through writing this, but my brain feels a little less cluttered. That's all I can ask for, I guess.

Anyway, grad school is going about as expected. I still miss classes, fumble through assignments, panic and avoid responsibility. Still get way too drunk on bad days. Still am unable to figure out how the disability services works. But hey, I haven't hurt myself in a really long time. That's something, isn't it?

I'll take what I can get.

--Dexter

PS. Although I did actually book my own flight for a conference today. So somehow I'm still stumbling through life convincing people I know what I'm doing.

I Have Become an Angry Feminist: Now Let's Talk

I used to stay out of things. I used to keep my opinions to myself. I used to believe everything I was told if it came from any sort of authority. If I read something contrary to those beliefs, I'd refute it. I accepted the beliefs of the adults around me. I studied under their guidance, questioned their facts but never the foundations.

But now I'm an adult. Ignore the fact that I still have a ton of stuffed animals and that I watch My Little Pony and color with crayons and read kids' books.

I'm an adult. I'm a woman. I'm an asexual. I'm biromantic. I'm a feminist. I'm a student. I'm trailer park trash. I'm white. I'm a victim of sexual assault and rape. I'm a survivor of sexual assault and rape. I'm a survivor of suicide. I'm mentally ill. I'm chronically and majorly depressed. I'm socially anxious. I'm a recovering cutter. I'm a student. I'm a researcher. I'm a dancer. I'm a choreographer. I'm a musician. I'm a crazy cat lady. I'm poor. I'm a human.

I have struggled with so many things, and for the most part struggled alone. I spit out things on this blog but rarely talk about to anyone, and when I do it's probably because I'm drunk (sorry if you've been on the other side of those conversations...).

But I will not be silent. For the sake of myself and others, I will not let issues be swept under the rug. My voice, and the voices of others, will not be silenced.

So yes, at this point, I am an angry feminist.

I am angry and upset and scared and sad.

There are so many things I want to talk about. I want to answer all of the questions and comments that have been directed at me personally as well as others.

These things need to be talked about, and not in a one-way conversation.

Let's all just sit down with some coffee or a nice cup of tea and chat about these things that are incredibly important.

Except I might have a panic attack, so my cats will have to be there too to comfort me.

--Dexter

P.S. In the spirit of conversation, ask me anything and I will do my best.

nothing new here

It's been almost a week since I finished my film and shared it with the world. Since I conquered those fears. Or at least, faced them. Sort of. Sometimes facing doesn't equal conquering.

Fuck that. There's no such thing. Because I'm back, shaking and crying and being in general the unhealthy, dysfunctional, disabled adult I'm known for being.

I love my film, even though I get embarrassed and cringe thinking about people watching it and worry about their reactions or if they think the camera's too shaky or the editing too choppy or they don't understand something I did purposefully, which means I didn't do it purposefully enough. I do love it and I loved making it and without a doubt it helped me.

But I'm so far from functional and I hate it. Right now the idea of sex makes me want to puke. When my body enjoys it I feel betrayed and distrustful not only of whoever I'm with but of myself as well. It's not like I'm a slut or anything. At least, I don't think so.

That doesn't stop me from feeling so fucking dirty. I sit here and think of just that one guy and I feel disgusting and broken, and then I think of my first boyfriend and feel worse, and then I think of my second and feel worse, and then I think of when I was just a little girl and I feel so fucking dirty and broken and twisted.

I don't have coherent thoughts right now. I don't have anything. I have nothing but myself and really that's all I ever have and oh how I hate myself. I hate this body for its physical and mental and spiritual weaknesses. I hate it for not wanting sex and I hate it for wanting it and I hate it for being so ugly and yet for still having those stupid traits that make people want to touch me in the dark and then wipe their hands clean of it.

That's victim mentality, that's survivor guilt. It has to all be my fault, doesn't it? I can't find another reason. Wouldn't that make more sense than there being a seemingly endless supply of people who just want to put their hands on me and maybe don't mind my brain so much, but it's not worth much on its own?

I must be the problem. I must be doing something wrong to attract these people, to let them do what they want, to fool myself into thinking they're something or not or that I'm not something I am. I'm just stupid enough to convince myself it won't happen again, that I'll be stronger, better, more mature, more assertive. That I'll know what I want and I'll say it. That I'll actually do something, anything.

I haven't even technically started grad school and already I just know I'm not going to make it. Sometimes I feel at home here, simply because it's a beautiful community of people who love dance and love art, but I don't feel like belong. They're all passionate and willing to speak. I'm passionate and willing to do nothing but sit and work in silence and solitude. I'm either weird or creepy or stupid or "not right in the head," which is technically true.

There's this conference going on right now for graduate students that essentially is preparing us for being teaching assistants or teachers or whatever other responsibilities that will be thrown our way during grad school (and beyond). Today there was an extremely long segment about discrimination and sexual misconduct.

While without a doubt that thing is needed (which in itself is just sad and awful), I also had a very hard time staying in my seat. At that  point I was doing my best to lose myself in a book, blatantly reading during a lecture. Trying not to shake too much or to bite the skin of my thumb or to pinch the inside of my arm too hard.

Why am I trying to get an MA and be a professor and be a real person?

It's obvious I'm unreliable and weak and dependent. I can't take care of myself and stress gets the better of me far too easily. When I'm stressed, I get even weaker and more prone to panic over things that under normal conditions I might be able to handle.

But I'm just so fucking broken and gross now. There is no part of me that has not been touched by someone else. There's nothing I have left to give. How are you supposed to tell someone that they're getting used goods? A damaged product? Someone who is graysexual, which for me means means sometimes I like sex but also sometimes I might freak out and suddenly burst into tears, so just please don't take it personally? Who sometimes has a hard time distinguishing between actual desire and the compulsion to please? Between passion and obligation?

I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about anymore. Long story short:

I hate myself. Looks like that will never change.

--Dexter

Consent

For those don't follow/stalk me on social media, I wanted to share the dance for film I recently completed. I made it for myself, but also for the world. For those who are braver than they think and stronger than they know, for those who have to be brave just to exist. And for those who don't realize just how many of us there are.

Consent.

--Dexter

Conquering Fears

Today I started editing an independent dance for film that I worked on over the summer. I filmed right before I moved, and haven't had a chance to fool around with it until now, nearly three weeks later. I was having the time of my life. I hadn't done anything creative in ages and, as always, forgot just how amazing it makes me feel. Fooling around and editing is cool and fun and frustrating and time consuming - really just like any artistic endeavor. I love it.

This film is something I've been trying to make for almost three years now. Every time I choreographed in undergrad, I would start out with this topic in mind, but end up switching. It just wasn't time and I wasn't ready. But as my time in Hattiesburg, MS came to a close, I realized that my time to make this project was also running out. And in some ways, doing it as an independent project gives me more control. I don't have a deadline (which also means it'll take forever, but oh well) so I can take my time, and I don't have to share it with anyone before I'm ready.

This project is about sexual assault, mostly stemming from my own experience. Everything about the process was pretty terrifying, from creating the movement to sharing it with others. And of course, the brilliant idea to film it in the very place where I was date-raped.

I'd been by this place plenty of times before because it was right next to the tutoring center where I worked for a semester. It always made me nervous and I always walked quickly, but I could still do it. Long after my assaulter was gone, I still expected to see him hanging out there, waiting. Even when I stopped passing by, the place is engraved in my memory in incredible detail. I remember the dim lighting, the smell of a far off cigarette, the feeling of concrete. I remember studying for a dance history exam I had the next morning, I remember that it was slightly too warm for my sweater, I remember him trying to play "What Does the Fox Say" on his guitar.

I returned to this place almost four years later to see if it would actually be a good film site. I went by myself instead of waiting for the friend who said he'd go with me. It was exactly as I remembered it, minus the assaulter in the guise of a friend. It still made me nervous, and looking at it from the point of a videographer only gave me enough emotional distance to look around a bit before speed-walking back to my car.

And I showed up again the next day to actually film. I had my chill pills ready in case I needed them. Some strong coffee to give me comfort. The dancers who laughed and did stupid things together. And a job to do.

That day I conquered that place. I turned my terror into art (who knows if it'll be good or bad, though) and created something new to remember and associate with the site. Not necessarily to replace the bad, but to truly put it in the past.

Then, as I was packing for the big move, I found the ginormous sweater I was wearing when I was assaulted. I couldn't look at it without thinking about that night, but I still loved it enough to keep. I live in the south anyway, so it's not like I had a lot of opportunities to wear it. In the spirit of conquering old fears, I made a rather popular instagram post about it, challenging all of those people who say victims are asking for it by dressing provocatively.

So I was asking my friend to rape me because I was wearing jeans, a humongous sweater, and Doctor Who hat that hid most of my head?

Yeah, okay. Sure.

I love that sweater and I will always remember that night when I look at it, but that won't stop me from wearing it. It's not the sweater's fault and it's not mine, and I've had plenty of good memories in that sweater as well. Why can't those be as memorable? It's not really fair.

I was thinking about all of this while in the shower not too long ago, feeling pretty proud of myself for finally facing a few of my fears. I mean yeah, I'm still super duper anxious in public and don't like people behind me and get freaked out if people try to touch me too much and distrust anyone who claims they like me for something other than sex, but I'd still done something.

Then I go get on Facebook and end up clicking on an article about a woman who was assaulted and some of the horrifying replies she got after sharing her story. And I got scared again.

I am very, very honored to be surrounded by such good people who support and love and respect me, and yet all it takes are a few shaming comments to rip me apart. It's like I think I'm building a brick wall but then it turns to tissue paper; it barely takes a breath to make it disappear.

I feel very alone here in Florida. I have two friends and they're both great. But I'm only just starting to get to know them, and like I said: I just don't trust people very much.

None of my recent posts seem to make much sense anymore or have a decent conclusion, but hey, that's life.

Anyway, I'm still working on the film and grad school starts in one week. I like Tallahassee despite the roads' tendencies to switch around and make no sense. I miss Cane's, but they have Dunkin Donuts here and Steak n Shake, so it's not like I don't have access to comfort food. I have my two friends for now.

That's all I got right now.

--Dexter

ps. This shirt technically refers to suicide and came from Live Through This, so go check it out cause it's cool.

Why I Don't Talk To You

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It is recommended you listen to "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence while reading this post. Please see the PS at the end of the post to see why. Thank you.

Just about any time I write a more honest post about how I feel, I get lots of offers from very kind of loving people to talk if I need to, and to know that they're always there for me. I always appreciate these messages. I look at them, appreciate them, feel a flutter of shame at what they know about me, and resolve to thank them later when the post isn't so fresh on my mind. And then of course I forget that I didn't actually respond. But I do that in a lot of situations.

I don't know how serious people are when they say they're there to talk of I need someone. I don't doubt their sincerity, I just feel like they underestimate the tornado they would be welcoming into their home, so to speak.

When I am having a bad day or having a panic attack or have a manic phase or anything like that, I do not sound like my blog posts. Maybe that's what it is. I'm not at all coherent or logical and I can vehemently and wildly deny anything I want to while swearing up and down that my own idea of self is absolutely true.

Right now I have two friends I talk to when I am in those moments, and I feel worse and worse and worse about it every time it happens. I talk to them because I trust them and because they make me feel at least a bit better, or at least like I'm not so alone. They don't panic (to my face, at least), but just kind of...accept it, and do what they can. They are rather amazing people.

But I don't just have a crisis every once in a while. I've been in a constant state of crisis for the past week, and even though it finally seems to be normalizing, just the events of the week have left me terrified, exhausted, and guilty.

In those moments, I am terrified and my first instinct is to find someone, but then I remember that people have their own lives and that just a few hours ago I was feeling the same way and bombarding people with my issues. And already, here I am again, doing the same thing to the same person.

The more honest I get about my feelings, the harder it is to stop talking about them. I've almost always had them bottled up. I have rarely had someone to talk to about any of it, and the only way I could handle it would be writing it all out here, on a shitty blog. Having actual friends be with you turns out to be pretty different.

Plus, there are some things I cannot bring myself to write about on here. They may be huge sources of stress in my life, but they're also about someone else who certainly doesn't want their problems (or my problems with them) to be out in the open. It would be cruel to write about it.

I believe that is the main reasons my two friends have had so much to deal with lately. There are so many little things going on in my life that I can't vomit out into the world, but I have to get it out of me. But, being me, I don't even know how to have a normal conversation. So I skip around the subject because I don't want to whine or insist we talk about me, which results in a nonspecific depressing pity party hosted by me.

I consider myself a very open person because I like to talk about my problems, if only because they are real issues in the world that other people face as well. Some people will not speak out for themselves, and don't ask me why I feel that I have to do it for them. I feel responsible for being a voice, however soft and quivering.

But I also don't like to talk about me. I don't like to talk about my problems. If people ask specific questions and prove that they care and are interested, then yeah, I have no problem. I actually like that. It makes me feel human.

But if no one asks, then I feel vain bringing it up. I whine and I pity myself and force my "problems" on other people who surely have their own things to deal with. And so many times people have not told me their problems just because they knew I had too much going on. Even though I understand, it hurts. I don't want to be a friend who always needs help but never helps. I want to know how people are doing and if there's anything I can do.

So to kind of bring this back to where I started, there is a reason why I don't reach out to many of you beautiful people when I'm having a crisis.

I don't want to ruin anything.

I don't want to lose a friend when they realize how fucked up I am. I don't want to overwhelm a friend with all of my problems when I have no idea what they're going through at the same time. I don't want to turn a friendship into a one-sided therapy session.

Every single time, I try so hard not to reach out to those two friends. It used to be I would force myself to talk to someone because that's what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to ask for help. But I think in this perfect world, there is somehow always the best friend group where there will always be one person who somehow has a perfect life and is always able to help.

But it's not. I have two whole friends I trust and love and who I can count on to make me feel better (even if it's a little delayed). And I hate myself just as much when they are there for me, because am I ever there for them? Do I even have any idea what their lives are like right now? I want to. I want to know so badly. But then I start wondering if they'd even want to talk about it with me. I'm a "if they want to talk about it they'll bring it up" kind of person (even though obviously I don't bring shit up when I need to talk about it), which means I rely on vague "How is your day going?" questions.

I have been the sober friend trying to talk to a drunk, self-destructive, mentally ill person. While I would of course do it again, I don't want to make anyone else do that for me.

Sometimes I wish I could make them hate me, or admit that they don't like me or that they don't care, because then maybe I wouldn't care either and I could make myself stop talking to them.

I get so sick of friends, close or casual, telling me how amazing I am and that I'm cool or whatever. I sometimes believe those two friends. Sometimes. I never believe anyone else, because they don't know me. They read my blog and think they do, or they've gone through all of college with me and think they do, or they've had a few conversations with drunk Dexter (who is far more entertaining than sober Dexter) and think they do.

I guess now is where you could get philosophical and ask, "Well do you ever really know someone?"

Look I don't shit about that. But every time someone says I can talk to them, I think to myself, "Can I? What would you actually do if I called you crying mid-panic attack, or in the middle of the night when I'm drunker than I've ever been and have a knife, or if I'm in a manic phase and beg you to do something with me only to cancel five minutes later because I've fallen through that cloud like a brick? If I called you and just asked you to come sit in my house with me while I read, would you actually? If I showed you just how pitiful, dysfunctional, and fucked up I am, would you really still want to talk to me?"

I can guess that the answer would be yes. But I guess it's also something you have to see to believe. And no one's seen me in a very long time.

Out of sight, out of mind. I have always been rather forgettable (I grew up with a boy who I met for the first time at least ten times, so you really can't argue with me here).

I laugh and cry at the same time because I'm starting to look like Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

It's suffocating to wear long sleeves to go buy milk.

It's terrifying to have to find a cardigan before answering the door.

It's nauseating to visit an empty campus to go look at that little courtyard where you were date-raped because you are finally trying to get that story out of you and turn it into something artistic, to be that quivering voice for all of those other people who will talk to me but no one else.

I had planned a far more coherent post, but that just kind of proves my point, doesn't it.

I am a lot crazier than you think, and I'm afraid you will leave when you figure that out. Or that you will leave when you try and fail to "fix" me. Or you will leave when I do start feeling better and don't "need" you anymore.

I am so afraid of being alone that I'd rather just be alone.

-Dexter




PS. Evanescence just came on my Spotify and the angst is just too much to resist.

The Updated Trauma Patient's Story: Four Years Later

She thought she’d forgotten it. Of course, just the thought that she’d forgotten it meant that she hadn’t. The fake pleasure of not thinking about something doesn’t actually bring any real comfort. The centipedes in her stomach didn’t stop their hourly trek around her insides and her lungs didn’t fill any easier. But there was a certain fog in her head, letting her pretend that it had never happened and that she’s fine. If it happened to come to mind she would put it out of her mind, one way or another. As long as she didn’t have to think about it and acknowledge the bugs in her stomach and the guilty shame haunting her head.

But being in the psych ward really makes her think, especially when a psychologist sits down and starts asking her about her life. He pulls at the strings until she unravels and the story is out. She’s never told a soul before and reliving the moment makes it seem so much realer than she remembers. Will the doctor be mad at her? Tell her all the things she’s done wrong? But as she finishes her story, she frowns a little, ending with a quiet, “I guess it wasn’t my fault after all.”

No, the psychologist answers. Not at all. I’m glad you can see that. He tells her to think about it more and not be afraid of thinking about it. She promises she will.

Later on she sits in the dayroom, watching her fellow patients and dutifully thinking about that night. It’s hard to remember the details and it’s even harder to confront the emotions that come with them.

Confusion, worry, fear, disgust, shame, guilt, terror.

It was almost pleasant, feeling hands slide up her calves, then back down, then back up, then back down. But behind the pleasure is confusion: something is not right. Those hands are not supposed to be there, and she really doesn’t think she likes it anymore. The hands slide higher up her thighs and she starts to get a little worried about what is happening, but she can’t open her eyes to look around.

The warmth of the hands seep through her jeans as they go all the way back down her legs, then all the way back up. They skim her hips and go up her sides, then all the way back down. Back up, back down. She settles into the discomfort of the dream, feeling helpless to escape and not knowing what to do. Her own hands won’t respond to push the stranger away.

At some point the hands go to other places and fear starts to take hold. Her sweater isn’t thick enough to hide her breasts and she cringes in her sleep, trying to twist away but finding it alarmingly difficult to move. The hands go back to her ankles, then go back up. This time they find the space between her thighs and she instinctively closes her legs tightly, whimpering. She desperately tries to wake up, desperately tries to convince herself that she is still asleep.

Someone is telling her to wake up. Yes, yes, I want to wake up. I want this to have been a dream. She finally gets her eyes open and look up to see him looking at her worriedly. She asks how long she was asleep. He says he didn’t even know she was. This scares her for some reason.

She wants to tell her boyfriend what happened and why she is worried. But she feels dirty and guilty and ashamed. What if he is mad at her for letting someone else touch her? Because she did let him. She should’ve been able to stop him, to realize what was happening, to wake up. Her already weak self-esteem and strong self-hate die and blossom in kind. How could she have let it happen? She decides to never tell a soul and locks the memory up inside.

Back in the psych ward the memory has been unlocked. She is finding it hard to breathe and the centipedes in her stomach are running rampant as if trying to escape. She can’t handle the people around her and she can’t handle the feeling of those hands and the overwhelming sense that she’d never been asleep. She finds the nurse.

The psychologist tells her to write an unsent letter to the man who touched her, to confront her own feelings about what happened. She does so after a day of telling herself that she is brave. In her letter, she tells the man that she cannot feel guilty anymore and refuses to blame herself for what happened. She says that she will never let him touch her again in any way, casual or otherwise. She will stand up for herself and say no. She will be brave. She later reads the letter to her psychologist and says she is going to tell her boyfriend about what happened. The psychologist approves.

She is still scared, but she is determined to be brave. The memory is unlocked and dealt with, out in the open for a trusted few to understand. She will no longer let her fear and self-loathing consume and limit her. Instead, she will be brave, raise her head, and walk on.

Years pass, and she is still scared and still trying to be brave. She still remembers, still ducks instinctively when she sees a shock of white-blond hair. She scans every face in the room just to be sure. The nightmares are still there. The paranoia has become a way of life for her, such that it doesn't even feel like paranoia. It just is. She still feels guilty, still feels ashamed, still feels like a dirty slut.

Yes, she will be brave. She has been brave. She is brave.

If only she didn't have to be brave just to exist.

Not A Hero (Not the Video Game)

For what seems like forever, I have been in a seriously deep pit of depression. A bottomless pit, and yet somehow that's where I am: the bottom.

This particular forever I suppose started during my last period. It feels stupid and shameful to admit, but periods are incredibly rough on me. Usually they aren't bad physically (though this past one was debilitating and I actually felt like I was dying), but they affect me mentally more than they should. It's like one solid week of me not being on my medication, that's the easiest way to explain it.

I don't know if I would go as far as saying I get suicidal, because my cats if nothing else keep me going because I know Palmer doesn't like anyone else and he would be upset if I were gone. I don't get suicidal, but I do get reckless. I'm less careful, I do things I shouldn't, I ignore the warning labels on my medication.

My period ended around my 23rd birthday, which was a very depressing day. I certainly was not expecting a surprise party with fifteen hundred people (that would have been terrifying, actually), but all I really wanted was to see someone. But no one could or wanted to. Okay, shout out to the one who did bring me Canes at like, midnight. But I just got really depressed and lonely and drank too much and watched a really bad movie by DW Griffith.

It didn't get much better as time went on. I made the terrible mistake of trying to read Fifty Shades of Grey simply because I wanted to see if the writing really was as bad as I'd heard. Sometimes reading really terrible writing can be fun and humorous and good for the self-esteem. I was not, however, expecting to have a three hour panic attack complete with crying and shaking. I have meds to take for anxiety attacks, but I've only ever taken half of one. I took two during that episode and went super numb and can't really remember what happened after that. I passed out and felt like shit the next morning.

Since then, I've been having panic attacks more frequently, though none as bad as that one. That shitty book just awakened all these things that I hadn't thought about in a while, that I hadn't had problems with in a while. Then suddenly they're all back and it's overwhelming and just plain sucks.

And now I'm here. The past two or three days have been absolute hell. I've been depressed for no discernible reason, super panicky. I haven't been grocery shopping in a very, very long time. Right now I'm living off of Ritz crackers and peanut butter, trying to conserve the cans of not-so-great-soup I have in my cabinet. Part of it is that I'm genuinely worried about money because I'm about to move and I need deposit money and rent money and all of this stuff, and I won't start getting paid by the University until probably September.

But part of it is that I don't want to leave my house, and I certainly don't want to go to the store. I don't want to have to make decisions about what food to buy, and I don't want to have to exchange pleasantries with the cashier. I don't want anyone to look at me.

I've had a few good moments. I took out the trash the other day, which is really rare for me because I'm terrified of my creepy neighbor who always tries to talk to me and says creepy things. I've packed a very small bit for the move to Florida. I have done a few small things.

But I haven't really been eating, which kind of bit me in the ass yesterday when my body started shutting down and it was hard to go up and down the stairs and I felt like I was going to vomit and was really shaky and all of this stuff. I did eat, eventually, and miraculously felt better.

Yeah, eating is important. I'm not good at it.

I think I might've mentioned that I'm basically mentally disabled, and that certainly affects feeding myself. It makes me feel absolutely pathetic and pitiful. I am fully capable of feeding myself, and yet...can't always do it. It's stupid.

A few nights ago I drank too much again (have I mentioned that I'm becoming an alcoholic? Trying to nip that in the bud before it gets too far...) and took my anxiety meds that you're absolutely not supposed to take with alcohol. I found my old knife and played with it too much. I wasn't outright trying to kill myself, but I admit that I was hoping I just wouldn't wake up after taking my anxiety meds and going to sleep for the night.

I don't want to die, not really. There's a lot going for me right now. I've somehow gotten into a really competitive and amazing graduate school and somehow gotten a really nice apartment and somehow have friends who still love me even though I constantly make them worry that I might be dead. I want to go to grad school. I want to experience life and read books and get more cats. I don't want to die.

But when everything hurts so bad and you can't find something to blame it on, you end up turning on yourself. If there's no external source for your misery, it's got to be coming from you, right?

Useless piece of shit who only likes to complain and make herself miserable and draw attention to herself by telling all of her friends she's worried she's going to hurt herself.

These are lies. I know this. I know this very well. I know I have an illness that, while treatable, will probably never fully go away. I know that I will have better days and that every day will not suck like the past few weeks have. I know these things.

But it's still so hard. And then I get on here and try to write inspiring things to help other people who also struggle.

But don't you see? I'm just a massive hypocrite who is spiraling out of control and has no grasp on her life.

I'm not a role model.

I'm not an inspiration.

I'm not a hero.

I'm literally just a psychotic twenty-something girl (who apparently looks seventeen according to the entire population of Florida) who just so happens to know how to write well.

I am certainly glad that people know they aren't alone in their struggles. And I am certainly glad to talk about it and to be there for you (as long as I myself am not about to go over the edge, cause then I will not be much help). I am certainly glad that this blog somehow helps people, whether it's to understand others or themselves, or to know that they aren't alone, or to know that surviving hell is possible. I am certainly glad that you are still here and you are reading this.

But I'm just me. And that's nothing special. There are countless people just like me, who go through what I do and who do it better.

I read through my old blog posts recently, and there's one about me wanting to inspire people but knowing that I'm too much of a hypocrite to do it properly. So this is a follow-up post, saying that I don't know if "inspire" is really the proper word anymore.

I also had a good post about hope and encouragement that I'd completely forgotten about. Funnily enough, my own post made me cry and promise to keep trying for just one more day.

Okay so maybe I am inspiring. Whatever. Shut up. Leave me alone.

I have no idea where I'm going with this. But I'm not a hero and I'm not trying to be. I'm just a person, just like you. And, you know, you've gotten just as far as I have. You're still here too, and that's important.

If I'm a fucking hero, then you sure as hell are too. Don't forget it.

--Dex

Reasons Why I Hate Myself and Why They Are All False

You're asexual. You're never going to have a lasting romantic relationship because of it.

Not true. I was engaged once, remember?

Oh yes, what a happy relationship that was.

Shut up.

You say "asexual" and people assume you're aromantic too. Even if they didn't, they'd steer clear.

That's their fault, not mine. If they don't care enough to ask or to assume, then they obviously aren't worth it anyway.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Guess it's a good thing you're ace anyway, since so many people have touched you now.

That wasn't my fault and it does not make me dirty or broken.

It's cute when you pretend like you believe that. You can't even keep platonic friends. No one likes you. You're annoying, needy, and constantly faking some emotional disaster just for attention.

Not true. Everyone's a little annoying and needy sometimes, but I actually have proof that people at the very least put up with me without too much irritation.

See, you can't even fully commit to saying people like you. You're so afraid of everything. You won't take the trash out because of your neighbor and you won't go to class because people might casually glance at you.

That is true. But considering those crippling fears, you've got to admit it's pretty impressive that I do actually take out the cat litter and do actually go to class half the time.

You're failing math.

That's an exaggeration.

Your house is a fucking disaster.

Yes, well. Y'know I've been involved in seven dances and three conferences this semester, on top of the measly seventeen hours of school, the occasional work day, and being chronically ill. I think I shouldn't be so hard on myself in the cleaning department.

Speaking of work. When was the last time you did that? You're such a difficult employee and you're lucky if you even still have a job.

Very true, I am lucky. I do wonder about this, but I know I also do the best I can, and any and all trouble I've had here has legitimately been out of my control, whether other people believe me or not.

You're mentally incapable of holding a full time job, you realize that, right? You're just going to end up living with your mom.

I refuse to believe that. No, I could not hold a regular full time job, but that's not what I'm after.

Oh yeah, the starving artist thing. You'll be good at that, since you don't eat anyway.

I'm working on that one.

Sure. There's the whole cutting thing. You working on that? That's pretty gross. And shameful. I'm ashamed to even know you.

Addictions are hard. Recovery is a neverending process.

You're ugly.

Thanks. Rationally speaking, I think that might be an exaggeration.

Since when are you rational? And why are you such a shitty daughter, btws?

It's complicated, and you know it. I love my family. I may not be the best family member, but I do hope they all know I love them, even when I don't talk to them.

You're kind of an idiot. You don't know how to talk to people, you can't do anything right, and it takes you like, five minutes just to remember how to subtract.

Okay, well. First off. Even if you use the argument of me growing out of my intelligence, somehow I still got into grad school and got an assistantship so I can't be that stupid. I may not be socially smart or mathematically smart, but please remember that, while those are important and valid, that's not all there is in life.

So remind me, what the heck is the point of a dancer who physically cannot dance due to injury?

I mean, at least I have a good excuse for not being very good.

Remember that time you had a panic attack while watching the stars? On a peaceful, relaxing night? Ha, good times.

Again, not my fault. That's out of my control and there is no shame in that.

Or the dozens of times in class, while eating, sitting calmly with friends, or on any of the other nice happy days of your life? Lolz.

That does not make me broken, shameful, or less of a person.

Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you'll believe it one day.

Maybe.

You're probably going to commit suicide one day.

But not today.

The only reason you're even writing this is because you don't believe any of it, and you're trying to convince yourself.

Yes. Because that's better than accepting it.

Asexuality vs. Genophobia (fear of sex)

The usual disclaimer: I speak from my own experiences and no one else's. By no means assume that all aces or assault victims are like me.

I struggle with sex a lot, for a variety of reasons. Whether it was intentional or not, I grew up being taught that sex was a sin and terrible and disgusting and awful (and that boys thought about it all the time). Premarital sex was ESPECIALLY awful and of the devil. So from then on out, any time anything remotely "sexual" happened, I was overwhelmed with guilt, whether I was responsible or not.

Asexuality already struggles to be recognized as a legitimate orientation, and I feel like I sometimes just make it worse. I've been sexually abused and assaulted, as well as being emotionally manipulated into sexual acts. My father left, then soon after my ex-fiance left, and I've been told that all of this would obviously turn me off sex.

I mean, yeah. All of those things are legitimate reasons for someone to develop a fear of sex or distrust of sex. No doubt about that.

So, am I actually asexual or just scared of it? I debated myself on this quite a lot, then reached out to other asexuals to ask their opinion. I researched it, I thought about it, I talked about it. I finally decided.

Yes, sometimes I am just plain terrified of sex, from a casual touch of the hand to, y'know, intercourse. I have nightmares about it, flashbacks about it, panic attacks about it. But that fear does not control my whole life and does not affect me all the time.

Sex just isn't really my thing. It's gross. It's messy. It's a lot of effort. It takes forever and people for some reason like it to last as long as possible.

If I really loved someone, I could see myself compromising on the sex. It's taken me an extremely long time to even start to understand that some people DO need sex and that it can be an important part of a relationship. I would never just become a doormat for someone or allow anyone to manipulate me into things because that's what I should do for someone I love, but there's a line between manipulating and compromising.

So no, I do not consider myself to be operating solely on fear of sex.

Antidepressants can sometimes affect a person's sex drive, which I understand. And I guess it's possible that it's affecting mine a little bit. BUT I was in a relationship before I got put on medication, and I wasn't big on the sexual activities back then either. The only reason I think I even did them was because again, manipulative bastard fiance.

But anyway.

I have no doubt that my assault and medication do affect my sexuality and my sex drive, but they do not control my sex drive.

Even if they did, I would pick my medication over sex. I think that alone is kind of telling. I'd rather be happy than have a sex drive.

Honestly I don't like to be super public about my sexuality because it seems like a private topic and I'm worried about offending people or upsetting people who think I should be a completely innocent heterosexual female. But that's not me. And I can't go on pretending like it is while inside I'm thinking I'm broken for not wanting sex.

Yes, my sexuality is my business, no question there. If people ask, I have every right to ignore them. But it's an important topic, and it's bigger than just me.

And this way, when people ask about it I can just send them this instead of try to explain it all over again.

--Dex

PS. For more info on asexuality and gray sexuality, I recommend visiting: AVEN or AmeliaAce.

An Honest Disability Letter

Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today due to my disability.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today due to my illegitimate disability.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because the idea of being around people makes me completely lock up.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I had a nightmare about sexual assault and woke up crying, and for an irrational reason I expect my assaulter to be in your classroom.

Thanks,
Dexter


Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I'm worthless and there's no point anyway.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because if I let go of these crayons I'll go cut my arms up, in which case I still wouldn't be in class because I'd be cutting my arms up.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I've been cutting my arms up and the shame is eating me away inside and I can't bear to be seen.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I had a panic attack in my first class and didn't even make it halfway through, so I'll be hiding in Starbucks crying and unable to move.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I am convinced everyone hates and/or pities me and I can't bear the shame of being around them.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because there are students in the class who are dramatic and verbally attack things that I both do and don't care about, but the antagonistic atmosphere makes me freak out and I'd just have to leave class anyway.

Thanks,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I will not be in class today because I can't do anything right.

I'm sorry,
Dexter



Dear Professor,

I wanted to make sure you knew that my absences have nothing to do you with your or your class, and that I enjoy your class very much. You are a great teacher and I never want my actions to represent a disrespect or laziness towards you.

It's not you, it's me.

Thanks,
Dexter

It was not my fault.

He should be ashamed, not me.
It was not my fault.

This is my mantra for the evening. The weekend. The month. My life. Yeah.

The Guy from freshmen year is getting somewhere with his music. Good for him. Not really. I'm upset. Very upset. Stressed out about it. Can't focus. Had nightmares about it last night and it's only going to be worse if I ever try to go to sleep tonight.

Why is his life going well? Why is he getting what he wants? Why does his life go on while mine constantly stops and stutters?

There are no answers to those questions which bugs me a bit.

Googled how to deal with seeing your abuser/rapist/etc. in the real world in the futile hope I'd find something that would help. And yeah, there are some useful things I guess. Nothing life-changing, which I expected. Reading something on a screen is hardly going to make my life suddenly functional.

I have to remember that he should be the one who is ashamed of it, not me. He should be embarrassed to see me in public, should feel the need to apologize, should be scared. Should not try to talk to me, to get my attention, to act like we're friends. He is to blame, not me. It was not my fault.

This is the worst post I've ever written. I'm too anxious to write in complete sentences. I just wrote "he should be ashamed NOT ME" all over my arm (which coincidentally is covered in self-abuse scars) so I have to keep seeing it until it smears off. I'm wearing long sleeves tomorrow anyway, so it doesn't matter.

What if he becomes a super popular music artist? A household name? He's talented and persistent, so who's to say he couldn't make it? But how the hell am I supposed to handle that? I will never be able to escape him if that happens.

Will that be my claim to fame? "Yeah, he's pretty cool. He slipped me a date rape drug back in school. #connections."

I survived. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was not my fault.

I have to go teach Australian dance to a bunch of children tomorrow. I just need this to be over.  People frown on suicide though. I don't want to do the suicide. I just want to be okay. To not feel like this.

He should be ashamed, not me.
It was not my fault.
I survived.

The One About Sexual Assault

I wrote my last post solely for myself. That's how I deal with things: I write about them. It helps me figure out exactly what's going on in my head. But I wasn't sure I wanted to actually tell people what had happened, so I wrote it in the third person and just posted it. I figured people could take it how they wanted. Apparently I'm not as sneaky as I thought, because everyone I've talked to knew it was about me. But whatever.

Anyway. You would not believe the number of messages, texts, and face-to-face conversations I've had about that post. So many people have told me that I'm brave or that my story was powerful or that it means a lot that I wrote what I did. I honestly hated those conversations because I wasn't sure what to say, but the ones that sucked even more were the ones where my friends would tell me that the same thing happened to them. I never would've guessed. All I know is that I wish it hadn't, and I don't want it to happen to anyone else.

So this time I'm telling the whole story. I want you to understand exactly what happened and exactly why it scared and scarred me so much.

I knew the Guy Who Touched Me beforehand. We were friends, kind of. He liked me more than that, but we'd had that conversation already and I was very clear about The Captain and how I didn't like being touched even casually anyway and all that stuff. Even then, the Guy would still poke me or hug me or tap me on the shoulder and stuff like that. Things that don't bother everyone, but always bother me, especially if I've told you specifically not to.

But anyway. I honestly really liked the Guy as a friend. He's cool, nice, funny, and musically talented. But he's also a flirt and fairly immature. Still, I wanted to be friends with him and I didn't like being mean to him. He would always get really depressed if I was short with him or got upset when he touched me, which made me feel awfully guilty. No matter how hard I tried to not be guilty, I couldn't help it. And that's probably one of the reasons why he kept on casually touching me even when it made my skin crawl.

Still, he was never mean to me.

One night he was staying up late on an outside patio kind of place on campus. His band was going to play for a wedding and he had to practice. He asked me to keep him company, and since I couldn't sleep, I said sure, what the heck. I had a test the next morning so I brought my notes and studied. There were other people out there too, playing games and doing stuff like that. It was fine for a while; he practiced, I studied.

At some point he mentioned being thirsty. I, being always prepared, pulled out my water bottle and let him have some. I don't remember how he drank from it. Not until recently did I consider the idea that he put something in my water. The way guys use roofies was explained to me, and the Guy could've easily done it. I don't even remember watching him while he drank, if he drank at all.

Anyway, he gave me back the water. We continued doing our thing, but I started getting tired. I don't remember the details, but I remember talking a lot more than usual. I honestly can't remember what I said and what I just thought. I was on a bench, leaning back against a table. My legs were in a chair across from me. I fell asleep on the table.

I remember feeling his hands on my legs at first, and eventually they went up my sides and down my arms. Later on they went to more personal spaces. I can't remember if they went under my sweater or stayed outside. I can't even remember what I had on under the sweater. I'm fairly confident that nothing got under my jeans, but sometimes I really just don't know.

I also don't know how long it took my to wake up. I remember him saying my name over and over again, and when I woke up he was sitting in the char, my legs in his lap, looking at me with concern. I asked how long I'd been asleep, and he said he didn't even know I was asleep. I don't remember what time it was when I fell asleep, but when I headed back to my dorm the sun was rising. I got about an hour and a half of sleep before I had to get up and go to class.

We were still friendly for a while after that, but something bugged me every time I thought about it. I don't remember even giving myself time to decide if what had happened was a dream or reality. I just locked it inside somewhere and refused to think about it, refused to tell anyone because of the shame I'd have to deal with if I admitted it was real.

Seeing the Guy got worse and worse. Eventually it got to where just the sight of him would fill me with terror and I've experienced several panic attacks just by seeing him. Suddenly I can't breathe and my stomach feels like it's about to explode. I generally lose my appetite for the rest of the day and it's painfully hard to calm down after one of these episodes.

Then just the idea of running into him made me scared. So scared that I stopped going to the cafeteria, which meant I stopped eating. I didn't leave my dorm at all if possible. I started getting even more skittish around other people. When I did go out on campus I was constantly on the lookout, constantly on edge. When The Captain asked me if the Guy had done anything to make me so scared, I told him he'd never done a thing. I didn't know why I was so scared of him.

But then I when I started talking to a doctor she asked me some questions about trauma and listed off symptoms. I said no to all of them, even though every question made me think of the Guy. Paranoid, going out of my way to avoid certain situations, unable to stop thinking about it, etc. Eventually I confided in a psychologist, and we delved pretty deep into what happened. He unlocked the memory and I started learning healthier ways to deal with it instead of hiding it.

Recently I was doing research for a class and stumbled across a page about emotional/psychological trauma. The symptoms all sounded familiar. And all the things it told you not to do, I'd done. Isolating yourself, hiding it inside, not telling anyone...I'd done them all. I keep thinking that if only I'd admitted that it had happened, I might not have fallen so far into fear and depression and all that other crap. But I never once considered that I might actually be suffering from emotional trauma.

I guess the point of all this is to try and educate people on safety. When you hear sexual assault, most people think of rape. And it doesn't matter that people tell you it's common for the victim to know the assaulter, you still don't quite believe it. You don't look around at the people around you and think, Gosh, he might sexually assault me tonight. I mean, why would you?

I'm not saying you should be paranoid and think the worst of everyone. I guess all I'm saying is don't give your water bottle to people. And if you do, for pete's sake tell someone. Don't you dare hold it in because I can promise you it's just going to eat you from the inside out.

Dexter

A Trauma Patient's Story

She thought she’d forgotten it. Of course, just the thought that she’d forgotten it meant that she hadn’t. The fake pleasure of not thinking about something doesn’t actually bring any real comfort. The centipedes in her stomach didn’t stop their hourly trek around her insides and her lungs didn’t fill any easier. But there was a certain fog in her head, letting her pretend that it had never happened and that she’s fine. If it happened to come to mind she would put it out of her mind, one way or another. As long as she didn’t have to think about it and acknowledge the bugs in her stomach and the guilty shame haunting her head.

But being in the psych ward really makes her think, especially when a psychologist sits down and starts asking her about her life. He pulls at the strings until she unravels and the story is out. She’s never told a soul before and reliving the moment makes it seem so much realer than she remembers. Will the doctor be mad at her? Tell her all the things she’s done wrong? But as she finishes her story, she frowns a little, ending with a quiet, “I guess it wasn’t my fault after all.”

No, the psychologist answers. Not at all. I’m glad you can see that. He tells her to think about it more and not be afraid of thinking about it. She promises she will.

Later on she sits in the dayroom, watching her fellow patients and dutifully thinking about that night. It’s hard to remember the details and it’s even harder to confront the emotions that come with them. Confusion, worry, fear, disgust, shame, guilt, terror. It was almost pleasant, feeling hands slide up her calves, then back down, then back up, then back down. But behind the pleasure is confusion: something is not right. Those hands are not supposed to be there, and she really doesn’t think she likes it anymore. The hands slide higher up her thighs and she starts to get a little worried about what is happening, but she can’t open her eyes to look around. The warmth of the hands seep through her jeans as they go all the way back down her legs, then all the way back up. They skim her hips and go up her sides, then all the way back down. Back up, back down. She settles into the discomfort of the dream, feeling helpless to escape and not knowing what to do. Her own hands won’t respond to push the stranger away.

At some point the hands go to other places and fear starts to take hold. Her sweater isn’t thick enough to hide her breasts and she cringes in her sleep, trying to twist away but finding it alarmingly difficult to move. The hands go back to her ankles, then go back up. This time they find the space between her thighs and she instinctively closes her legs tightly, whimpering. She desperately tries to wake up, desperately tries to convince herself that she is still asleep.

Someone is telling her to wake up. Yes, yes, I want to wake up. I want this to have been a dream. She finally gets her eyes open and look up to see him looking at her worriedly. She asks how long she was asleep. He says he didn’t even know she was. This scares her for some reason.

She wants to tell her boyfriend what happened and why she is worried. But she feels dirty and guilty and ashamed. What if he is mad at her for letting someone else touch her? Because she did let him. She should’ve been able to stop him, to realize what was happening, to wake up. Her already weak self-esteem and strong self-hate die and blossom in kind. How could she have let it happen? She decides to never tell a soul and locks the memory up inside.

Back in the psych ward the memory has been unlocked. She is finding it hard to breathe and the centipedes in her stomach are running rampant as if trying to escape. She can’t handle the people around her and she can’t handle the feeling of those hands and the overwhelming sense that she’d never been asleep. She finds the nurse.

The psychologist tells her to write an unsent letter to the man who touched her, to confront her own feelings about what happened. She does so after a day of telling herself that she is brave. In her letter, she tells the man that she cannot feel guilty anymore and refuses to blame herself for what happened. She says that she will never let him touch her again in any way, casual or otherwise. She will stand up for herself and say no. She will be brave. She later reads the letter to her psychologist and says she is going to tell her boyfriend about what happened. The psychologist approves.

She is still scared, but she is determined to be brave. The memory is unlocked and dealt with, out in the open for a trusted few to understand. She will no longer let her fear and self-loathing consume and limit her. Instead, she will be brave, raise her head, and walk on.