Sewing machines

Like, I want to be grossed out by it but it really just makes me ride orgasmic waves of pleasure.

I guess Dali was right.

(I’m a monster)

it’s actually become quite frightening to me over the years, because if I can’t be perfect, I’m miserable.

So basically I’m miserable.

ihopericksantorum:

I hope that Rick Santorum is followed around by the popular girls from the local middle school, and every time he tries to speak, they say “Ew.” “Seriously.” “So gross.”

I keep hitting the highest highs and the lowest lows.
Sometimes I open my eyes and it’s bright and sweet and I’m almost drunk on how beautiful everything is, and especially that I’m happy about it.
And then I look in the mirror and see
ouch ouch
ouch
I don’t like this (and not just in a physical sense)
and I can’t slip out from under this weight,
And you know how in a nightmare you can’t run fast and your strength is just gone?
That’s how I feel most days

It’s still so much to ask of me, not to crawl back into bed every day
And I try

I’m barely existing in a lot of senses, I’m numb and slow and confused
on top of that

And most of all I’m sorry. I can’t give to you or anyone in the ways that I want
And if you asked me to explain it,
I couldn’t.

I wrote this when I was half-asleep after sex-positive discussion group. It ran really late so I was sleepy at the meeting and we went dumpstering afterwards too.
We all wrote down such painful things, and most of us shared them.
I did, because I can’t keep not saying it, and maybe to other people it seems like I talk about it a lot, (and maybe I do) but this shit needs to be talked about.

For me, at least. I try to avoid loose generalizations…anyway. I wrote this, and I wasn’t crying, but I felt like crying.


There’s a lot I want to get out of my heart right now and into words and I feel like I’m trying too hard to force this shit.
My nose is stuffy.

[deleted all this other nonsense]

The really sad part is I can’t connect to people in any other way.
I could never tell them this.
When someone I’m attracted to looks me in the eyes, my gaze slips.
I can’t speak correctly.
I can’t move my hands the way I want to.
I trip and stumble everywhere, and it’s killing me.

Because I know if I ever kiss them, if I hold their hand, if I smell them and feel them and bond with them,
I
will
hate
them


afterwards.




And I can’t help that. It’s always happened, and it always hurts either me or them.
Because I’m so fucked in the head, and it’s not their fault, and I can’t even tell them about it most of the time without sounding nuts.




Sex, for me, is dripping with distaste.


It’s how they look at me, it’s their hands in my hair, their teeth on my lips.
…..
It is the fact that I am fucked, literally and figuratively, no matter what.
….


….



I’m such a whiny bitch sometimes.


I make these lists, of grievances, of complaints and unresolved issues with people and myself, as if this will somehow create closure.
And it won’t.
I still haven’t fully let go.

All it takes is someone handling my cell phone.
Calling me “babe”
Snaking their skanky arm around my waist, possessive and sick.
Putting their hands on my head.
Joking about violence, about rape.
Being ignorant.
Grabbing my arm the wrong way.
Kissing me.
Holding me.
And I’m right back there again:

I’m seven years old, sitting next to my cousin and he’s touching me in the way I don’t want.
Or I’m crying on the couch for the third straight hour as my dad pushes my mental well-being over the edge.
I’m trapped in a room with no window and the door is locked.
I’m drunk and lying under Ryan, eyes closed, mind blank, willpower absolutely broken.
Or I’m on my knees before Jeremy and he’s laughing, pushing me down, slapping me.
He’s choking me, he’s telling me what I am, which is
dirt
slut
skank
whore
bitch
stupid
inferior
low
wrong
incapable
evil
I’m on my knees and he’s hurting me, telling me to suck it up and not be such a bitch.

They are all telling me these things, when a person triggers me.
I can hear it and smell it and see it, I can taste it and I wish I could make it stop.
God, I’ve tried.

And yet,
I still want that.

….

I want it when I see it but when I have it, I can’t even enjoy.
It’s just pain.



I think I need serious help.

Dear Me in 5 Years,

I hope you’re well. I hope you and Drew still love each other. If you don’t, I hope you walked away from it loving yourself, stronger, and I hope your head is still up.
I hope you’re sticking needles in people and drawing all the time.
I hope you’ve been to therapy, and if you haven’t, I hope you’ve continued to push yourself to heal.
I hope you’re able to look in the mirror and love what you see.
I don’t even hope that you’re skinny in 5 years. I just hope that you love what you see in the mirror.
I hope you remember to tell yourself, “I love you” every day.
I hope you have a claw-footed tub and I hope your clothes are scented with lavender.
I hope you are writing and painting and drawing. I hope you’ve learned to do pull-ups.
I hope you have at least one if not several close, dependable friends. Friends you can call at any hour of the day and they’re available to talk to you.
I hope you smile.
Start now.

If I can pull self-worth out of my own hollowness.
If I can derive energy from listlessness.
If I can smile when I wake up in the morning.
If I can smile when I look in the mirror.

If I can love myself more than I loved you.

And I guess, looking back at this really grim scrapbook of semi-consensual freaky dark shit, I have gleaned at least one solid truth from this.
And that is: the next one can’t be like the rest of you.

I just can’t do it.
I can’t be with people because I hate myself, my body.
The flesh that I’m living in right now, as hard as I try to love it, to cherish it, to care for it, I want it to be anything else. Anyone else.
With any other face, another set of genitals, another body entirely. Another me.

Because I’m all busted up.
The scars, the tears, the bruises, the breaks and cracks and damaged tissues, yeah, they heal.
But my mind hasn’t.
When I look in the mirror, I see some of you standing behind me.
I see hands on my throat.
I see teeth on my skin.
I see fists, I see fingers in my cunt and curled in my hair.

I see the ugly, stupid, skanky, broken, fat, silent, angry girl you always, directly or indirectly told me I was.
And I just don’t know how to see anything else.

I rarely admit this, but I’m feeling expansive today, so why not.

I am starved for a human being to hold and be held by.

No one wants to do this without expecting some sort of sexual progression in the deal.
I even tell them I’m not interested beforehand and they’re like OH NO I WOULDN’T DO THAT IT’S OKAY
but they can’t seem to help themselves.

And I never say no.
Because I can’t speak.
It’s gotten to the point where I would rather just fuck them than vomit up the truth from my gut, yank it out with force and pain to show it to them, only to have them kiss me and say, it’s in the past, baby.

It’s better to pretend that I want it than be pushed and guided, whined at and guilt-tripped, kissed and shoved into a corner, my truth rejected and pushed under the covers with my panties.
It’s better to sigh and to please, than to deal.

I’m romancing my demons for once, trying to draw them out.

I’m flattened under fear.

I’m facing the darkest.

I think the only thing that will really make me feel empowered is to raise a little girl and teach her differently than I was taught and teach her that she can be whomever and however she wants, teach her to fight and to speak.

Awful sad bullshit is inevitable but at least any small girl-child that I am in charge of will have the tools to fight and the courage to tell someone.

Childhood sexual abuse has obliterated every ounce of intimacy I’m capable of. I’m completely paralyzed, sexually. The idea of sex is lovely but in practice, being touched like that is abominable. I shut down completely to survive it, 9 times out of 10. And the one time I can enjoy it and feel it all the way, is an emotional roller coaster. I cry after every time. I feel overwhelmed and want to retreat to a safe, unfeeling place.

I don’t know how to heal. I don’t know how to be touched without feeling gut-wrenching revulsion. I’m not sure where to go with this, but I’m scared that I’m flawed and broken and that I’ll be like this forever.

It’s making me so sad.

I’ve made so much progress. I smile every day. I stand up straight and walk out the door with a confidence I haven’t felt in so long. I find the bright side as much as I can. I’ve chosen love and happiness and positivity for myself.

I still see the darkest things in the mirror. I still see scum behind me and I can’t wash it off and it’s stuck to my shadow and I can’t get away.

This is the realest pain of my life and I thought I’d already experienced that. I’m such a child.