They’re crawling like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed

Possible TW


Rape is.

It is the complete domination of one soul, spirit and body.  It reaches inside of your mind and body, tearing through any defenses you may have.  It takes up residence in you like a festering tumor, and then send tendrils of despair into every atom of your being.

It makes you hate everyone and everything, including yourself.  You believe you created the situation in which the rape took place.  You believe that you were the reason, the cause, and ultimately, the invoker of it’s poison.

Rape is the reason you can’t get out of bed in the morning, preferring to cup your vagina in protection under the blankets.  It’s the reason you look at every person in your life afterward as a potential predator.  It’s the reason you want to shatter the reflection of dirty, dirty girl in the mirror.

Rape is the brillo pad you use 30 years later in the shower to scrub away the ghost fingers that you can still feel on your skin.  It’s the scars on your arms when it gets so big in your head, you do anything to try and feel something other than dirty and used up, like a condom in the bushes.  It’s the drugs you take to sleep, even for a little while with no dreams.  It’s the next drink, and the one after that, and the one after that.  It’s the night terrors, and the sounds and voices no one else ever hears, and the doubled locked doors, and the checking on your baby, and the quiet tears that you cry when your spouse is asleep so you don’t wake them up and cause a scene.

Rape is hearing your father slip into your room.  It’s the feeling of his fingers inside you and pushing your legs apart, even though your legs are so little and the joints don’t move that far apart.  It’s the bedwetting you purposely do so he is disgusted and leaves you alone.

Rape is seeing your own child and thinking, ” She’s too pretty, too tempting for them.” and being afraid for her, even though nothing has happened yet.

Rape is the little girl trapped in your head, being chased by the boogeyman all day, every day, all night, every night, and you can’t sleep or think or change how fucked up your head is, even now, when your all grown up.

Rape is me.  It is something that I am the survivor of.  It is the defining factor to who I am.  It’s is the person I have become, because nothing else I do or say is bigger than that in my life.


Shadow in the distance

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone



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I’m a ghost. No one can see me.

Don’t break the silence, don’t let me in…

Today is a hard day.  It’s 8:52am, and already I wish I had never woken up.  Granted I’ve only gotten about 45 minutes of sleep, so that may play a role in how I’m feeling, but realistically, I know it’s not a huge factor.

I have daydreams of falling.  They are so powerful, I can feel the air being pulled out of my lungs on the way down.  The mind is an incredible thing.  It can make you do and say things that can make you seem brave and fierce.  It can convey love, disdain, regret or hatred.

Did you know….

The suicide rate for Canadians, as measured by the WHO, is 15 per 100,000 people. Yet, according to numerous studies, rates are even higher among specific groups. For example, the suicide rate for Inuit peoples living in Northern Canada is between 60 and 75 per 100,000 people, significantly higher than the general population. Other populations at an increased risk of suicide include youth, the elderly, inmates in correctional facilities, people with a mental illness, and those who have previously attempted suicide. According to Statistics Canada, between 1997 and 1999, there was a 10 percent increase in suicides across Canada, from 3,681 to 4,074. In Ontario alone, suicides rose from 930 in 1997 to 1,032 in 2001.

That’s a lotta unhappy people.

The most popular way to kill yourself is via gunshot.  This poses several issues for me.  I don’t like guns.  I don’t own a gun.  No one I know has a gun, that I know of, but I doubt they would lend it to me.

Drug OD is the next most popular way to die.  That would be a lot easier, and in all likelihood, less messy and painful, though I’ve read that your body evacuates itself upon death.  That would be posthumously embarrassing.  I doubt I could “live that down”, if you’ll pardon the pun, in the afterlife.  No one would want to sit next to me.

There has to be a better place than this.

I’m supposed to be working – super busy day today.

I just can’t get my feet under me.  I can’t focus.  I feel like everything around me is playing on a movie screen, and I’m not an active participant.  I think the term is disassociate? I’m not connecting, and I don’t want to.   I would rather just curl up into a ball, crack open a bottle and get shitfaced.  This sobriety sucks ass, and is all too much work for this little engine.

I don’t understand why I’m here.  I don’t make anyone’s life better.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I “complicate”.


On me

All of this, everything is on me.  My fault.  My screw ups.  My sobriety.  My triggers.  There is nothing left in me to fight it anymore.  It’s never going to change.  Nothing will ever change.

I will let you down. I will make you hurt.

I let down everyone in my life.  I always have.  I try really hard to be good, and then I throw it all away when the chips are down.  I don’t understand why I’m still here.  There is no point at all for my life.  Ever time I try to do something good, I fuck it up by being me.  Breathing hurts right now.  Being aware feels like mind rape.  I am dirty and used up like an old condom.

Coping for me means destroying myself.  So be it.