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My closest friends and I were marathon conversing. We did this often. We sat. We ate. We drank, sometimes. We smoked a lot of marijuana. We let our minds wander. We kept it organic. There were no set topics. There were no polite limits. We talked and followed our minds.
Sometimes, I got ugly. I cried in a ball on the couch. Rae and Lara—the only two constants—sat calmly and listened. They asked about my feelings in the moment and assured me that my depressed perceptions were off. When the tears subsided, I felt tired.
What thoughts led to that attack? Lara wondered. She lives with me. We had a sexual relationship. Yet, she dated other women, and so did I. It is too unconventional—for me—at times. What does that make us?
I love her. She loves me. We love our life. We love the challenge. I feel myself growing.
Lara is shaking on the couch. She rocks back and forth with her face in her hands. She is sobbing. I’ve never seen someone cry so hard. Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Make it stop. I check the clock—8:35 PM—and make a mental note: usually in the evenings and the mornings, when she’s tired, that’s when she loses her hold. I can feel him on my body, she cries. The flashback completely surrounds her. She can smell the bleach on the sheets. She can see the mirrored wall of the room where it happened. It was supposed to be a game—a kinky exploration. She had a rape fantasy for as long as she could remember. She didn’t understand why. Her boyfriend—another wounded child, I’m sure—had an idea. Some rape fantasy role-playing might hit the spot. They picked a safe word. She would yell it if she wanted him to stop—the magic word to break the spell of fantasy. It didn’t work. He didn’t stop when she got frightened. He didn’t stop when she screamed the word. He kept on thrusting harder as she was sobbing, no more, please stop, no more. She relives this, in front of me, often. We do this for each other.
Tonight, Lara really feels it. Tonight is one of the rarest. She is completely gone. Her eyes are glazed, but she can hear me. Lara, where are you?
In my old dorm. She is sobbing. He won’t stop. Why won’t he stop? Why did they do this to me? I’m always so good. She switches to plurals, a lot. She talks loosely about the other men who raped her. It was all so ordinary, I imagine. The men she encountered in her youth just forced her in the name of passion. They wept in her arms after. She felt used and inhuman. She felt dirty and powerless. She felt raped, because she was, by the men of her generation. And no one told her that this was wrong. Support your man. Boys will be boys. You want to be loved, don’t you? That was all she heard.
She tells me she finally escaped. After six months of his raping her, panic disorder and suicidal depression set in. She called an ambulance. A heart attack pain in her chest—a panic attack—got her dialing 911. An EMT noticed the signs. Is he hurting you?She just cried. Someone had finally pulled her from hell.
The girlfriends she told about the rape, they all called her mean. How could she say that about him? He is so sweet. He would never do that to you. But he was. He is. I am telling you. Oh Lara, you’re so dramatic. She tried this more than once, she told me.
Her body is convulsing. The attacks are hitting her so damn hard lately. I think it’s partially my fault. That’s my depression talking.
I am almost out of one of my marijuana. It’s the only thing helps. It is the only drug that has ever eased my massive anxiety. It keeps me breathing deeply. I have a small bag left. I can’t afford more. I won’t have the money until next Friday. This has happened before. The supply runs low before the bank is refilled. I do what I have to. I suffer through. I usually do it alone.
I seem so calm, but in my mind there are sirens of noise: voices screaming about danger and terror, and the sound of one little boy crying, faintly, for it to stop.
I’ve always played it safe with my illness. I’ve hidden the worst from my world—even from those I cherish the most, especially from them. There are at least two people on Earth right now who could end me just by leaving. There was a time when giving anyone that power was… no, no one got that power. I kept my darkness from them. I was wrong. That’s no way to build a family.
The problem with my disease is that it breeds self-loathing. I feel so wrong. Everything about me feels so wrong. How can people stand to see me? Can’t they see me? Can’t they see how diseased I am? My depression breeds hypochondria. I feel like I’m dying. I must be dying. Everything hurts so much. I’m a leper, I have AIDS, I have cancer or heart problems! I can’t expose other people to this. I don’t want to be a burden. I must hide away. I must be alone. Solitude is my destiny. Smile through public, and sob when you’re alone.
I’m wrong. That is no way to find your family. I will not hide anymore. This is me, warts and all. And for the next few days—until next Friday—it will be the me off marijuana.
I will try to share it all. I will try to write it out as much as I can, but anxiety freezes my mind sometimes, so I apologize if I simply fall silent. I will be back. I promise. I won’t stop fighting.
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Wow, great blog. I love reading blogs about comdey. The world needs more laughter these days. Who is your favorite comedian? I would have a hard time choosing between Albert Brooks. Please visit my comedy blog at http://www.DomainB.org and let me know what you think of it. Have a great weekend!
Comedy? Interesting interpretation of my work. I will check out your blog. Thank you for the comment.