Irony.

gazelleintights
Jul 22, 2017 · 5 min read

*trigger warning: self harm, suicide, rape*

This was an anonymous, private, blog. Writing on this blog has been an outlet for me to express my personal feelings. It was recommended by a psychologist to help me heal. I found comfort within its privacy. I only shared it with one person. About a week ago. It is no longer private.

I sat in Great Bear Coffee today with two of my friends. An iced berry tea aside a vegan muffin. I felt content for the first time in a matter of days as I am having many troubles at home. The night previous you would not have seen me smile. You would not have seen me at all. If you could have peered through my window, you would have seen a girl hiding underneath a white bedsheet. Covered head to toe. Crying silently. Soaked in sweat, but too afraid to emerge into the cold air. Too afraid to make herself vulnerable.

Earlier in the day a cat knocked over a precious vase that was given to my mother by her late best friend. It had shattered immediately. Initially, I was the target. She thought I had knocked it off that morning. It eases pain to place blame. But since I was out on a run, we rationalized that it was actually the cat. I told my mom that I would clean it up for her so she could go to work. I spent three hours cleaning her room for her. I wiped every surface and vacuumed the rug. I was sure that my mother would be happy. That this would ease her pain. I expected a hug.

If you stayed to watch, you would hear screaming and banging. You would see the wall of the bedroom vibrate and flex as the door was slammed repeatedly. I feared that she would enter my room not just to scream at me, but to beat me. That she would rip the sheet off me. She was mad that I had cleaned up her room. That I had gone through her things. She felt that I had invaded her privacy.

Can you feel my pain through my words? Perhaps. I lay in my bed paralyzed with pain. I want to walk downstairs. I think about grasping the small silver knife. Its sharp enough. I want to kill myself. I think about jumping off the balcony. The concrete path underneath could kill me, if I jump head first. I am shaking in devastation. Battling my thoughts. Willing myself to remember the promise I made to myself back in Feburary. The promise I tattooed on my pinky after your sister made me want to kill myself. I took medication to help me fall asleep. I did not hurt myself.

That was last night. I am buried with depression today, but I still will myself to go see my friends. It takes a lot of energy. Energy that I do not have a lot of.

I rarely talk about you when I spend time with my friends as I have found closure in our relationship. However, today my friend brought you up because you reached out to them in May. They wanted to talk with me about it.
I mentioned that I wrote you a letter of forgiveness. I attached friendly words to that text. You ignored me. I kindly asked you to respond so that I would know you received it. You blocked me. I messaged you on facebook to see if you changed your number. You blocked me. I told them that I wanted to show my forgiveness to you in the most compassionate way possible. I began to pull it up on my phone, so I could reread it assure myself.

My friend says “…we’ve already read it…”

Have you ever cried in public Jonathan? I have spent months trying to protect you. About 9 months trying to protect your reputation now. Let us do another count. How many people from L.G.H.S. have I confided in about being raped? I can count them on one hand. It was always about how I felt. I made my best effort to maintain a beaming, positive light on your reputation. In the meantime, my own name is tainted as I reveal that I have been raped. Your behavior makes me question why I try so hard to save you, since you have only torn me apart in return.

Think of that warm coffee shop. Such a positive atmosphere in that little place. It becomes toxic to exist in. Dread slams into me and tears form in my eyes. I try to speak but my voice breaks repeatedly. Coffee drinkers at the other tables sneak looks. They peel their ears to catch a whisper of the cause.

I wrote that letter and used a fake name to protect you. It is ironic that I take such measures to protect you (even on an anonymous blog) and you shared it anyways. You knew this would cut me deep.

Ironically again, no one will ask me how I am doing. All of this talk about lies, and yet no one actually wants to hear my words.
I have had people tell me I am lying.
I have had people tell me how I should feel.
I have had people tell me what happened that night.
Everyone just wants to tell me stuff but no one will listen. You won’t even listen to me Jonathan. You didn’t listen to me the first time I told you I felt as if you had raped me. I told you that about a year ago. You took it as a personal attack like I was trying to hurt you.
I was trying to tell you how I felt.

My family will not ask me how I am doing either. I had to tell my mom over the phone that you raped me because I could not muster enough courage to tell her in person. Can you picture the look on my little sister’s face? It brought her to tears to hear me say it. She was the most difficult to tell, because she is so young. But she already knew. My mom had told her months before I did.
I was able to tell my dad in person. I thought he would be disappointed in me, but he has been the most supportive member of my family.
Thank you Dad. Thank you for protecting me from Mom too, when she gets mad.

Through all of this, I still forgive you. People ask me how I can be so forgiving. You decided to share my diary with people who have no business knowing my personal thoughts. But within 40min I had gone from crying in a coffee shop about it, to smiling again. I understand why you shared it and I accept that. I do not think that it was okay to share it. Also, it was not okay to ignore me and to use my blog against me behind my back.

Now I understand the anger my mother felt. However, I do not feel angry over this matter. I am simply disappointed that I trusted you.

gazelleintights

Written by

Surviving sexual violence. This is a blog depicting my feelings and experiences. It helps me heal.

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