Julia

I know I have already posted on here. It was in a daze, because I couldn’t believe I had a safe place to speak. So I came back to see my own post ‘in print’, as it were, to know that some other people knew…and more comes back to me.
My first memory is of a hospital ward, walking with my hand in my mother’s. I had to reach up to hold it, so I could only have been 3 or 4. Lying on a bed as the doctor examined me. I remember my fear and confusion. Why was he digging around ‘down there’?! My mother, across the room, leaning forward with a look of concern, fear, twining her fingers.
I’m still too afraid to ask why, ask what that meant.
Whispers… Found letters between my parents that were never sent. Notes with my name…allusions…to what?
I have no memories other than this, or after this, until age 6.
My mother once told me that I was ‘such a sad and serious’ child. My first full-blown panic attack was age 9. I first thought of killing myself age 13. I started drinking and smoking then too. I still drink. I’m drinking now.
I can’t ask. These stories I read of incredibly strong people surviving so much horror sound far too familiar. All of my fear started so long before the shit I do remember and have written about. The abusive boyfriend…forcing me into sex with my hands pinned between his chest and mine while I cried. It just became easier not to fight. I should have known he was bad news. The first trip away, when he put his fingers in my ass and wouldn’t take them out even when I told him to again and again, until I launched myself away…and he laughed. He came at me again and I shoved him back with my foot…and he laughed, convinced me I was over-reacting. The numerous times he kept pushing his fingers into me when I grabbed his wrist or told him to stop…and again, convinced me that it was *me* in the wrong. He is so loved and worshipped by his friends…he’s convinced them that I was the psycho. Not that I care any more what they think. They are all as vacuous and narcissistic as him. And karma has had a bloody good say.
I am glad beyond words that I found the strength to kick that fucker to the kerb, literally. He attacked me after I had finally called an end to it. I foolishly let him in to my house. He gave me a ‘massage’, kept fondling me when I told him not to. Later, as I kicked him out, once and for all, he dragged me into the street and grabbed me by the throat. Thankfully, my training kicked in, and I fought back, punched him, kicked him into the gutter where he belongs.
It was only EVER power that he wanted. ONLY. EVER.
But no, I’M the crazy one, the violent one.
Abusive messages from his friends about ‘how could I be so violent’, it was ‘my fault’, ‘he didn’t mean anything, he’s just going through a rough time’….etc, etc. They don’t know the half of what I dealt with, and wouldn’t believe me anyway. Don’t want to.
It’s funny. I read some of these stories that are filled with self-blame, and I think ‘No. Not your fault AT ALL. THAT IS RAPE’. And then I think of my own stories – the fuckwit boyfriend, the drunken double rape – and I wonder, really? Can I call it that? They weren’t ‘as bad’ as what so many people go through…do I have the right to put mine in the same category? Can I really apply that worst of labels?
Self-doubt. Sooooo much self-doubt.
Do I tell my current boyfriend, who, despite his sweetness, I don’t entirely trust? But I don’t trust anyone. Would it ruin things if he knew…?
I am proud of how far I have come. I fight the black fucking demons every goddammned day, as every day they try to drag me back down. Sometimes they do. I will learn not to dwell. I have travelled and loved and lost and branched out and learned new things and pursued passions and continue to do so. I live on my own, and love it. I surf, and this keeps me alive. I study something I love and I will carve out a life that I love, making a real difference and saving what cannot be replaced. I will fight, tooth and bloody nail, for this fucking bullshit to end. PLEASE, lets keep this conversation going. It will likely be brushed over by the media all too soon, considering its ‘unsavoury’ nature. But this MUST end. Please, God, let it end.

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