11 March 2021

0 where i am right now (as of march 4)

is wanting to speak with men who will not rape me.


men whom i have dated who maybe did me wrong in the past whilst also not being men who are in the tangle of bullshit currently being unwrapped with my therapist.

a weird place to be in, let's just call it that.

j asks how i am and offers to talk.

i respond with a text saying that i would maybe like to chat but also, in order to do that, i need to hold him accountable for having gaslit me 11 years ago.

this is where we are.

it feels healthy, it feels like progress. but also no one ever tells you how really fucking weird progress feels.

my therapist is amazing. we are really unpacking things. we are really getting somewhere.

today, i gave my students a mental health day whilst also taking one for myself.

they emailed me and i have not responded. i will respond tomorrow.

a colleague texted me. i responded that i am taking a mental health day.

and then i wrote in brackets about a specific concern relating to our work but we've scheduled a convo for tomorrow so that doesn't really count.

yesterday, in therapy, i talked about how i'm moving soon and about how i was conflicted about when to give notice on the apartment i currently live in because i did not trust that things would work out and that the apartment i am buying would actually be mine.

late last night, i gave notice on the apartment.

this morning, they acknowledged the receipt of that email.

this afternoon, someone who got the apartment numbers confused, tried to enter mine and i woke up from a nap with claude.

the chain lock was secure, so they did not get in.

i bolted from the bed.

my heart continued to beat double-time for twenty minutes.

the building manager, with whom i've cultivated a strange relationship over the last year largely based on my stress baking and deferrals of his romantic advances, called to make sure i was ok.

i informed him i am moving.

in his text, he used this emoji: 💕

i had previously used this one: 💖

i've not named my latest rapist in therapy.

as of yesterday, i've named everyone else. clark, donovan, alistair.

adam has been mentioned in relation to the ridiculous dinner of lawyers of which i have written but not yet published:

There was this one dinner in a Szechuan restaurant in Chicago’s Chinatown, a whole bunch of lawyers, a lot of laughter. And the man whose date I was declared it one of the most stimulating meals he’d ever enjoyed. He’d not noticed the women, their silence, their refusal to discuss their own interests when I asked them. He’d not noticed how we’d played wallpaper the whole evening. I was there but I wasn’t and I clearly was not missed.

adam has been written but not mentioned because i do not count him among the worst three.

i mean, we all of us only have so much time here.

i realized tonight that there's a bizarre leitmotif of ethiopian food here. (and, full disclosure [because i am all about disclosing these days] writing this already, i have googled "chain lock" and "leit motiv." because i am still learning, as we all of us are.)

oh, but wait, i did not finish that thought.

my therapist, yesterday, when we were talking about the man who raped me most recently, who has not yet been named in therapy, she called him "the date rapist," and then she paused and asked if i was ok with that and i laughed maybe the fullest laugh i've laughed since january 16th, and i said, yes, yes, yes, please, can we call him that.

i told her i went on a date a few weeks ago. with someone inappropriately young. whose communication style i did not love.

his profile identified his love languages.

i am 1000% touch, whilst also being entirely repulsed by people who want to discuss their love languages on the first date.

on this first date, this young man touched me multiple times.

even after i told him i was in a place in life where i was only on tinder to meet men with whom to go on walks.

even after that, still he texted me and said he was open to being friends but would also like more.

i have not responded to that text. because, whilst it feels ok to tweet that i'm not responding to emails because i was recently raped, that feels like a lot to say in an early acquaintance. and, really, why start off a friendship with a whole hell of a lot of unwanted touching and a lie?

i fucking hate that this has happened. i fucking loathe that this is a thing i'mma be talking about on future dates and in future relationships.

i have told the date rapist this.

because, oh yeah, i've not mentioned this here, but yes, i text him.

i text him reading recommendations and thoughts and links and screenshots of relevant passages from books.

because, god bless him, this is the one man out of all of the men whom i feel i can hold accountable.

i assume he has blocked me and draw comfort from that assumption whilst also drawing a hearty dose of release from my texts to nowhere. 

i write, not out of anger, but in search of release.

it helps, sending these texts out into the dark. displacing the horror, shifting it away from my self onto him.

i've not told my therapist about this.

i have told KBG. and she was onboard. which means it's ok. it is all going to be ok.

i wrote this on march 4th. i'm publishing it on march 11 after a terrifically blue week, a week wherein i read everything i could get my hands on and still felt deeply, desperately wounded and alone. 

my therapist always ends our sessions saying i can call her whenever i need to. on monday, after a series of validating yet excruciating conversations with People From the Past, i emailed and asked if we could have a "quick chat." 

by which i think i simply meant that i needed a reminder that i am not alone with this. 

twenty years, ya'll. twenty years somewhere in the week of feb 18-25. twenty years since i was raped for the first time. 7-8 saturdays since i was raped most recently-- which, i would very much like to believe, will be the last time but also that is not something i know for certain. which is a pretty terrifying thing of which to be aware of, a pretty fucking dreadful thing to sit alone with in the apartment where all of this happened. 

this is, again, a post with no ending. i do not do endings at the moment apparently. onwards, onwards, we press! 


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