i think straight men have forgotten how to ask questions. this is my conclusion from the dating apps.
i no longer fear sounding shrill. what i fear is sounding bitter.
zana (the massage therapist) said i should try hinge. that was my homework. so i did it. like that was going to have some effect on the pain in my arm. but the straight men, they do not ask questions. they have forgotten how to have a conversation. or maybe they never knew.
it's bizarre, being erased in your own conversation.
i refuse. i am not here for that.
i have something to say here but i don't know what it is.
keep writing, i tell my students. fill up all the space. even when you don't know where you're going, keep writing.
i want them to feel comfortable with their words.
i am writing again.
i count it as a victory that i have been writing through the last few months. i am attaching words to where i am, which seems crucial given the necessity of words by which to locate one's self.
i do not want to write about the rapes.
i do not want to be someone who only writes about rapes.
i don't have therapy this week.
every time i take a week off, i wind up in some state of crisis and i have to call her.
nina. her name is nina. my therapist is nina.
the massage therapist is zana.
my rapist was nate. so i can't swipe right on any of them. or the clarks.
he wrote me around my birthday in 2019. clark. the guy in college.
that is a part of this, i know. i am bracing. i've not heard from him since then, but the threat persists. he could surface.
this must be so boring to read! some bitter woman banging on about all this.
but i'm struck by the differences.
i've signed up for a lecture on writing about sexual assault. it's being led by someone who was raped by a stranger while walking in a park.
i envy that. i fucking hate myself for envying that, but i do.
a stranger might be easier. or at least different. and more random.
these other people, these people who know you, who you're involved with and attracted to and dating. it's so fucking messed up.
it is so fucking messed up.
not just that this happens but that it happens so casually. that it is so easily confused for dating.
i remember the first time, on his nephew's bunk bed. i've written about that already.
i remember the time in his mother's shower. i think he may have said "i've got you." because i was afraid of slipping and falling and getting caught. because i was trying to stop it.
i remember the time on the stairs at my parents' house. i do not remember him. what i remember is listening, straining to listen because my hearing is bad and i wanted to be sure to hear the popping of garebear's toes.
always, his toes are a giveaway. always, they pop. ever since i was a little girl, when he'd try to sneak up on me, i'd catch him because of his popping toes.
but garebear didn't come. his mother didn't come. no one ever came.
k.clen sent me pre-birthday balloons today. and it mattered more than i can tell you. more than i can even tell her.
i am, currently, i feel, existing in a state of deliberate messiness.
i am seeking refuge in a state of deliberate messiness.
k.clen sent me pre-birthday balloons and i took photographs of thanks...