Homelessness/Growing Pains
It never used to feel like this. I've been traumatized since birth, and it's never felt like this. It's always felt like something that everyone has to go through, like I had just hit the developmental milestones sooner than my friends. The events felt like facts of life, you know? "Every woman has a story about getting assaulted or raped," "Everyone has family issues." In the past week, I've really felt it.
The long-term effects of not beating the odds. The way I can't get up in life because there's no oxygen mask that can reverse the effects of an unstable childhood turned unstable life. There's no pamphlet that tells you what to do when you lose your place to sleep either. No one tells you about how fast you adjust to living without basic luxuries.
I keep thinking about my stuffed animal, the one R gave me when we were getting tortured together. His name is Kakashi, a $5 stuffed polar bear that means the world to me. I had to be intentional about what I put in the limited space in my backpack. I barely had space for one change of clothes and toiletries, my 18 inch bear had to be left behind. I hate that he's what I'm focused on right now, but this lack of comfort is making me grieve my comfort item.
At a certain point, we all gotta grow up. I wish my point wasn't homeless and couch surfing while in anorexia day programming though. I wish my point wasn't my sister being hit by an SUV with rent due next week. Survival means pushing yourself beyond what you thought you could, in order to maintain less than you thought you needed. I look at my future and it seems grim. Will I always be fighting for the time to rest?
My rapist accomplished two goals of his that night, fucking me and fucking my future. I think my future got it harder. Would I have gotten my degree if he didn't ruin my ability to think, 2 weeks before my first quarter? Would my thumb still work if I wasn't forced into a position where I had to further the injury to keep my job? Would I be kinder if I could handle intimacy?
He was the first one, firsts for anything are always memorable. First rapist won't leave my brain no matter how many mediocre cocks I shove inside me, no matter how many times I try and convince myself I could like it. I will always wonder if it hurt more because I'm a dyke.
I hate growing older. I feel like I'm always gonna be that little kid begging my dad to choose me over the bottle. I feel robbed. I hope I did something horrible in my last life. I hope that if I go through all these things it means someone else doesn't have to. I hope to hell and back that my sister never has to worry about anything because she knows I'll take care of it.