I Got Sexually Assaulted Two Weeks Ago
I haven't posted anything on here in a few weeks. I want to write again but I don't know how. I wanted my next post to be about this, but I'm so tired of talking about it. I talked about it over and over and over again at the hospital.
Trigger Warning: As the title suggests, I will be talking about being assaulted and my emotions around it. I also mention more about the childhood sexual abuse I experienced. Also mentions of self harm and suicide
I got sexually assaulted two weeks ago. I got roofied at a jazz club and got sexually assaulted by a different man. I went looking for it, I guess. I thought the bartender just gave me alcohol instead of the non alcoholic Shirley temples I ordered, and I like to have sex when I'm drunk. I went online and found a man, and when I was done he didn't stop.
I like to be more musical in my writing on here. I like to write in a kind of prose, and to use a wider vocabulary than my normal speaking. I don't know what else to do other than apologize for the way I'm writing right now. I don't know what to do other than apologize. My dad thinks it's my fault. I should have gone straight home, I know this. I've been raped and sexually assaulted before. I know the warning signs. I know not to hook up with strangers. I know specifically not to have sex when I'm drunk. God, I just wanted to be touched though. I just wanted to take advantage of having the next day off. I wanted to take advantage of the way that my body and mind react to touch when I'm drunk. I'm not close enough with any of my friends for that. I'm so touch adverse that it's uncomfortable to ask for it when I can handle it. I wanted to feel real. I wanted to not feel contaminated and contagious. Now I feel worse.
I've thrown myself into my work. It's the one place where I can turn off my brain and just do. I walk into the kitchen and I stop being Lin (guy who just got assaulted for the 4th time as an adult) and become an employee of The Restaurant. Nothing matters other than these expensive salads and other shit I have to cook. I feel real. I feel like an exhibit in a museum. I work in the dining room, there's a bar around my station and customers sit and watch me work. I interact with them sometimes, complimenting their clothing or accessories. I tell them about the farms we get the food from or the bays our oysters get fished out of. I reveal little to no information about myself, other than things pertaining to my position. I slice and dice and toss and plate. I go on my lunch and eat my applesauce (it's the only thing I can eat on a consistent basis. It feels ironic, working in a fancy restaurant and only eating children's packaged snacks.) I pretend my senses aren't on fire every time a coworker brushes past me in the narrow space between the prep table and the dish pit.
And then after 7 to 11 hours I go home. I walk back out of the door and the world comes crashing back into me. I took my first shower since the incident today. I've been afraid of taking my shirt off for longer than it takes to wash myself with a wash cloth and put on deodorant. I cut the collars off of my T shirts because it feels too much like being choked. My high collared chef jacket doesn't bother me, The Employee wasn't choked and forced onto a five inch penis. The Employee doesn't feel the ghost of a hand on it's neck every time a thin piece of fabric brushes against it. I was restrictive in my eating before, now I eat under a thousand calories a day. I eat applesauce and protein bars and hot dogs from my favorite stand. I supplement with protein shakes, one specific brand. I try not to think about killing myself too much. I try not to remember the 50 ct of utility blades I bought during my last depressive episode. I read Batman comics and fanfiction. I avoid sleep unless I'm so exhausted that I cannot keep my eyes open. I don't talk about it in therapy. The last two sessions, I talked about Batman the whole time.
Usually when I go through trauma, there's a period of time where I mourn who I could have been without it. I miss who I was directly before it happened. I'm not feeling that way now. I feel empty. I feel things through a plastic window. I feel removed. I know that I'm dissociating, and I honestly don't care. My brain is protecting itself from my experiences. How many times can someone be assaulted before they shut down completely? Is it four? I'm only counting the times after I turned 18. The abuse in my childhood feels so far away. I turn 21 in a week. It stopped when I was seven. Or maybe ten. I don't remember. I don't want to remember. It's over now, it honestly doesn't matter. As an adult, none of the assaults have happened on camera. I suppose that's better. I don't have to worry about some old pervert jacking off to the worst moments of my life.
I want to be free from all of this. I won't kill myself, I can't. My friend invited me to move to Nebraska with him and his polycule. I don't know. I feel so lost. A big part of me died in that hospital room, going over what happened and getting every part of my body swabbed for evidence. I miss my jacket. I miss my polo. I miss my green pants. I embroidered that jacket in my room at rehab. I had to give it to them though, it had a bunch of DNA on it. I don't know why I made myself do the exam. I'm not gonna report it. I'm not gonna go to the police. I don't want to have to go to court over it. I don't want to have to look him in the eyes. He seems like a nice guy. He knows he sexually assaulted me. I know he does. He has my number and he hasn't texted once. I also only got him to stop by saying it. I called out that he was assaulting me.
The worst part is that it was the best sex I've had in years, at least the consensual parts. It was perfect. I loved it. I encouraged the violence because I like bdsm. A big part of bdsm is having a choice and he took that from me. I want to feel safe again. I want to feel okay again. I want my voice back completely. It's not physically damaged, but it sounds rough still. Psychosomatic probably. There's a rasp that wasn't there before. Not as bad as the days directly following the incident, but still there. My face feels wrong. My smile looks the same in the mirror but I know it's not the same. I'm just moving the muscles, I'm not expressing anything.
I'm not proud of this post. I wish I could write better right now but I can't. I needed to write about it somewhere and my journal feels unsafe, I'm scared it would turn into a suicide note. This blog is my safe space, the people who read these all the way through can't interact with me outside of my Guestbook, and those have to get approved by me to be posted onto the actual page. There's safety in knowing no one knows me. No one knows anything more than what I choose to disclose. You can't verify any of the information I give you. It's all true anyways, but you can't ask my brother or anything. I write into the void, and the analytics page stares back at me. A large part of my audience is outside the US. I hope the emotions I express are communicable across cultures. I hope you're at least entertained. Thank you for reading silently. Thank you for letting me share my experience with you.