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v u l v a l i c i o u s insomniac anxieties and the luck of the draw i'm exhausted in the almost delirious way, but i'm still awake. i wanted to come write here the other night, but i was trying to force myself to sleep. (it didn't work). lately i've been struggling with loneliness, feeling the way the night gapes cavernously ahead of me as i lie in bed. i read something so simple about two people starting a D/s relationship and started crying, gnawing sadness in my stomach at the impossibility of it. i want someone to call me a good boy, pet me as i kneel in front of them. realize that submission and service are gifts--valuable, important. to give and to take. i want that. it feels so far away. and last night was no better, crying in the dark because i kept thinking maybe i could sleep if someone else was here. stop me from getting into self destruct mode. it feels like i live there now, the constant whirr of nothingness and worry in my head telling me it's not ok to stop, sleep, eat, drink, move, stay. nothing feels like the right choice. and everything in the world makes it worse. my hatred of men grows daily. i worry about my rage. it feels so close to the surface. i'm hiding it, still, but today i admitted that seeing a man on the street walking toward me, i think about 1) how i'd escape if he attacked me; 2) how best to attack him pre-emptively; 3) the sick truth that this is the way women and queers and trans folks live, holding our keys as weapons and thinking about how we hold our bodies in public space. i've never been sexually assaulted. harassed, yeah. of course. not as much as some folks, but enough. the kinds of things men say get worse as i get older. still, i feel lucky, strange, cursed, blessed, all for not having had a man grab my body or press against me. lucky. like i scratched off a ticket prize and i'm just going to claim another ticket, constantly repeating that action and wondering if next time it's going to say rape/assault/harassment. strange. the only one of my kind. every woman shares a story now. he grabbed my breasts--i was 13. i felt his erection against my back on the train and i couldn't move--he smiled at me. the same sick shit on repeat. i feel like i'm watching a movie that's nothing like my life and nodding along saying yes yes. cursed. the twisted reality of being raised as a woman in this fucked up world is that there is a part of me that thinks: if you were attractive, you'd have been assaulted. right now there is a 14 year old girl at a party, and she sees her friend being targeted by a shitty boy. and she's thinking, if only. if only. i'm too smart for it, but it's there. a feather or a foxtail poking through my clothes, stabbing me in my tenderest parts. blessed. somehow i escaped. i got out of my most dangerous years, 14-25, without being drugged, raped, assaulted, grabbed, fondled, frotted against, coerced. it's the scene in the movie where the protagonist walks through enemy lines unscathed, and their face breaks out with elation. something in me says: usually that happens right before they get shot/killed/eaten/discovered. and anyway, it wasn't luck or a blessing. i spent 14-18 doing homework and hanging out with my parents. then i went to a women's college where i didn't do any underage drinking and rarely went to parties. i dated two boys, maybe three. roughly one date apiece. i realized i wasn't straight, and still didn't immediately start dating girls. i hid. that's how i made it. underground. i'm not safe. the world's not safe. it's no wonder i have trouble sleeping. |