altruist5-blog

[altruist5-blog]

Three conversations about sex.

Shannon

Since the rape nothing had ever felt the same. Only the butterflies seemed not to have changed, which was strange considering they morph into their state of existence, live a very short life, procreate, and then die. But the constantly changing life of butterflies was the only stable thing in Shannon’s life … since the rape. On her morning walk up Mt. Gnoyninub each day, with her dog Daisy, Shannon observed the butterflies studiously … wishing she could sprout wings and fly away to enjoy the short but certain existence these creatures enjoyed. It was her only respite from the never-ending sensation of being a victim, as those around her described her, in fact, as she was deemed by society and the so-called justice system. She was a victim, first and fore-most, and a (broken) person only secondly. The identity she had before the rape was gone, replaced by a daily struggle of figuring out who (or what) she was now, and how to re-build her life from here. Every day was the same. Flashbacks, headaches, nausea, sometimes vomiting, and avoidance of any routine that might give her life structure, while at the same time craving the structure she actively avoided. The structure other people had in their lives … working, sleeping, eating, socialising, having sex, effortlessly. Since the rape, Shannon’s life had become like a merry-go-round that is careening too fast toward an end that never comes, but, frustratingly, when it did occasionally slow down she felt as though she had no right to step off her travelling prison. But, worse than that, she feared stepping off the merry-go-round when it did slow down because without it she had nothing. Endless days and nights of nothing but the memories she could not forget, no matter how hard she tried. Only when she walked among the flittering butterflies up the mountain did she feel she had something that was truly her own. Isolated bliss, in a storm of conflicting emotions that nobody seemed to understand, especially herself. Her Counsellor at the Rape Crisis Centre seemed to have an inkling as to why her life now felt so tenuous … since the rape. Sometimes, after yet another gut-wrenching hour-long session of counselling, Shannon left feeling that she could regain her sense of self again, and that she would work hard to put her life back together again. But mostly she just left feeling devoid of all emotion. And the emotions that had spilled out of her like a waterfall onto the rocks, that used to be her foundation, felt like a waste of energy and time. On those days, she went home and cut herself until she bled rivulets of blood, which proved to her that she was in fact still alive. Otherwise, she felt dead and that she may as well have died during the rape, as she very nearly did due to the physical violence the rapist inflicted on her to make her submit to his sexual demands. Her life was divided by a definitive line: Shannon before the rape on one side of the line and Shannon after the rape on the other side of the line. And if felt impossible that these two sides of her life would ever unite so that she could be a whole person again.

 On most days the dull ache in her back was tolerable, but for the last three weeks it had been unbearable, like today. As she worked through her rehabilitation exercises each morning lately it had released years of pent up emotion, especially grief. This meant that she was crying every morning again, something she swore she would never let herself do … again. But this time she felt unable to hold back the tide of self-pity that threatened to swallow her into the abyss … again … somewhere she swore she would never let herself go … again. When will it ever end? She thought, as she trudged up Mt. Gnoyninub with her dog Daisy pulling her up the steep incline with her leash … If it’s not my stomach it’s my back, if not either of them it’s my hip and knee, or my shoulder and neck. And if it’s not any of these for a moment, just for a moment, then it’s tears and bitter regret. Sometimes they all grace me with their presence at the same time and then I’m fucked for an indeterminate time. Then I smoke, and the smoking aggravates my lungs which affects my posture which affects my back. And then I drink and it fucks up my stomach and bowel. And all of these things make me even more depressed … if that’s possible. And all for the sake of an unwanted fuck! Oh, why did I go on that holiday in the first place? If I hadn’t then he wouldn’t have ruined my life! Oh sure, like they say in counselling, but you’re a survivor! A “survivor” who can’t work, can’t move properly, can’t think or see properly on many days, and who needs to sleep for at least 12 hours/night just to feel human, and struggles to have any social contact at all, and can’t remember things at times. And who struggles to cope every day. And every day is the same, only the level of pain varies, as does the level of self-abuse and neglect or self-pity. Aaargh! Shannon pushed herself harder through the steepest part of the climb. This was self-inflicted punishment that was doing her good, not harm. It was only after climbing Mt. Gnoyninub first thing every morning with Daisy that Shannon felt she could think clearly. Without being bombarded by flashbacks or despairing sadness that felt like it oozed out of her pores, making her feel filthy from the inside.  

Tracey, Cheryl, and Derek

“’Ere Tracey?”

“Yeah Cheryl luv?”

“You know ‘ow blokes are all nice to you an’ ‘at when they wanna get into yer knickers, but then, after they ‘ave they’re not nice to ya no more?”

“Yeah I know luv”                                                            

“Well ya know, I do that to them ‘at sometimes too, especially if he were not good at it. So I was wonderin’ if ‘at means that I were not good at it, ya know, with them ones what aren’t nice to me no more after.”

“Noooo. You mean like, I might not have been good at it too? Noooo. I never thought of it like ‘at before, but I do ‘at too ya know.”

“But then, what about the ones ‘at are nice to ya after? Does that mean I were good at it wif ‘em?

“…Tell you what, we need to ask other people if ‘at’s why they stop bein’ nice after, or why they are still nice after, so what they mean by ‘at.”

“Yeah, you’re right luv. Hey what about Derek? He’s had his fair share of blokes so he might know what it means when they stop bein’ nice and ‘at. I wonder if it happens to him too, ya know, bein’ a gay an’ all. It’s all sex”

“’Ere, let’s ring him.”

“Ooooh, yes, let’s.”

Mobile phone rings …

“’Ere Derek luv? Yeah, it’s Cheryl and Tracey luv, an’ we were just talkin’ an’ at’, ya know, about when blokes you’ve had sex wif aren’t nice to ya no more after, and we was jus’ wonderin’ whever ‘at happens to you an’ all?”

“Ooooh luv, a course it does! But you know, I usually find they’re the ones ‘at weren’t no good at it so I don’t really mind and I laf at ‘em!”

“Ah luv, don’t say that coz that were our next question! We were wonderin’ if they weren’t nice to us no more after coz we were no good at it, ay? Whatchathink Derek?”

“Don’t be daft luv! It’s them what aren’t bein’ nice no more coz they know they were no good at it. Don’t ya see?”

“Oh, thank god Derek. Ere Cheryl luv, no it’s not us its them, says our Derek.”

A Love Sonnet to my lover

When you hold me in your arms, it is bliss                            

When we touch my heart swells beyond its size                    

And excitement courses through my body                            

My eyes feel alive and my body is warmed                          

My senses are ablaze with life, with love                              

As we lay together, naked enjoy                                            

Bodies entwined, in a newer space                                        

The place where we: just you and I become                          

And as we interlace delight swells me                                  

Until it erupts, reaching deep inside me