#she should be glad I wasn’t a rebellious child and had terrible anxiety

[exmojoe]

mormon parents signing you out of sex ed in school because “that’s something parents should teach you”:

mormon parents when it comes to teaching you about sex: 🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗 sex = bad 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♂️🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗🦗

[ssson-of-sparda]

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - CHAPTER 1 (VERGIL X NERO’S MOTHER)

Summary: Vergil arrives in Fortuna and crosses path with a rebellious lady dressed in red. But even if he doesn't want pay attention, Fortuna seemed determined to intertwine their lives.

(PROLOGUE)

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda’s past

Author’s note: So, let me introduce you to Elissa aka Nero's mother. I've decided to make her rebellious and quite feisty to mirror Nero's impetuosity. After all, that kid had to take after someone, right? So why not mummy dearest? I know the story might seem slow to start but I need to set up the scenery for the events to come. Hope you like it anyway.

It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue. The cobbled streets were empty, the shops and cafes all closed, for all the inhabitants were gathered inside the Cathedral whose majestic dome overlooked the nearby Renaissance-style buildings, a sacred beacon calling the devotees to pray. But the religious establishment was nothing in comparison to the partially-veiled giant-like idol standing tall and massive within the ramparts of the city, a figure made of stone and marble with the face of Vergil’s father. It didn’t look very resembling to him. Sparda never had such delicate features, not in his son’s memories at least. But it did not matter. The young man wasn’t here to judge some clearly distasteful architecture. He was here for the answers and the promises of power that island kept in between its walls.             “The Order of the Sword, huh? They worship a demon as a god?” This reality sounded foolish, incomprehensible even. His father was no god. He knew that better than anyone. But what was religion if not idealisation, divinisation of a flawed man? Humans …

***

“Elissa!” A fearful whisper pronounced the girl’s name but it would take more than a whisper for her to stop her mischief. “Elissa! Come dddd-down!” The girl named Elissa smiled, enjoying the risk she was definitely taking. Degrading the Savior? Not her first time. But she had never climbed that high before. “What if sss-omeone sees you … sss-ees us?” She rolled her green eyes, weary of the perpetual anxiety shaking the already very trembling voice of her friend. “Agnus! Stop being such a pussy!” She shouted-murmured, not really knowing why she was murmuring at all. “Everyone’s at church!” Agnus fidgeted even more as he saw the young woman taking her time spraying blue paint on the statue, the tip of her rosy tongue out, an adorable display of her concentration and perfectionism. “Does it look like the Guard’s symbol to you?” She demanded, observing her rebellious art from all possible angles.     Agnus sighed and looked up, regretting to have left his lab for this childish yet dangerous adventure. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He even had a woman and a baby daughter waiting for him at home. So why wasting time playing vandals with Elissa? He knew why. “You’re not looking under my skirt, are you?”          The man blushed, terribly uncomfortable. “What? Of cccc-ourse not!” But he was a scientist and scientists were curious beings. That’s what he was telling himself each time he was thinking about what was hidden underneath Elissa’s crimson clothes.The Cathedral bells rang loud, signalling the end of today’s mass. Soon, the people of Fortuna would invade the streets again to come back to their boring daily occupations. “We’re definitely gonna get ccc-caught.” Agnus told himself. “What am I gonna tell Marcus?” A suspect noise stopped Agnus in his alarming thoughts. It was coming from a few streets away. Squeals and growls of fury and pain. Demons? “Ddd-did you hear that?” Elissa listened carefully and recognized the screams. She had heard similar ones in Mitis Forest recently. She had shut a lot of them up too. They were demons alright but not the worst kind. “Just a few …scarecrows.” She tried to reassure Agnus but realised he was already gone. “Such a pussy.” She shook her head, slightly exasperated but not surprised. Agnus was not famous for his bravery, quite the opposite. He was a coward but Elissa was okay with it. After all, he had been providing the Guardians with very useful information concerning demons for a few years now, all that thanks to his natural talents as an alchemist. The girl jumped off the statue and, in order to remove the beige dust from the fabric, shook her old red dress typical of Fortuna fashion, one of the few clothes she had kept from her past life in the Order and that she now used to blend in among the Fortunans each time she would venture in town. She then cautiously pulled up her skirt to reveal a thigh belt hidden under the white petticoat and strapped the spray can, right next to a sharp curved dagger she kept in a thin leather sheath just in case.        “Hey! You!” Did we say cautiously? “Shit!” Time to run.

***

Yamato shone in the sun, casting a shadow on Vergil’s young face that even this small fight hadn’t manage to fluster, and once again the blade made one with the saya with a perfect clink that echoed like a lethal musical note in the demon-cleared street. “Just what are your true intentions?” He wondered out loud as he wrapped his blue frame under a linen cloak that looked foreign to anyone who would take a look.Elissa took a look, green eyes staring with curiosity from under her white hood she had carelessly thrown above her head in precipitation to cover her soft locks of fiery ginger when she had left the place of her previous mischief as fast as she could, successfully escaping the angry guards shouting at her.           She took a look, knowing exactly what this stranger had just done as she watched him crossing the crowd with purpose, alone, going up the street towards the Cathedral while everyone was walking down, their minds still lost in religious psalms.             She stopped in her track for a second to admire him, wondering who he was and where he came from. She imagined a distant city at first, somewhere far away from here, crowded with people who hadn’t been indoctrinated by the Order’s promises. But then, as she noticed his bearing, so stately and yet so lonely, she thought he wasn’t from a particular place but from many places. A wanderer, traveling the world, someone who held knowledge, who had seen what was beyond the horizon of Fortuna.            He probably noticed her stare as he concealed his face even more under his hood and slightly hunched his shoulders. So, out of respect and despite her devouring curiosity, Elissa walked away, certain that if Sparda wanted her to meet this mysterious strange again, then their paths would cross one more time.Vergil quietly made his way in the main avenue where the marble giant was standing and slowed down when he noticed a small crowd gathered by the statue’s feet. Everyone was gasping in shock, hands over mouths as if they were the witnesses of the worst sacrilege, the most terrible infamy.       Wondering what the fuss was all about, the Son of Sparda peered over everyone’s shoulders from a distance but close enough to spot a graffiti plastered on the leg of the thing the Fortunans seemed to call The Savior. It was a symbol of some sort, a pair of winged arms with sharp claws protecting Sparda’s horned head. It had been drawn with turquoise paint that was still running down the immaculate white stone and that was leaving a heavy odour of solvents in the ambient air, identical to the one Vergil had smelt when that girl who had stared at him with insistence had walked past him, an odour indicating Vergil when the degradation had been made and who had done it.He scoffed briefly, amused by the political provocation and the over-dramatic reaction of the bigoted crowd, and after glancing one last time at the spray-painted symbol, resumed his exploration of the city.       “Looks like appearances can be deceiving in this city after all.” Vergil said as he thought about the rebellious girl in saint clothes who didn’t seem to be new in the graffiti drawing business according to the devotees’ wrath. “Those rebels again! Soiling the image of Sparda with their belligerent propaganda. Hope the Order will find them soon.” They agreed with each other with angry nods. “They are worse than demons! They probably hide in shadows like the rats they are.”     Had Vergil just stepped in the middle of a civil war?

***

When her holy hood fell back on her shoulders, Elissa sighed in relief, glad to finally feel her soft ginger hair finally liberated from that awful religious cage of white cotton she couldn’t stand wearing anymore. Few more minutes and she would also get rid of that ridiculous dress that constricted her like a straitjacket. But right now, she had a meeting to attend.      Summoned by her leader, probably to claim responsibility for her new roguishness that had caused such a big turmoil in the city this morning, she pushed the door of Guardian Marcus’s office without an ounce of fear or apprehension. She knew full well she would not be reprimanded. She never was.  “Elissa! My child, come.” The white-haired old man welcomed her with wide opened arms and showed her a seat before him where she sat in silence and waited for him to say what he had to say.At first, he just stared at her, without a word but with half a smile and a look of amusement he couldn’t keep to himself. And finally he spoke with a cheerful tone. “You should have painted it red.” His loud laugh echoed in the room and he took a huge sip of the red wine waiting to be drunk in a fancy chalice next to his velvet armchair.            Elissa had a timid respectful smile; unable to act casual with this man who, even though was distant family, had been leading the cause she was fighting for for so many years, since even before she was born. “How did you find out?”           “Agnus told me.” He admitted and gauged the girl’s reaction who seemed more disappointed in herself than surprised. “Should have thought so.”    “Be careful who you surround yourself with, Elissa. Offering someone your trust can be as dangerous as any blade. Believe me, I know.” He traced the large scar along his wrinkled face, a reminder of an old betrayal that had made him lose, in addition to his left eye, a man he used to call brother and who was now leading Fortuna thanks to his lies and his dark secrets. Sanctus. “I shall remember your advice, sir.” “But you know what surprises me the most? It’s that Adel didn’t try to talk you out of this. After all, he follows you like a shadow … an enamoured shadow even.” Marcus smiled, trying to build complicity with this young lady, the granddaughter of the brother he had lost long ago, a child he loved like his own. Elissa smiled in return and shook her head, having trouble to believe she was having this conversation with her leader. “And yet you seemed keen on refusing his advances. May I know why?”        “I didn’t know this was a matchmaking appointment.” Elissa humoured, definitely amused by the situation. “I’m old and I’ve been at war for most of my life. So let’s say, the frivolity of youth and the burgeoning loves are like peaceful songs to my heart.”        Elissa sighed and her heart, in spite of this new attempt at making it yield to a man she didn’t love, once again refused to see Adel as nothing else than a friend. “I’m just not interested. Enamoured shadows are not my type.”         “ And what, pray tell, is your type?”

***

Vergil had visited many places in his short lifetime. Perpetually on the move – he refused to say ‘on the run anymore’ for running was for the weak – he had seen so many cities, so many different landscapes, some in shades of blue, some in shades of green and other in shades of gold, so many colours most men would have forgotten but that he had somehow always cared to remember. But there was something about Fortuna that made her unique, different from all the things he had had the chance to see.         Perhaps was it the anachronistic almost medieval atmosphere that had shaped the city architecture and the inhabitants’ lifestyle or perhaps was it because every edifice seemed to hold secret knowledge about his family.  Whatever it was, Vergil was sure of one thing; what made Fortuna special were clearly not the city’s filthy underground bars from Port Caerula, well hidden under the docks, away from prying eyes that would be easily outraged by the debauchery they held between their walls. That kind of place he was familiar with, despite his revulsion for them and the people frequenting them.           “Hello, sugar. You’re a new face.” An eccentric woman declared as she tried to take a peek under Vergil’s cowl, her voluptuous body leant against the bar. “And a handsome one. I would lower my price for a face like yours.” The young man glanced at the woman, shortly but long enough to see how she looked, the embodiment of repulsive tragedy that once looked beautiful.             Her makeup was smeared and barely hiding the bruises and the cuts on her young face and she was wearing a church outfit ripped at the thighs and purposely unbuttoned to reveal her generous cleavage. And in her velvet purse, she kept a wig made of dry artificial ginger hair some despicable men had certainly asked her to wear more than once.       “Not interested. Now leave.” Vergil’s tone was curt and cold but she insisted anyway.        “You’re sure? I make the best blowjobs in all Fortuna. Isn’t that right, Captain?” She nodded towards a young charismatic brown-skinned man carrying a crossbow on his back and drinking sitting the stool right next to Vergil. When he heard his name, he spared a glare at the prostitute and at the Son of Sparda as well for no particular reason but because he hated his occasional obscene deviations to be exposed. “He just looooves some naughty church girls. Do you like them too?” Vergil ignored her and focused again on his drink, lying untouched on the bar. He didn’t like drinking. “Or do you prefer them innocent and prudish? I can be either.”  “Quit with your lies and just leave, Pomona².” The dark-haired man ordered with a strong voice that made her smile.       “ Ha! Looks like I finally have my name back. See you around, sugar… Adel.” She winked and left to sell her body to someone else that would accept it in exchange of a bit of money.“You should not visit that sort of bar if women like Pomona bother you, stranger.” The so-called Adel warned before drinking from his tankard. He, just like everybody else here, could tell Vergil was not from around. All they had to do was looking at him. After all, everyone knew everyone else in a small reclusive island like Fortuna. “It’s sometimes the loudest, worst people that give all the information a man looks for.”     “So you’re looking for information then. About what?” Vergil was a curious man but he despised curiosity in other people, especially when he was the subject of their curiosity.            “Nothing a man like you knows about.”        The answer surprised the Moor who hadn’t expected such arrogance coming from a stranger. “Well, piece of advice. If you want information in Fortuna, there are two ways to get them. Either you don’t behave like an arrogant asshole or you pay for them.”     Vergil smirked slightly under his hood as he already knew how to react to such pathetic insult. Adel was not a difficult man to read. “Just like when you want a woman’s love, am I right?”             The provocation burnt and stang like the most vicious hot poker piercing through

Adel’s dignity and ego. It pushed him to stand up and grab his crossbow in retaliation.         But his weapon, as precise and strong as it was, was useless in close combat and it instantly met the sharp blade of a magnificent katana that would make any swordsman worth the name grow pale. And with a dexterous swift move, the crossbow flew across the room as if it was a paper plane.But the clients in the bar didn’t gasp at the legendary Yamato. They gasped at the silvery-white hair adorning Vergil’s head that had been revealed when he inadvertently had lost his hood in this express fight. “It’s the hair of Sparda.” People whispered, amazed.     With an expert graceful move, Yamato found his saya again and Vergil walked through the crowd, high-handed and resolved to escape this place and all those bothering eyes he felt upon him.But as he pushed the door of the establishment, he came face to face with the feminine figure he had noticed in the streets this morning. It stopped him in his track and for the first time in his lifetime, but certainly not the last, he looked into her deep green eyes.  They reminded him of an old poem he loved greatly, one he had read so many times and would never grow tired of, about a dark forest and a tyger burning bright³. And as he gazed in that girl’s look and witnessed that emerald wood, wild and dense, trying to conceal in vain the fiery fur of a predator, Vergil knew he would never read that poem the same way or imagine Blake’s colours in the shades he would normally imagine them.               And so he stared, longer than he wanted, almost the same way she gazed at the pale blue topazes and at the god-like silver hair crowning his head. But while fire is wild, the ice is timid. And thus, admiration only shows through the eyes of the red lady.    And when she finally opened her mouth to speak her mind, Vergil escaped into the night leaving lost shadows behind him. But that was fine. Shadows were not the lady’s type after all.It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue.      But among them there was this vibrant red and two sparkling amber-tinted emeralds reflecting brighter than anything else in a pair of icy eyes, a mirror who strangely wouldn’t mind seeing that reflection again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: ¹ Marcus: derived from the name of the Roman god of war, Mars to highlight Marcus' status and personality. ² Pomona: From Latin pomus "fruit tree". The word "Pomme" is also the French for "apple", the fruit of temptation. Pomona will come back in other chapters. ³ a tyger burning bright : From William Blake's poem The Tyger

[itsnotresilience]

How I Feel About My Mind and Body

A Reflection on poems and journal entries from 1994-2002, 2005-2009 and one single one from 2017.

In 1994, I wrote, “I know something you don’t know. Be glad you don’t know it. I hate my mind for knowing it. I hate my body for feeling it.” I was 16 years old when I wrote that. Anyone that believes children don’t have emotional experience or dismiss it as a youthful dramatic exercise has likely forgotten they were children. Yes, a 16 year-old is still a child! I had just changed schools and felt, again the new girl, again so different. I couldn’t bear to see and be around the people at my local high school. My parents, to their immense credit, saw that I needed a smaller and more structured environment. Looking back, I’m not sure a Catholic school was the next best choice but it was better. Maybe it’s just my observation but my new high school class seemed a combo of catholic school “lifers” who’d been in school with each other since Montessori, troublemakers who couldn’t be in their local school and then- kids like me, there because they are hopeful for an education devoid of so much drama.

In my youth, I knew I was smart. I knew school came easily for me. I was always focused and always driven to do better. As a young women, as I progressed through school and experienced the social anxiety of peer groups, I started hiding my success or doing things that countered that. It didn’t feel cool to be the smart girl unless you were also an amazing athlete ( I wasn’t) or you were the picture of pretty ( I wasn’t that either). To me, what I could do in school, starting in middle school, seemed more like an ugliness, something that only mattered when some kid I needed approval from wanted to cheat off me or have me on their team project so I could do all the work. Those weren’t the only two experiences. I had teachers that were very supportive and pushed me to be more confident. I had some friends, friends like me, that loved learning and hated school. At least that’s how it all was before my Freshman year of high school.

I’m not ready, in this essay, to talk about my freshman year. Maybe soon. Most of you reading this know I’m a sexual assault survivor and know either all or parts to that story but there’s people who I was friends with that year, and the year after, that didn’t know what happened to me until recently. I can’t explain that today. What’s important for this essay is to know that happened and whatever girl that existed before that is gone. I remember her in bits and pieces. Parts of her personality exist in me-lifelong habits (liking structure, propensity to anxiety, loving to learn) are still there but there’s large gaps of who I was missing. She exists in the memories of friends, save 1 or 2, who I no longer really know. That might be true of a lot of us, that we are different people than we were then but what I’m saying is a much starker contrast. All that I cared about stopped existing in the same way.

Anyway, back to my brain. I was good at expressing myself, in written form, almost always. In person, I could clearly express an opinion or recite a fact and not feel ashamed. I have an endless amount of useless trivia and cool facts in my brain. I became more brash, almost to a rebellious level, at my new school. I kinda felt the whole religion thing was a joke (more on that in a future essay). I walked around, nearly all the time, with that chip on my shoulder- I know this horrific, inexpressible thing that you don’t know. I hate you for not having to know it. That seems grossly unfair of me now. It wasn’t a feeling of superiority, but envy. Envious of their naivety. Envious that their minds could be filled with soccer, boys, girls and secret parties that I was never invited to. Those things were in my mind, but there was always a rather large part of my brain involved in emotional conflict. I learned to fake a lot of things. I joined more activities then I had before. There’s a part of me now, that realizes, I made people uncomfortable. I know I still do. My brashness. My this is how it is way. That person didn’t exist before 1992. I don’t recall being that way before.

Earlier this week, I from memory, thought my high school love and I broke up in 1994, but I see the journal entry now. It was January 1995. I see that now because my dad gave me a silly card on Valentine’s Day to help me feel better. I wrote it down. I was devastated by that break up. I wrote about that rejection nearly every day. I was convinced this was a rejection of my damaged body and mind, that my ugly truth was visible and disgusting. I wrote in March, “no one will ever love this person.” That seems weird now. This person? Why didn’t I say- me? That breakup started a pattern that sent me off the rails for the next 5 years. A pattern that didn’t care what happened to my mind, my body, or consequences.

I’ll tell you one secret I don’t share. The one thing I learned but didn’t really understand until 1995. Men liked me and I knew it. I didn’t think it was because I was pretty. I didn’t think it was I was smart or funny or interesting. After 1992 I knew they just liked me for my body. The body I hated. I’m pretty sure that’s a distorted and broken view, but I wrote about it often. “Why are men obsessed with my chest? Why do I have to be ashamed of it? My breasts are all that seem to matter and the indicator that I’m easy or showing off.” I don’t remember dressing provocatively in high school. My body seemed obvious no matter what I wore.

There was another group of men and a seemingly endless group of women, who hated me. Men who teased me, made fun of me, didn’t appreciate my opinions. Women who I made uncomfortable or just wasn’t cool enough for. Now I see we all probably felt some measure of not fitting in but at the time, the rejection fueled my desire to out accomplish them. I was editor of the school paper and used that to “poke the bear”. I wrote things that would create controversy, purposely to create discomfort and then I’d ironically muse later, why doesn’t anyone like me? I had friends for sure, and some good ones, but I know we didn’t really talk about those things.

In my senior year, my English teacher assigned us this essay. I can’t remember what the theme was supposed to be but it was meant to be personal story, I think. The evening I wrote that paper, I wrote this, “ I will show you all your ignorance.” My rage was definitely at a peak. I was particularly isolated given some girl friendships that were broken for reasons that I can’t even recall now. One I was thoughtless to. The other abandoned me for her boyfriend. I was really really hurting and escaping into terrible behavior that I made their fault. All of these people, now my perceived enemies, had further damaged me. I hate this Meghan, so much. Her reflection is abominable to me. She seems so incredibly unlikeable and making choices that don’t increase her chances for winning friends and influencing people. All I cared about was college and my chance to escape this Meghan and be someone else.

In that essay, I revealed to my entire class that I was a sexual assault survivor. I castigated them for treating me like shit. I took them to task for their judgment, arrogance, and naivety. I used their religion against them to say, this is not Christian, your rejection of me. I don’t know what I expected to happen. This wasn’t “ The Breakfast Club”. We weren’t all suddenly going to relate each other and frankly, I was being unfair and aggressive. I feel sad now that I didn’t see some of the things I should have. I wasn’t all that smart after all.

.....................................................................................

In November of 1995 I write, “here my soul is free but I still box myself in by the lies I tell. I’m abusing my body while growing my mind. This seems to end in my mind just knowing that I’m shitty”. My first year of college is kind of a blur of partying, classes and endless social drama. I wasn’t as good at being a woman as my social circle. They all seemed like they could be themselves ( they were probably faking it too because this is just my perspective). I pretended to be someone I wasn’t and was uncomfortable and anxious all the time and didn’t make the connection I was creating that problem until later. I felt like if I was someone different, people would like me. The problem was my created persona was not someone I liked. In January of 1996 I was found out, exposed by a high school classmate who I know didn’t know they were playing into my super manipulative suite-mates hands. She turned it into a long term high school bullying session, complete with ostracizing, prank calling and other forms of harassment. One night I wrote, “I can’t be myself, or someone else. I am no one. I’m just this body, I continue to abuse and this mind who yearns for an exit”. I finally worked it out to move to a different building and enough women experienced my suite-mate to know, even if I am a liar, no one deserves that shit. I found friendship and community with a new set of friends, some of them old high school classmates who I never really knew in high school or at least, didn’t seem to like me.

Toward the end of my Freshman year, I felt increasingly disillusioned with college and college life. I was partying too much. The person I was still didn’t sit right. During the summer, I decided to take a year off and make sure college was what I wanted. That wasn’t the best decision I ever made. Being in school provided a structure and confidence I hadn’t realized. I spent the next year partying even harder, abusing my body more, putting myself with terrible men. I now see I didn’t care what happened to me but there was always a later- the later “accounting” my brain would take of my body. That face the music moment where the escape faded and all that was left was broken reality.

I returned to school with some new friends, a new boyfriend, a new purpose. I had a very fun year that I explored different passions I locked away. I became involved with the campus radio station and it was like my heart exploded. Thinking, talking and listening to music became an obsession. But there was another person, still there. I was still pretending. I was still lying. I still didn’t believe anyone wanted to know me, that I was ugly. Stupid never came into it. My intelligence always felt like a burden rather than an attribute. I had some brilliant friends and still felt like it wasn’t enough to be smart even though they were enough for me ( they weren’t just smart either but I loved them for their smarts). I hated my body. It just felt like this thing that existed for men and getting love. I didn’t feel loved by my boyfriend. I felt like his property, like I owed him and he felt I owed him, my body. My body didn’t care about sex. It didn’t see sex as pleasurable. My brain didn’t participate. It was just a vehicle to get what I wanted, love.

My boyfriend and I increasingly fought over sex. We were together two years but didn’t really get along too well. We both had a lot of emotional baggage we were too young to deal with especially fueled by drinking and partying. My relationship was a constant drama. My boyfriend was not nice to me. He was controlling, manipulative and emotionally abusive. I was volunteering in a women’s shelter while being in a relationship where I had sex with someone to avoid fights. I couldn’t even see my own fucked up shit. I was extremely thin because my boyfriend was very focused on my body. I will say, and want to say, I know he was broken too- by different things- and while I wouldn’t want to go hang out with him for hours, I forgive him and have seen him since and feel like he’s still a good person.

At the time though, the messy end of that relationship, one filled with fear, fueled another few years of rash decisions and escape from dealing. That’s not his fault though, how I chose or not chose to deal with what happened in our relationship. I walked away a more broken woman, grasping for love and acceptance. In 1999 I wrote, “I’m just here, going from person to person, seeing if any of them ever really like me. My brain wants to run from this body. My body just got used by another man, one I loved long ago”. I got back together briefly, with my high school boyfriend. It was intoxicating to be around this person, the first person, I trusted to love me. He was harmless and so fun but our realities were different. I was essentially his Navy port girl and he was the person I was going to convince to love only me, forever. It was a fantasy that didn’t really have an end so much that we both moved on without saying it.

......................................................................................

In 2000 I wrote, “my brain is my enemy and my friend. my body belongs to another man who seems to care nothing about my mind". That was a lie i told myself. That man was my first husband. i did feel pressured to have sex. we never fought about it, i just felt like it was a duty to do for him to love me. He encouraged my academic pursuits, always said i was smarter than him, so he did in-fact value my mind but i experienced only the constant feeling that my body was not mine. My body had been stolen from me, long ago.

......................................................................................

In 2005, I have a poem, its barely readable to anyone who has seen my upset chicken scratch.

"i wore lingerie for you today

you laughed at me

i was a cruel joke

you think its funny i want to be seen

you think its funny i want to have a say"

i married that man too.

i was coming into my own, feeling empowered by my education and career growth but i was still this broken person who didn't feel seen or loved for who she was. My mind became my worst enemy starting at this time and still today i feel that way. My body belonged to another man, one who didn't even really appreciate it or care what it looked like. There wasn't pressure. there wasn't anything! instead of understanding that i wasn't a walking sex doll to my second husband, i understood it as rejection. i didn't know how to be with someone who didn't want me for sex. that kind of situation hadn't existed for me. i also felt though, and still do, that it wasn't a normal evolution of a long term relationship. it felt too early to be deciding we were best friends that weren't lovers. we loved each other but physical expressions weren't part of that. even before my marriage ended epically i felt he wasn't the right person. i had chosen him and we had started failing because he didn't want me for sex.

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in 2017, 4 weeks before my 40th person i wrote in my first journal entry in five years, "i hate my body. its now fat and my face is ugly. i cant remember ever liking my physical appearance while also acknowledging that I've used it to get what i wanted in romantic relationships. my mind is a cage, of argument, criticism, doubt, fear, anger battling another side that argues reality, ration, logic, and also criticizes knowing its smarter than the other side."

that night, i wrote a letter to my friends and family, saying goodbye. i had a plan. i would take too much of my anti-anxiety medication with booze. i would drive somewhere and do it, on a weekday, when my absence wouldn't be noticed. i wrote out my plan, in excruciating detail, in my goodbye letter. i wanted everyone to know id thought this out. i was tired of my internal battle, my external battle, my inability to just be in this world without strife, self hatred and conflict. i felt i should be somewhere better at 40 than where i was. i got to the section where i was addressing my stepson, specifically, and couldn't write it. i picked up the phone and called my sister. she saved my life that night.

i haven't journaled since that night. i write my blogs. i. write for work. i don't stick pen to paper. this is the most I've written in a long long time. i didn't trust myself to write again. since 2017 I've been on a journey to build that life i think i should have, to be that one body, one mind or at least love whats there and stop fighting myself. i have some amazing loving friends who continue to support my journey and love messy me.

I'm not so different from other women. plenty of us hate our bodies. I'm not so different from other women. plenty of us aren't rewarded for our smarts. I'm a feminist because i see so much opportunity in womanhood. so many things the world could learn from all women, even the Karens. but i also hate my womanhood, my experience of being a woman. i hate that there's still things that happen more to women and even more to women of color. i hate that people think it doesn't exist. i still struggle everyday, to look in the mirror. I'm notorious for despising photos of myself and now, my face is a reminder that I'm not safe. There’s no big finding in this essay. i don't have hope for closure. I'm still just going, in this path, hoping i can find healing.