Category: trigger warning

god isn’t real and nothing really matters

I never believed that God, destiny, or whatever [insert higher power] existed. Because if everyone’s lives were already predetermined, nothing we do matters. And if something like that did exist, why is there still so much hurt and suffering in the world? 

I used to fall asleep with hate in my heart and blood on my wrists.  Did I deserve that when I was 14? 15? 16-17-1819202122? Maybe. I was the one hurting myself. But what about all the times others hurt me? Did I deserve all of that? Did I deserve to eat lunch alone in the middle school bathroom stall because I didn’t feel safe anywhere else? Did I deserve to have my safe place taken from me? When girls tried to climb the stalls to take pictures of me? Or crawled under the gaps between the stalls and floor? 

I thought I knew what being violated felt like. I got too familiar with feeling empty and broken. I was comfortable in my numbness, and I let the emptiness sit in my chest. It was easy to let boys girls bitches friends dad mom people take pieces of me because they were already broken.  

My rapist took a different piece of me the night he fucked me against my will. 

Did I deserve to be touched without my permission? To be choked and hit and beaten as if I was not 97 pounds and him, over 200? To have bruises in places that should not have been touched?

I did not know I could feel emptier than I already was. The only thing I truly felt was the hate I had for myself. I felt hate in my blood in every fucking heartbeat pumping hate running through my veins as if I weren’t already drowning with lungs full of liquid guilt, as if I needed more reasons to kill myself slit my wrists and bleed out all the hope hurt just to feel anything other than this. 

I learned that the world moves forward even if I don’t. Life goes on. Pain and suffering go on and on and on and on. 

It still hurts when I think about what he did to me because he was my friend because I trusted him because I didn’t deserve what happened or maybe I still blame myself for being weak stupid trusting naive stupid stupid stupid and these days I think about that night more and more frequently, not of my own volition though I am just so triggered because I am back in Bangkok again and it still hurts because he was my father and I loved him and I trusted him to protect me from people like my rapist and I didn’t expect I didn’t think how could I know at the age of 11 that he was the one I needed to be protected from? How could I know?

God can’t be real. Fate. Destiny. All of that cannot be real. So while the concept of a higher power comforts many and lets them believe that everything will be okay in the end, I choose not to cannot believe in it.

I cannot believe life is predetermined because I cannot accept that this – my life my soul my brokenness my loneliness and hurt and anger-pain-emptiness-numbness unworthiness hatred guilt – is how I am supposed to feel. Maybe for now, but not forever.

I’d rather be dead than feel this for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to hurt – like this – anymore. 

I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’m trying my best but it is getting harder and harder to breathe. I am trying to heal in the environment that hurt me. I don’t think it’s working I need help I’m so trapped get me out of here I can’t sleep I don’t feel safe here this isn’t home I don’t think I can do this anymore I’m fucking breaking I am hiding the truth in my art because I am scared of him still and if this is art then it’s all up to interpretation, isn’t it? I speak in metaphors and hide between the lines. If you can read between them you can’t because I can’t either I am just scared.

Maybe I should just pray about it.

My Friend

For seven months, I made excuses for him. He was my friend. That didn’t really happen. He’s a good person. He’s always been there for me. He was my friend. 

But friends do not pin you down on the bed. Friends do not hit you when you refuse to comply. They do not muffle your cries with their hands. They do not force your thighs apart to insert their fingers inside you. And they do not rape you.

The moment he forced his dick inside me was the moment I stopped fighting. I didn’t want to get hit again. He was 6”4 and weighed over 200 pounds. I was 5”3 and weighed 97 pounds. I do not remember much about that night. I remember shivering. Was I cold? In shock? Was I nearing a panic attack? I do not know.

I stopped fighting because I was scared. I had already fallen off the bed twice. Or maybe I fell because he hit me. I do not remember. I was screaming, pleading, bleeding inside. Only inside. I did not want to die. 

The clearest memory was the immense relief I felt after he left. I was safe again. But I no longer felt like myself. I felt… dirty. Like I had this disgusting poison spreading throughout my body. I just felt wrong. Something was wrong. Inside me. With me. Everything felt wrong. 

I took eight showers that night, trying to burn away the rot and shame he left behind. I did not cry. I did not feel. I did not blame him. My skin was scrubbed red and raw from the scalding water but I still felt nothing. I was nothing. Maybe it was my fault.

The next few days I functioned robotically. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t shower. And for a while it was okay. Until I had to shower again.

I finally cried when I saw my naked body in the mirror of my bathroom. Who am I? What happened to me? I tried to repress the memories of that night — whatever little I had left anyway — but I couldn’t. It was seared in my mind. His body crushing me. My stifled cries. His shushes of don’t worry just enjoy it. His hands around my neck. 

The next couple of weeks, I felt empty. A light had gone out of me. I had no energy. My eyes were dull. Lifeless. Bright fluorescent lights used to hurt my eyes. Loud traffic noises used to hurt my ears. But none of that mattered anymore. The world was muted and I was just a ghost.

I drifted in and out of sleep during those weeks, clinging to the warmth and safety of my bed. My clean sheets. I cried myself to sleep each night, taking sleeping pills and Xanax so I wouldn’t have to think. I was constantly crying when I was awake. So I self-medicated during the day as well. 

Every night, I gripped my blankets and whispered sorry sorry sorry for hurting you, thank you for being here for me, thank you for wiping my tears away, thank you for keeping me safe and warm. Thank you for not touching me without my permission.

The tears in my blanket have seen the world hurt me. They’ve seen me hurt myself. And they have felt me tugging and ripping its seams as if they were my veins.

He claims he had no memory of that night. He still texts me every now and then. And I respond. After all, he is my friend. 

Every text from him was a reminder. Shame. Hurt. Guilt. Maybe I deserved this. 

After months of therapy and support from my boyfriend, friends, and my sister, I realized that I was not defined by what had happened to me. I was worth more than I knew. And I was loved. Unconditionally. Every single day. 

I am not broken or empty or lost.

I love every day and I am loved every day.

And I know now that he is definitely not my friend. He is only my rapist.