When you collide and no one sees you exploding.

This has been a very trying week for me: Feeling anxiety, unappreciated, used, abused, and pity. So, what do I do? I promised that I would not go back to cutting, but is there another option to rise above the rut?

  1. Singing: I used to love to sing. I would pretend I was on stage and scream at the top of my lungs. It was an adrenaline rush. But singing did not always work, especially when my mother would tell me to turn the music down or to stop. (She never really paid attention to what was happening to me. I wonder: Does she know what I go through daily – most importantly – does she know the things I do not tell her?) When I stopped singing, I suffered bulimia nervosa.
  2. Bulimia Nervosa: The first time I went without eating, I read. A lot. I also drank lots of water to hide that I was not eating. When I was forced to, I would binge eat – everything. Then, surly enough I would be left alone, and I would vomit and take laxatives. (I would say I took laxatives 3 times per week.) No one noticed. My hair continued to grow-surprisingly-but my blood levels went down & I was always cold. Ironic. Not in the least. This was also the time in my life when I lied compulsively and started pretending I was an actress. No, I was not delusional. I just wanted companions.
  3. Cutting: I will always take laxatives and engulf on water binges, but I promised I would not cut again. The last time I cut myself, I wanted to die. I slit from my wrist to the middle of my forearm. Then, when I found myself alive, I purposely showed my scars. Why? I wanted to show the world. I wanted to be consoled and asked why (without fear of being yelled or cursed). I loved the way the blade sliced my fat. How it burst open to the white meat. It made me feel good.
  4. Trichotillomania: In high school I used to pull the hair out of my scalp. At first it started in gym class, but as my anxiety worsened, I just pulled from everywhere. Presently, I do not pull the hair from my scalp, but from other areas of my body. The pain of yanking hair out and the feeling of hair being released makes me forget my problems. I do this before falling asleep or when I am on the computer (like now).
  5. The Big Chop: Cutting off my hair was a choice I made, and I had been dwelling on it for years. I did it because I thought it would be like a new start for my life. It wasn’t.

In addition, I suffer from major migraines.

So, why did I write all of this? I wrote this because it helps. Even if no one reads this blog, writing it is therapy to me. I do not know what is going to happen when I close this page, when preparing to sleep or tomorrow. All I know is that I want my heart to be brave. I want to not be taken for granted. I want attention from my parents, especially my mother – who is more interested in her friends and thinks I am a well-adjusted adult.

To be completely honest, I am unhappy. I am so fucking miserable and unhappy. I feel like my life should be so much better than it is. I don’t get to do anything that young people do/have done. All I do is work (more than I can handle) and provide for a person who is completely capable of taking care of herself, but because she was screwed over by her soon-to-be-ex-husband, I have to be her provider. When does this end? When can I have my own life? Maybe that is the reason I fell for the guy-the-should-not-be-named. Maybe that is why I take pills to subdue stress and anxiety. Maybe that is why my weight constantly rises and falls. I am just lost in the world moving too fast, and I can’t catch up.

<insert crying audio here>

I mean my life could be so much worse, but I can’t help but to think that I went wrong somewhere. Like I messed everything up.

<insert crying audio> 

Sometimes I think that I should have died when I was younger. That way I wouldn’t be a bother. I wouldn’t be complaining. I wouldn’t need the emotional support I am looking for. I just wouldn’t exist. But I’ve become so good at  hiding my pain. I just smile and act silly, and people think I’m okay. WELL, ITS NOT! It is a mechanism for “I NEED HELP!”

<insert crying audio>

I just wish someone would come into my life and be that perfect person that is positive and has faith in God, that God sends to me to help me be a better person. But I know that is asking a lot.

On another note, my phone is ringing. Who is it? Students. Students sending me essays I asked for the beginning of the week. No one calls me. I shouldn’t even have a phone. In the end, who would care? Not. a. soul.

So what do I do now? I am done crying. I am numb.


March, 2016: The Initial Contact

One month before the assault, I invited him to my apartment. We talked for hours in the hallway. He told me all he wanted to do was get my pregnant. He told me stuff about his life, his son, his temper, his ex’s. He disclosed to me. He also tried to kiss me, and I steadily keep pushing him away. Then I told him: “I am a cutter. I do not like intimacy.” He joked and said: “We’re being intimate right now.” (I was sitting on his lap.) I laughed.
He broke down a wall by telling me everything I wanted to hear. He wanted to be  to be my protector. My one. Our Native Indian background connected. I wanted him to be my chief. But that night when he kissed my forehead, and gave me an Eskimo kiss, little did I know, those kisses would be lined with a poison that would change my life forever.
Two days later, my forehead starts breaking out. The bumps were worse in the sun. The next two days, I found a lump inside my lip. How did I get a lump inside my lip when we kissed closed mouthed? Worried, I made a doctor’s appointment, had blood work done, and low and behold: HSV-1 Antibodies were present in my blood work. 
He never mentioned he had a STD. Was it my fault for not asking him? Was it my fault since I did not have experience with dating guys? What was I going to do? How was I going to tell my parents?
(It had been six years since I had a boyfriend. Both of us were virgins. Both of us were clean.)

April, 2016: The Assault.

True Story

I knew that talking to him was a bad idea. So why did I do it? Was it for attention? Was it to be “Seen”? I’m still not sure, but what’s done is complete. He’s achieved his goal. I have to live with my reward.

I wanted to see him. So, I texted his phone and told him to come over. The first words out of his mouth were, “we gonna’ fool around, right?” I thought he was kidding, so I laughed. (My phone rang. It’s him. I answered.) 


“Are we gonna’ fool around?”


“Okay. Be there in 15 minutes.”

(The phone hangs up.)

I never intended for us to fool around. I told him that the day he came by my apartment the first time. I just wanted to see him. To talk and watch a movie. His motives were different. He called and said to open the door. I obey. Before he could get into the door, my arms wrapped around his neck. I missed him. His breath smelled of cigarettes. I never liked the odor, but on him it was nice. He grabbed my waist and proceeded to kiss me. I pushed him away (something I did very often). He asked me:

“You said we were going to fool around.”

“I know. I just wanted to see you.”

“I’m going to go home”

“No. Why can’t we talk? Let’s go in your house.”

“No. None is home. We can talk in the hallway.”

“I told you on the phone I wasn’t sittin’ in no fucking hallway on the hard ass stairs.”

He did say that. A month before this moment, he came over and we talked until 2 AM in my hallway. He intimidated and infatuated me at once. He was a bad boy; someone who has been in a lot of trouble, but his spirit seemed good. I gravitated towards him. He was my addiction. He was the same as me (or so I thought). 

After a few minutes of deliberation, I opened my house door.

“Na, it’s too late. I ain’t going in there.”

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry.”


“Do you like my dress?”


I walked over to him. I wanted to comfort him. For what, I don’t know. He was mad that I wasn’t willing to jump into bed with him. I should have let him leave when he wanted to. Instead, I moved closer to him. I stood my my tip toes, and kissed him gently on the lips (almost no contact). Immediately, the pit of my stomach ached. He quickly turned around so that he was facing my back. He turned me around and against the wall. He kissed my neck down to my chest. I found myself, in that instant, with my back toward his front. His hands quickly lifted my dress and slid into my panties. I pushed him off, and he ran out the door, slamming it behind him. I stood there, in shock to what just happened. 

I still blame myself for the assault. I invited him to my apartment. I provoked him. It was me. 

Brave, Feral Heart

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

Welcome to my blog: “Brave, Feral Heart”. The purpose of this blog is to retell my sexual assault experience, and to document my healing process to a brave, feral heart. First I will start with the etymology of the title of my blog:
*Brave (v.) – “to face with bravery” / Brave (n.) – “North American Indian Warrior” c. 1600 / Brave (adj.) – “splendid, valiant” [from Middle East] / “brave, bold” [from Italian] / “wild, savage” [from Medieval Latin]/ “cutthroat, villain” [from Latin]
*Feral (adj.) – “wild, undomesticated” [from Middle East] / Commonly “run wild, having escaped from domestication” 19 c.
*Heart (v.) – “give heart to” [Old English] / “take to heart” [from Shakespeare] / “to form a heart” / Heart (n.) – breast, soul, spirit, will, desire, ; courage; mind; intellect [Proto-Germanic]
For all intents and purposes, this blog will aid in me facing the past with wild courage, and proceeding to the future with a warrior’s spirit. 
*Online Etymology Dictionary