Remember the day we ended our love story? My god, I thought I’d been impaled through the stomach. I really thought we were unbreakable.
Remember the first time we had sex as friends? (Strictly, you said. I promised you.) I think I fell in love with you all over again that day. Then I swore I hadn’t because I couldn’t let you go. Truthfully, I hoped you’d fall for me, too, and that we’d get a new Happily Ever After.
Remember the weekend we spent fucking in the apartment I’d found on the other side of the country? Maybe the magic came from the fact that it was positively, definitely the last time. I thought if I ran away from you, I could stop swinging between love and loss, love and loss, love, but how the hell could I lose you?
Damn you for moving here. Damn you for begging me to come back to you. I started shaking the second I walked in the door that night because I knew you would ask. I also knew I couldn’t say “no” no matter how desperately I wanted to.
Based on “Speak Less, Listen More” – origin unknown.
If you think that trauma is a sign of weakness, speak less. Listen more.
If you think PTSD is a fire you walk into by choice, judge less. Learn more.
If you think rape happens in retrospect because you woke up next to someone who was too pale, too thin, too stupid to have fucked, stop speaking. Build a stronger connection with reality.
If you think suicide is selfish, listen to someone who’s been drawn to it. Just one. Just once. They will tell you about every day they held on for the sake of others. They’ll list every enth of suffering they endured, not for themselves, but for their families. Speak less. Love more.
If you believe depression is a choice, stop doling out advice to people with first-hand experience. Each and every person who has struggled with this disorder has earned an unofficial doctorate in mood disorders purely by existing. They will share their wisdom if you’ll
If you think gender dysphoria is caused by parents who choose too much pink or blue, stop giving ignorant speeches. Preach less. Read more.
If you think everyone who exists outside your cisgender identity is irrelevant, moralise less. Accept more.
If you’ve never hated your body enough to hide away from the world, stop trying to rescue those who have with $1 cures. Listen more and sermonise less.
Stop shouting. Stop “teaching.” Stop judging. Be more.
He will feel abused because he’s shunned for destroying you. He’ll feel smeared when you put an official end to his smear campaign. He’ll feel victimised because you’re no longer hobbled by the weight of his hatred. He’ll blame you when everyone he rages at shuts him out. Every awful thing that happens to him will be *your* fault. How else can he cope with the consequences of his actions? Lord knows he’s not getting less self-absorbed with age.
He hangs by the noose of his own karma, all the while screaming at you when his Machiavellianism begets isolation.
Remember all the times you tried to describe the costs of his violence? The world is teaching him that lesson, now. It’s throwing his shards of rage back into his face, and they’re as lethal now as they were when he was throwing them at you. His life is miserable. He is utterly alone but for the minions he loathes yet keeps on hand to crush people like you.
Don’t think he’ll see the truth, now. He won’t, but his hatred is its own consequence. He’s already choking in the noxiousness of it. He will never know what it means to share his shame and be accepted anyway. He’ll never feel the infinity you swam in last night when you felt so vulnerable and so cherished.
Today, you feel sorry for the life he’s built out of ruin, but tomorrow, he’ll be less than a memory. He doesn’t matter. He never really did. He’s a hard, hard man made of the bones of other people’s pain. You are made of stardust. Why else would you be infused with this much magic?
This week, I read quite a lot of intolerance on K&P, and I paraphrase…
There is no such thing as triggers. They’re just a tool for perpetual victims.
Trauma changes three different sections of the brain. Those physical changes make you hyper-react to stimuli that relate back to your trauma. Triggers, like diabetes or epilepsy, have a physical cause. They do exist. You can look at them in scan upon scan.
Trigger warnings are you asking the world to solve your problems for you.
Trigger warnings, like wheelchair ramps, let disabled or ill people move around the world more freely. They are not a cure, only a small kindness. You aren’t required to use them, but if you do, you’re simply providing a kind of wheelchair ramp, which is not the same thing as fixing their PTSD. Traumatised people will recover with therapy, extended periods of calmness, and a sense of control.
Your trauma is your problem, not anyone else’s
Yup. And if I had a broken leg it’d be my problem, not anyone else’s. Even so, the neighbour would probably be kind enough to hold the door open for me. I wouldn’t resent him for not doing so, but it would be kind of him to offer. You can choose to be kind to trauma survivors. You can also choose not to be kind. Just don’t shame survivors for being less able than you are. Odds are excellent they went through hell to get a rapist or abuser imprisoned so that they can’t hurt you, but I guess that’s just because they forgot that laying a charge wasn’t their problem. Hopefully, the next victim doesn’t waste their time prosecuting their attempted murder, and then we can all get back to dealing with our problems.
For the longest time, I’ve wanted someone to own. I knew you were weak enough for me when I heard the reticence in your “hello.” I’ve been learning to spot women like you all my life. It’s become so damned easy. I’d have more respect for you if you could stand up to me, but then I wouldn’t be interested in you in the first place, would I?
You’re an extension of my hatred, the expression of my disgust, and the source of chaos I need to colour my greyscale life. None of that will break you, though. My feigned intimacy will do that.
I knew you before we even met. I used the time to learn about your desires and sculpt a personae that fits you perfectly. That’s why you love me more than you’ve loved anyone else. I am your perfect man because I try to be.
You realised how much you loved me when I raged at you for leaving the cap off the toothpaste. You wouldn’t have put up with that from anyone else, so you knew I was The One.
How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? Why do you suddenly feel as though my time is a scrap I drop under the table for a stray dog?
I just realised you’re not a dildo, which is really weird because I was getting so used to my buzzy toys I was trying to decide which one to marry.
My butt plug fell out.
You have a penis.
I looked outside and saw that the sky was blue.
I love you. I know I met you five minutes ago, but you’re a human who just put his cock in my throat, so I will want to marry you for the next 10 minutes. Please be patient. It will pass.
I forgot to hide my teddy bear in the cupboard before you got here.
One of your chest hairs has lube in it.
I would like to watch a horror movie now.
The sky is crying and I don’t know why. It’s probably touched by the infinite nature of my profound feelings for you that will evaporate in 10 minutes.
You threw the condom wrapper in the dustbin, and I needed it for… something I haven’t figured out yet.
You look exactly like Tom Hardy from down here. You also own a penis. He does, too, you know.
Someone left a message on my phone. Oh my god. It was Barbara. I love her.
I don’t love you anymore.
My suicide scars often remind me of the day that almost became my last. Every time I notice them, I think about the life I’ve lived since the surgeon put me back together again. My present is made of impossible things—things I knew I’d never have: a published book, a career I love, a beautiful home by the sea, and so, so many friends. If I could travel back in time and tell the old me that this is what life would come to, I like to think she might pack away her blades.
She probably wouldn’t, though.
Even with my first-hand knowledge of suicidal ideation, I make the mistake of thinking suicide is a desire to erase your future. I didn’t choose death because I was hopeless. I knew perfectly well that tomorrow could arrive without strife on its back, so no, my suicide was not that illogical. It knew that life threw stars at you along with the darkness. I just found the darkness too intolerable to manage. I didn’t want my life to end. I wanted the pain to end.