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Saturday, 23 February 2013

I had another one of those night terrors last night. I distinctly remember the image of small black creatures (no bigger than puppies, certainly not nearly as cute) pulling me down from my arms. I remember not being able to move and, in an instant of lucidity, thinking "come now, it's just a matter of being able to move and when that happens I just need to go back to sleep again."

As of a few minutes ago, the blog goes private again. Not that anyone was reading, but I simultaneously need to be able to write and know no one will read what I write. Not for a while, at any rate. A long while, at that.

A gas fueled reader (sorry for the almost impossibly obscure reference) would know the last post shouldn't be quite so hesitant. Such a perspicacious reader would have expected me to treat the subject of rape like I do many others (except, maybe, taking the "expected" time to blush and be uncomfortable with the sex component of it). 

I will have the decency to warn you I'm about to be explicit, go down a rabbit hole of way too much information and oversharing and possibly never come back out of it.

I spend a lot of time on the internet. Often browsing for entertainment purposes, sometimes for homework related purposes and not all my educational visits are counted in that last set. Just as I will look up whether or not AIDS can be transmitted through saliva, and how likely it is to be a victim of burglary, I will sometimes look into ways to fix a fuck up, or find something I don't like about myself and hope the internet can shed some light on possible home-made solutions.

Insecure as I am, if you were to somehow look at the things I look for, you would find at home teeth whitening techniques, body mass index tables, calorie counters, how to clean a rayon dress that was splashed with rubbing alcohol, how to make eyes less puffy after crying, how to varnish wood, how to clear acne scars, home-made remedies for cellulite and stretch marks, and *gasp* genital warts.

I looked for the definition of a wart, thinking there were maybe different types and I just had a bad case of ironic beauty marks. It took a while, but I'm slowly coming to accept that they must have been caused by HPV. And there are many kinds of HPV, but according to my findings the only way to get warts in your genitals is to have someone else's warty genitals near you. Problem? I have absolutely no memory of having anyone's genitals near mine. 

While I did get up and personal with D's junk, and he fingered me on occasion, I remember being self-conscious about them then. I am not 100% sure but I daresay I was self-conscious about them before I got involved with D for a second time and... well, the ways I couldn't get them through D are the only times I remember when I could have been close to getting them so... er... causes and consequences being what they are it means... all the evidence seems to point at rape I can't remember. 

 I will give you this line to let that sink in.

Here, at 24, I'm suddenly realising in the least glamorous fashion that I was raped and I can't remember it. I am, of course, worried about what else I might have that I had no idea I could have and I would like to get tested for everything under the sun that can lie dormant and asymptomatic for years but I can't afford to. I can't afford to anymore than I can afford to get medical treatment or the scandalously expensive vaccines (and, alas!, it's not just one but three). I don't even want to think about the subject too hard because I can't afford the shitstorm that would follow if I, goodness forbid, remember.

Why write about it now, then? For one, I needed to write about it. I've had the thoughts in my head for a few days now and only just now dared put them in writing. However, there was motivation. I was home alone tonight and took the night off to procrastinate, paint my nails and talk to my mum and my sister. When all that was over I somehow ended up watching The Perks of being a Wallflower and come Charlie's realisation, I broke down. Admittedly, I am emotionally unstable enough but you know I mean it meant more than that. It "struck a chord," like they say. 

I will make a brief parenthesis to say something you'd expect: I adored Ezra Miller. 

And perhaps I'll write nothing more because I just don't know what you're supposed to say in these types of situation.

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