These are Dirty Words

This will take me more than a while to write down only because it has to be done in between my waves of sadness. I don't know how valid my words can be if I spend the entire time trying to describe to you how revolting I find myself to be.

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I was raped on November 1, 2014 at 3 o'clock in the morning. I have been told that I led him on. I have been told that I dressed too enticingly. I have been told that I was asking for it. I have been told that it's what I really wanted all along. Sometimes I believe none of these things are true. Sometimes I believe they're all true. But this event, life changing that it was, is not the focus of what I'm trying to say. It's all about the after. What happened to me after this. Who I became after this. I'm not even really sure, to be honest.

It started with a lot of confusion. Genuine, crippling confusion. Like, in order to cope with day to day life my brain gave me my own fog. It angered me mostly because of how many questions I was supposed to answer in the following days, not to mention just trying to hold basic conversation with people in the weeks following. It wasn't just talking to the police. The same “tell me what happened” over and over. The doctors asking me to break down every moment of what I went through. My responses of, “what? I'm sorry. I... I don't remember the question.” It was the people asking me how my day was. “What?” What television had I been watching recently. “What?” Did I need a ride to the store. “What?” Every day people who had absolutely no clue what was going on with me wondering why I was suddenly so shockingly stupid. Where was my focus? But I didn't know. I didn't know why I couldn't remember anything the way I was supposed to. I was just trying to not cry all the time. Since it started, I don't think it's ever stopped. Not really.

Even now, when I'm supposed to relay to someone or another what happened, I don't quite remember. I had a lawyer and he had to ask me all sorts of questions in order to build a case, and I was unable to remember any of the event properly. I didn't know what order things took place. I didn't know what I was wearing. I didn't remember what he was wearing. I didn't remember why I didn't scream. Eventually they decided to drop the case due to lack of evidence. For that, I blame myself.

The morning of the rape, I woke up in bed immediately confused. I guess that's where that started. But I was confused because I couldn't figure out why I felt so wrong. Why was I so sad? Did something happen? Oh, something did happen. Oh, that happened. I suppose I'll break down... now? Ok now. I called the first person I could think of that had some sort of authority to help me. Because what I was at that moment experiencing was only the tip of the iceberg. I had no idea how much worse I was about to feel for the next forever. I should have held on more to the confusion.

At this point is where I learned how horribly other people handle serious situations. I called a woman who was in the barracks across the street from me. We were friends, or so I had assumed. Wrongly so. When she picked up the phone I hadn't started crying as yet, but I felt all the tears taking up whatever space was in my head.

“I need you. Something bad happened,” I said. My opening line. To which she responded that she was still asleep and couldn't really talk.

“No, seriously. This is important. I'll just come to your room.” To which she responded that she wasn't in her room.

“You don't understand. Something really bad just happened. I need help. You need to wake up.” To which she responded by hanging up on me.

For a long time after that I was mad at her. And I think for a long time after that she was mad at herself. It manifested in her never talking to me again. Later in the day I got a text from her asking if someone had hurt me. I said yes. After that she deleted me on Facebook and I can only assume deleted my phone number. I've since let go of the anger I directed toward her. I learned many times since that not everyone is capable of dealing with other people's problems. And that's ok.

After the initial first two days of shock and confusion and doctors and police, came the anger at everyone. It was a strange bottle of emotions to have, because I was still confused all the time, but then I was also enraged. At anything and everything. I was mad that the person who had done this to me left his wallet behind and came back to me to pick it up with words of “why do you look so upset? It's ok. If you ever need me, I'm here for you.” I was mad that suddenly everyone in the entire command somehow knew what had happened after all of the military's cries of a victims privacy. I was mad that I had to pay for my own plane ticket to go home. I was mad at home. I was mad at family. I was mad at the sky. I was mad at my own existence. BINGO. It was myself. This body. This vessel. I hated it. Because the anger was also guilt. Somehow I had caused this to happen. Somewhere in life I had made a wrong turn and caused all of this. And then I decided that I didn't care.

I stopped eating. Because nothing matters.

I ate too much. Because nothing matters.

I stopped sleeping. Because nothing matters.

I slept too much. Because nothing matters.

I spent all my money. Because nothing matters.

I drank. Because nothing matters.

I cut. Because nothing matters.

I didn't give a fuck about anything. It was a pretty blissful time. There were no worries anymore because why should I bother caring? Nothing in life matters. Because you're born, things happen, and you die. I had figured out the secret to the universe. I thought I had it all worked out.

And then my boyfriend left me. Talk about re-traumatizing a victim. He struck while the iron was hot. He saw that he had damaged goods on his hands and he decided to abandon ship as fast as possible. He waited a full 4 hours after I had stepped foot in the apartment before telling me that he didn't think we were going to work. Oh, no, it had nothing to do with the rape. We were just different people. Him being not raped and me being raped, I can only assume. He didn't think we wanted the same things in life. Him wanting children and me being raped. He wasn't sure if he really loved me enough to waste more time being with me. Him having full ability to sift through his thoughts and emotions and me being raped. And then he told me I wasn't allowed to live there anymore. I short circuited in that moment. I somehow got to work and told them to get me the hell out of California. Immediately. I was gone a week later.

Over the next 8 days I drove 3,000 miles. Over the next month I pretended the best I could that I was normal. I still didn't care about anything. I went to parties. I did drugs. I had sex. I was reckless. I was fun. Then I made it to Virginia.

It started off simple. I checked in and the first person I met was my victim advocate. I think she's an amazing person and I wish we could have met under different circumstances. She took me to the hospital to get checked out and evaluated, and the next day I was sent to work. I spent a little time living in the barracks until I found my own apartment, but no one told me that I wasn't ready for the independence.

The unpacking was stressful. The apartment itself was lonely. And with the loneliness came the thoughts. And with the thoughts came the darkness.

Up until this point I had constant flashbacks. My brain had the whole incident on repeat. I physically flinched every 5 minutes of my day when I thought about it. But these thoughts were different. Suddenly I had no energy to do anything but I still couldn't sleep. I just lay in my bed at night staring at nothing. My outbursts were getting more violent. I was cutting myself deeper and more often. I was crying for hours. I had no idea what was going on. And that was when I realized that it would all be so much easier for everything to stop. Just stop. Stop blinking, stop breathing, stop being.

I was put on medication shortly after a half-hearted attempt to drive into traffic. People were “concerned.” It's what people are supposed to say in these situations, but I don't think any of them really cared. I just think that suicide makes for too much paperwork.

In the military, they pretended a lot like they cared about me.

"Take all the time you need," they said.

"We're here to make sure you're safe," they said.

I have met a total of four genuine people that are still around me in all my time in the military. The people making these grand gestures of good will were none of them. As soon as I was out of the military, I was just another crazy stranger in the street. No one has contacted me to check if I'm ok. I also was no longer allowed to go to therapies or groups anymore. I felt completely alone.

On the medication I convinced myself that I was normal. I wasn't completely insane anymore. I was able to function. But I always felt the sadness waiting for me to slip up. Directly under my skin. Somehow it wasn't until the medication that I stopped believing that I was a real person. It's a very strange feeling to have. How does a person in all good conscience not believe they exist? I don't know how to place it, honestly. This is the stage I'm in currently. A running montage in my head. "You aren't real. You aren't real. You aren't real." It's what makes it so much easier for me to make bad decisions. My therapist calls it disassociation.

After about 10 months of taking my medication, I decided that I no longer wanted it. I gained what seems to me to be a million pounds. My mood fluctuated so heavily. I had migraines. And most of all I just didn't fucking feel like it anymore. I had to wake up daily and take 2 pills that were completely pointless to me and I am an adult and I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do. But honestly, it made me worse. I can admit to that now, but I'm too far gone to turn back now.

In May of 2016 I went to the hospital for attempted suicide. I suppose, but not really. Either you do or you don't in those types of situations and obviously I didn't. I just couldn't take how overwhelming everything in life was anymore. I wanted to die, but I had no plan. I had no real goal on when. I just knew at some point that I wasn't destined for this world anymore. I sat in various cold rooms for about 2 days and thought about a lot of things. If I had any faith in a God I would wonder why she had allowed me to become this. Why even she couldn't love me. 

I've been to so many therapies and groups and I feel like I've learned absolutely nothing. I feel as though I can never actually be fixed. The few friends that I have in my immediate vicinity and the many friends that I have everywhere else are what's keeping me from doing anything too drastic. There are moments that I actually believe people would be sad if I were to die. And those few moments of clarity stop me from hurting myself too much.

Just to be clear: I hurt myself because I hate myself. It has nothing to do with anyone else. I appreciate all the people who tell me that I matter, and you're all wonderful for your words and your kindness, but I really don't know how to change this mindset and until that happens, its just going to be what it is. Sorry.

I want to be better. I promise that I do, but sadly this is all I am right now. Maybe given another two years I'll have something to show for all of this effort.

In the midst of all of this inner turmoil and stupidity, my love for other people that I care about has only gotten stronger. I try so hard to be transparent with how much I care for all of you. As much as I despise myself, I want everyone else to be happy. If you think that it's too much, I'm sorry. I can never be sure how much time is left and I need you to know how loved you are. I want you all to live in bliss. You're all so beautiful.