Memory 1.1

I remember listening to this on one of those mix CD’s I made that year.  I was driving back from some dudes apartment by UTD in Richardson.  I always think of that when I listen to incubus; that and cleaning out my bedroom after high school graduation with Tia watching me, and the week that Morgan was gone deep sea fishing with his father and couldn’t call me, I listened to Incubus the whole time.

Incubus reminds me of all of that, of Roxie, of bad decisions, time and time again.

Incubus is comfortable. Bad decisions are comfortable.

Making ‘good’ choices is something that I am just beginning to understand  at the simultaneously weathered and fresh age of twenty-two.  Sometimes it is hard to remember that I have my whole life ahead of me. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I am still young, because I have reached the age that I thought of as “an adult”.  I have a big girl job, I have a big girl apartment, I make myself big girl meals, and I wear big girl clothes, I have a big girl haircut, I am in a big girl relationship.

I spend a lot of time thinking about who I would have been; if I had made different choices.  Or maybe I spend a lot of time thinking about who I would have been if different choices made me.  I have to keep reminding myself that I am the person who I am today for a reason and that there is some purpose in this, regardless of if it is devine purpose or if it is purpose that I have to forge for myself out of the endless meaninglessness around us.

I don’t know why I was so naive when I was younger. Good girls don’t go to a guys apartment with them after a party because that obviously means that I want to have sex with him. That was not something that I completely understood until a few weeks ago when a freshmen at RIT was saying to another girl who lived near her “no one wants to come over to my room at 2 am just to watch a movie, that’s not what its about.”  I didn’t really understand how to draw the thin line between just flirting and “Taking it to the next level” because the next thing I knew we were at the next level and I didn’t really feel like I had any control of the situation.  It’s kind of hard to stop what’s going on when you are not sure how you got there, let alone if you even know where you are or what is going on, or if you want to stop it or not.  It is hard to ‘not move so fast’ when you don’t know what slow is.

I wish that I could talk to the guy who broke me, I wish I knew his real name, or who he was, or where he was.  I want to ask him if it was as good for him as it was for me.

I didn’t realize until Russ and I started dating that I really do have an amazing memory.  The therapist I saw a few weeks ago that I never want to see again said

“usually people who have good memories are angrier than people who forget, it is harder to forgive when you remember everything.”

I just looked at her but really I was thinking

“Well, no shit, thats why I am looking for a therapist.”

I wish my mother would agree to go see someone to help with her and my relationship,  she doesn’t realize it (Well maybe she is starting to) but at this rate she and I aren’t going to have a relationship much longer.  I don’t know why she thinks its a good idea to take a phone conversation from being about our shattered family relationships to politics, I mean, really?

“Dad and I did our own poll and there is one Obama sign for every eight Mitt Romney signs”

to which I replied “that’s funny I haven’t seen any Mitt Romney signs here”

After that my mom sounded concerned.

I wanted to be able to explain to her why it hurt me emotionally for her to think that it’s okay for someone who has the beliefs that man does run this country. As someone who is a part of GLBT culture, and as a multi-rape survivor, there was no way I could justify voting republican this time. Regardless of how much I might agree with republican financial policy. These are literally people’s bodies and human rights we are talking about here. My body and my human rights.

I want my mom to stop telling me that she did her time in therapy, because if she would just go talk to someone who specializes in PTSD or sexual trauma, and talked to that person about how to communicate with me better, we would probably have a much better relationship.

I tried to explain to her last christmas that, after everything I have been through there is no way that I can believe in a god who “does everything for a reason” and “has a plan” because a god that plans for me to go through all the hell I have been through in the last 20 years, is not kind, gentle or just.  It gets to a point where it is past being a “preparation for me to execute gods plan.” and past a point where “it’s a learning experience, look for gods lesson in this” because let’s be honest, sexual abuse is just fucked up.  When I tell my mom these things it never comes out that concise because chances are she has already upset me so much that I am having trouble speaking through all the tears and mucus.

I remember leaving that guy’s house in the morning, and I remember how awkward it was when his dad walked into his bedroom in the morning, and I remember leaving and trying not to make eye contact with his mom, and the awkward hug he gave me before I got in my car, and I remember smoking tons of cigarettes on the way to Sean and Colin’s UTD apartment and then sitting with Colin on the porch of their apartment for the rest of the day and smoking more while Colin listened to me talk about what had happened the night before.

Thanks Colin, really, thanks for that.

I remember every horrible moment of all of those encounters in painful exacting detail.  Dear god please just let me forget.

You are Stellar.

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