Do you, do you really enjoy living a life that’s so hateful?

Do people really, really not understand the concept of a “paper trail”? The fact that there’s evidence to show what happened, and when, and where? That they can’t toss out a whole load of lies without that being thrown back in their faces?


This morning turned into a confrontation between me and Stoner Dude.  I got up to go to the bathroom, partly because I needed to go and partly because the cat was making so much noise, I wanted to see if she was in trouble or injured or something.

As I headed back to my room, she was frantically scrabbling at the closed door of Girl-Child’s bedroom, meowing and wailing with her tail straight up, and I said to her something like, “Oh, you mean you’re not one of those cats you can just ignore and mistreat and neglect? You need someone to take care of you? Well… I’m not the one responsible for you… but then, neither is anybody else here.” Then I walked back into my room and closed my door

He gets up moments later, walks out of his room and says, “What? you’ve got food, you’ve got water, what do you want? Just some attention? Yeah, roommate is a bat-shit fucking crazy lady, huh!”

I called out, “You could at least have the decency to say that to my fucking face!”

“Yeah, well there’s a lot of things you could have said to my face, but you didn’t, did you?” came his retort.

I sat in my room for a few minutes, thinking things over, calming and steadying my nerves… and realized that this would be as good a time as any to attempt to address the issue of his taking my money for phony, exaggerated PG&E bills that he wasn’t even paying.  So I turned on the voice recorder on my cellphone, slipped it into my pocket, and went out to talk things over.

In the process, I got told that I was “full of shit,” that I’m a “paranoid little bitch,” that I’m “acting like a crazy little bitch,” accused of “pulling out mail that wasn’t yours,” and when I tried to challenge him on that as being entirely untrue, he got up in my face screaming that I was “taking it out on the WHOLE! MOTHER! FUCKING! APARTMENT!”

He’s inches from my face, now, and I said flatly, “You step back. You step back, outta my face.”

“No, you started shouting, you start all this shit… Get the fuck out!” he shouts as he turns and starts to walk away.

Dumbstruck, I managed only, “I live here…”

“Yeah, we all lived here, until you decided to be a bitch!”

This went on for several minutes more, being told that I was “trying to drive everyone away,” with my “psychotic behavior — slamming doors, beating up a tree, making it so no one can feel comfortable here!” and that if I wanted to “keep on making up paranoid delusions, you can go fuck yourself.”

I really should have resisted the joke, but with adrenaline flowing, it was too easy: “You’d probably enjoy watching that a little too much,” I sneered.

I’d forgotten that way back when, he’d apparently had a crush on me — that Girl-Child had cited the “obvious and unmistakeable chemistry” between us as “the reason” (which, of course, “the reason” changes with every whim and spontaneous lie, for her) why she had stopped trying to get me in bed with her.  His reply reminded me, as he loftily declared, “Maybe once upon a time,” he huffed, “but — not anymore. Not since you blew up in [Boy-Toy]’s face!”

Shouldn’t really be surprising that the story they all cling to is that I went off on her boy-toy, since nobody else was in the room to witness me trying to confront him rationally before he ended up in my face screaming like a banshee — at which point they all came running. So, “you blew up in his face” is what they say happened, even if it’s complete rubbish.

Stoner Dude walked out finally, and just before slamming the bathroom door behind him, gave a final, “Nobody cares what you have to say.”

As he turned on the water, I yelled after him, taunting him about running away and escaping reality… suggested smoking more pot so he wouldn’t have to deal with reality. I hate verbal fights for precisely that reason — I’m damn good at throwing dagger-words where I think they’ll leave the deepest emotional wounds, and with the anger and fear pumping through my veins, my inhibition lowered, I let loose some really nasty volleys.  When it became obvious that he wasn’t coming back for more, I left the house and (thinking he’d gone into his bedroom, not the bath) I called in at his window, “Grow the fuck up one of these days — pull your head out of your ass!”

Yeah, real clever, I know… or not.  Also very much unnecessary and entirely inappropriate. Again, why I hate getting into fights like this. I lose my higher function, my skill with words, my creativity… and I don’t remember the conversation verbatim, which is something that I often do with other non-confrontational conversations. That’s what the audio recording was for.

I’m back home for the moment, but headed out again in a few minutes to meet with a friend for lunch when she gets off of work.  I could certainly use some friendly company, and I know I need the food!

So if you’re near me, darling, can’t you hear me?

Something reminded me a couple of days ago about Cliff Pervocracy’s post, “Why does she stay with that jerk?” — which includes a list of reasons why someone stays in an abusive relationship.

I also thought about how, if someone has a reason to get away, it can be really hard — if they try to “drop off the grid” to avoid a person or situation that they feel isn’t safe, it may also be difficult for those who would be supportive to contact them.  Even worse, a well-meaning friend who wasn’t aware of the situation might freely give the abuser all the information needed to track them down, if, say, a call came in asking “Hey, have you seen so-and-so? When’s the last contact you had? Where are they now?”

Even if that well-meaning friend was wise to the situation, it could be a challenge to reach someone who’s intentionally made themselves hard to reach… so if a friend wanted to tip off someone like that to what’s going on, or pass along other information and maybe some sort of help, that friend might have to get creative.  Maybe the kind of creative that ends up in a blog post, with fingers crossed that the message makes it into the right hands and stays out of the wrong ones.  Maybe a blog post that looks a little bit like this one, even.

Maybe I’ll get an email or a phone call sometime soon… who knows?

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Breaking the silence of the night, can’t you hear me screaming?

Crave. Need. Only half-awake, my body turns to present my ass with an expectant moan.

“Fuck me…” I exhale in a whisper, “please…

I know there’s nobody to hear, and I for a moment I halfheartedly toy with the idea of digging around for a toy — when I suddenly realize what woke me after barely 5 hours of sleep.

“Fuck!” An angry, muttered curse this time, as I hear the landlord banging on the neighbors’ door again.  He’s there to do some repairs; apparently the main plumbing line issues have caused enough damage that some shelves in their kitchen fell down from a water-soaked wall.  He still refuses to acknowledge that all of the water-in-the-wall issues are related, or might be symptomatic of a much larger issue, and insists on doing little patch-up fixes here and there, and insists on doing the work himself instead of hiring a licensed contractor to do the major repair work the place really needs.

So instead of having even a moment to slowly wake, or the luxury of pleasuring myself, or even the freedom to go back to sleep, I’ve spent the last 3 hours listening to slamming doors, hand saws resonating through drywall, stomping up and down and up and down the staircase… and as if that weren’t enough, it seems that the Bitch-Child has returned after several days’ absence.  I’d forgotten just how much my body tenses from hearing her voice.  I haven’t heard her Boy Toy yet, though it’s often later in the evening that he arrives so I won’t be surprised if I have to deal with him tonight.

The sawing sounds are still coming through the wall, there’s a car sitting on the street with bass blasting, and the dudebros upstairs are thumping around as usual. If I don’t get dressed and get the hell out of here as soon as I can, I’m not going to keep my sanity.

There I can ask any question; I hear the answers, if I listen.

Sometimes I realize just how far ahead of the crowd my parents have always been on a few things, for as frustratingly out-of-touch as they were on others.

For example, when I was 12 years old, my therapist at the time suggested to them that it was probably time for “The Talk” after I asked her about something I had read in The Diary of Anne Frank — a euphemistic reference to menstruation of having found “seed” in her underwear.  Not long after, my dad and I sat comfortably in his room with the door closed, and he said to me,

“You’ll probably have some questions during our talk, and I want you to know that it’s okay to ask me anything, and it’s okay to use whatever words you feel comfortable using.”

At 12, I understood completely that he was creating a safe space for us to have a conversation about a topic that might otherwise be difficult, and that within the bounds of that space, the outside rules didn’t apply.  I knew that, had I been comfortable using the terms, I could have asked, “So… your prick gets really hard — like a bone — and that’s why it’s called a boner?”  I could have even used “The F-Word” if I felt it was appropriate.  It wasn’t an excited feeling of getting to break all the rules; it was an understanding that those rules were being set aside temporarily, because they worked against the purpose of that safe space.  Now, I also knew that even if the words themselves were allowed, that they were only allowed in context — I couldn’t tell my dad he was a prick, or to go fuck himself, and if I did I’d expect him to call me on it and for there to be consequences.

I learned the word “prick” in second grade. I knew exactly what it was, I knew that either a “D” or a “P-R” could interchangeably begin the word, and I knew easily half a dozen other names for a penis and nearby genitalia.  “Sperm” came in third grade, when I was left so puzzled by the other kids giggling at a certain species of whale that I asked what was funny… and although the concepts and details were lacking as far as how the overall process worked, I quickly picked up “spunk” and “jism” as synonyms.  Singing Oh, Suzannah became harder to do with a straight face after that!  “Pussy” — well, I’m afraid my understanding of the anatomical usage came a few years later, but I certainly knew the word… that was the one yelled as an insult to a boy who was perceived as having failed to perform his societally-assigned gender role!  I don’t recall it being hurled at me in specific, but I knew that it easily could have been.

These and many more “bad words” were in my vocabulary for years before I sat down across from my dad, and he knew I’d been exposed to at least some of them.  He spoke honestly and openly, and tried to give me that same privilege.  I wasn’t comfortable using most of them, but I knew that I could — and that was pretty damn significant.

Now, I find many places, both physical and online, which call themselves “safe spaces” or “support groups.”  These tend to follow the pattern of being organized around a particular topic, and have a standard “speak freely, ask any questions, discuss what you wish (sometimes “what you wish as long as it falls under our organizational topic”) using the language that is comfortable for you.”  In essence, the same things my dad said as he invoked that space for us.  The trouble I’ve run across, though, is that too often those concepts are just words.  “That topic is too deep,” and “this question isn’t okay” — or at least it wasn’t when you asked it yesterday… but when someone else asks, they get lots of information that you were looking for.  “Stop trying to throw your voice into the conversation,” and “those words aren’t allowed here.”

The last one is what pisses me the fuck off.  I have been frustrated to have to leave a few online spaces recently which claimed to be safe, supportive, welcoming areas set aside for discussion, because “those words aren’t allowed here.”  In each case, the posts were deleted, along with the supportive comments made by others, and I got a message from an admin asking me politely to censor myself, “because there are minors here.”  Mind you, these are online services where the minimum age limit is 13 — not little children, but young folks at or near puberty.  If there are minors present, then I as an adult would think it wise to show them the value of safe spaces — to demonstrate in actions that the words we use in creating that space are not hollow lies.  We do these youth a disservice to offer the opportunity to speak freely, only to chastise and censor any speech we don’t like.  We make those spaces unsafe when we dictate the exact manner in which expression is allowed, when it is either explicitly stated or implicitly understood that some subjects may never be discussed and some words will always be silenced.

Any space where I am censored, or asked to censor myself, is not a safe space — and I will not stay there.  Exclaiming “but think of the children!” does nothing to help me feel safe; the same smokescreen has been used to silence discussion of many other topics, and it’s equally bullshit no matter what issue you’re trying to distract attention from.  If you want me to think about the youth, I’ll think about the reason I left home — because I was not free to speak about the things I wished, using words which were comfortable.  If you want me to be mindful of young ears, I’ll keep in mind the sense of shame and guilt I attached to certain vocabulary when I was young, because the adults around only wanted to keep them out of sight and out of mind.  If you politely ask me to refrain from using curse-words, I’ll point at the button on my purse: Fuck Censorship! Then I might just follow that with “…and fuck you, too!” before walking away.

Here they take their sweet repast, while house and grounds dissolve

Already the guests begin to arrive.  All boys — that’s all the company she keeps — slowly trickling in, one and then three and soon to be followed by many more, if history and routine have any bearing on the matter.

The rich, spoiled bitch-child celebrates 20 years on this earth today, a day often used to celebrate fools, to mock and laugh at the gullible and to take glee in the guile by which we can trick those we deem more dim-witted than ourselves.

What better day for her to party?  Let the fool celebrate. The booze will flow, the weed will burn, likely other substances will wend their ways through bodies and brains.  As I left the bath moments ago, the sweet perfume of pot smoke hung thick in the air — good shit, it seemed, from the moment of scent I sampled.  Deep voices conversing, the basses and baritones carrying their banter and chilling my bones.

It does seem quite the shame, though — she may be a year older, but she’s not one second closer to growing up.  Her verbally and emotionally abusive relationship with her boyfriend frightens me, to regularly hear how she screams at him, telling him how stupid and worthless he is, almost as often as she lavishes praise on him — the “best boyfriend ever” just hours before he’s verbally lashed — “how could you do that? I told you, and you fucked up again! I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU! I’M NOT YELLING AT ALL, DAMN IT!”  It sickens me to understand completely and intuitively why he stays, too; great sex as often as he wants it?  Score.  A place to live away from his folks? Hot damn! Cost-free room and board — and no “crust of bread, cup of water,” either, but the finest gourmet that money can buy? You might hang around, too!

If it means having her laugh to all her assembled guests that “yeah, he breaks all the glasses, and doesn’t clean them up.  We clean them up, at least, because we’re not like that.” — well, what’s a little public humiliation in exchange?  If she insists that he sacrifice his health for her codependency — telling him to skip his psych meds because he is making them late for the rock concert by trying to go back and fetch them, spending half an hour telling him how dumb he is for forgetting them and refusing to move an inch until he capitulates to her every demand so that she doesn’t have to spend a single moment functioning on her own… well, again, why is that a problem?  Plenty of awesome shit to balance things out!  Besides, she’s always right… he must just need to work on understanding that, right?

Still more boys coming in, even as I write this.  Tonight will be loud and potentially very difficult — but I begin this night with wonderful preparation, with a day full of beauty and joy and fantastic good things coming to me throughout.  I’m in a good mood, and a good space.

I also have a secret weapon… acquired later than initially intended, as I had planned for it to be my birthday gift to myself in mid-February, but I now have my own Tango III vibrator — and tonight will be a good, relaxing, fun night no matter what else surrounds me.  Perfect peace amid the tempest, filling me completely… even if my toy doesn’t!

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