ENOUGH – Page 3 – 50 Shades of Gray Hair

“As the Shade Spins Some More Still”

As we get ready to join our already-in-progress play of numb-nuts and dumb-bells. I invite you to refill your bowls. There’s a surprisingly large quantity left (what? you don’t like it?) so I’ve kept it warming on the stove. It may be a tad thicker than it should be, but you could always add a drop or two of that Canadian almost beer…the little dirt eaters could probably use it. And please, let me know if you are in a part of the world where the sun is just rising, I can fry up an egg to top your stew…I believe I can retrieve one or two from the face of our leading man…the driver.

We’ll pick up with our little ensemble right where we left them…in the freezing dark…at the end of day one. To refresh your mind, and get you in the mood, here is where we stand:

Husband 😯

Wife 👿

Driver 😥

And now we return to…As the Shade Spins, Part II

Before the crew left that first night, we tried to find out where they were staying the night and what the plan was for the following day. Not as easy as one would imagine…owing to the fact that the driver’s particular Haitian dialect was out of our scope and our particular English one was gibberish to him. Apparently.

We did manage to conclude this though…he was planning on returning to Massachusetts (260 miles one way) because his cousin (cough…I mean, one of his crew) needed to be home in the morning for something ‘important’.

Now, maybe we are just too finicky, or too demanding, or just too damned too too…but if I were to say to you we were more than a little pissed off to find out our stuff was being schlepped an added 520 miles, for something that has absolutely nothing to do with our job, adding an inordinate amount of unnecessary liability…would we be wrong? PLUS…would you have believed him when he said not to worry because he’d be back by 8am? Even if he fervently and repeatedly stated he’d be back by 8am no matter HOW much sleep he got?

No, we didn’t either.

And because we lost almost an entire day the first day, we were then in the position of HAVING to finish (finish? shit…start the bloody job) the packing, loading of the house, packing and loading of our storage unit (no electric there either), cleaning and closing both, and making the 800 mile trip to Virginia in one day and not two because we had to be present for our final walk through on the new house in two days time!

Pissed? Just a little.

So…day two dawns just as cold as the day before and they were just as late. Yes, it seems our driver has a ‘waking up’ problem. They managed to roll in somewhere around 11:30am, a mere 3 and a half hours past his feverish and fervently promised 8am. I won’t bother with the emoticons…you can just imagine! Nor will I mention the many, rather colorful, telephone conversations with ‘corporate’. And remember my mentioning in Part I the little detail about daylight being at a premium up there (12 miles from the Canadian border)? Right. We now have about 4 hours ’til dark, and I mean DARK, and they’ve only just arrived and the entire job still to do!

No. Fucking. Way. KISS MY ASS AND CALL ME FRED (Now you know why I dubbed this my 50th Shade – what the hell next?)

Well, I’ll tell you what next…Mayhem! I couldn’t believe it when I went out to the porch to have a smoke, and saw through the gaping mouth that was the open doors of that truck, what could only be considered CHAOS inside! It looked like a couple of drunks had gotten in and started throwing things hither and yon looking for another bottle!

U N B E L I E V A B L E!

I had to leave; had to get out before I killed someone. My husband had been so busy doing their job (dismantling furniture because they had no tools, packing boxes using packing paper they didn’t seem to be using, trying to MARK boxes they had packed because they didn’t realize they had to) and I was trying to keep an eye on how things were being wrapped, etc…that we’d not had a chance to see what was going on until then.

Other than telling them to stop, unload the truck, and get the hell out, there was nothing to be done in the time we had left. So, I had to leave. I drove down to the house periodically to check on my husband, who was working harder than all three of the others, and each time it became more and more evident that my husband had been right…there was NO way this truck was big enough. Especially with the way it was being packed, if you can even call it that. Not for what was in the house and certainly not what was in storage.

O. M. G. Kill me now!

(I’m so sure you all need a potty break by now, or perhaps more stew? But let’s see if we can at least get out of Vermont before we have a commercial. Trust me though, I need one too!)

We end the day at 10:30pm, in the pitch black, bitterly cold, frozen north…steaming mad. When all was said and done this day, in addition to the truck, we now have our two cars, my father’s pick-up truck filled to bursting (where to put our luggage? yeah, like that) (how the hell are two people going to drive three vehicles? yeah, like that) and STILL, items tucked in his barn that won’t fit into either of those three additional transports.

The parting of the driver, crew, and truck wasn’t without a sigh of relief all the same. They even left us a present. Yes ladies and gents, never let it be said that these folks don’t respect their customers. No sir. They lavished us with two plastic carry bags full of garbage, three empty work boot boxes, a broken Styrofoam cooler, and a sundry of packing material trash…strewn carefully and cleverly in the middle of our driveway! And as an encore, they even managed to hit the retaining wall on the way out, knocking the railroad ties flat. Yes indeed…consummate professionals right to the bitter end!

After a few hours of what is sure to be nightmare filled sleep…we hit the road in the morning. It can’t get much worse, so we’ll see what happens on the other end next time on…

As the Shade Spins, Part III

How about a tease for what’s to come? Okay…have a look-see below…oh boy!

THIS IS MY LIFE! Toilet Brush and Tooth Brushes? Together? Unprotected in the same box? (yeah, like that) — THIS IS MY LIFE!
Toilet Brush and Tooth Brushes?
Together?
Unprotected in the same box?
(yeah, like that)

(God, I need a drink! I’m just writing it, it already happened, and it’s only 10am…but I NEED it!)

“As the Shade Spins Some More”

Grab a bowl of warm can o’ worm stew off the stove, and please make sure you only take what you can eat…there is plenty, but we want everyone to get their fair share. Yum! Oh, and there’s some (Canadian) almost-beer in the cooler to choke it down with. (You’re welcome NB) Then pull up your favorite soap-opera-watching-tv-chair ’cause we’re ready to go.

As we return to our saga…we are about to enter the Final Act, which, you’ll recall, has been referred to as the “then shit REALLY got interesting” act. This is an act of more than one part…so we’ll begin with part I:

After months of searching and a dozen or more unanswered emails and phone calls, as well as the same amount saying they’d love to help but they don’t service our area, I finally found a moving company to pack us, load us, and deliver us from evil….I mean from the north.

I did my due diligence, checked BBB (a couple of issues, but nothing unresolved), checked previous client testimonials (no red flags there), did a background check on the owner, who seemed a long-standing professional in her field. Though I’d never heard of them, they were a national mover, based in Florida, but serviced more than their fair share of relocations from the northeast.

Cool. And. Phew.

I mean, we were right down to the wire and I was so thrilled to have the worst of the moving process settled..someone to pack the stuff, load the stuff, and deliver the stuff. Not cheap, but not out of line with the current industry rates either.

Happy 😆

Moving day is here! YAY

Zero degrees outside and I know once they are here the heat will go off because the door will be open, but so what? I am so excited it’s finally happening that I don’t care. Coats, scarves, gloves inside? Psshaw…nothing to it.

I’d spent the previous two days making sure all was ready for them. Nothing on the walls, soft goods tucked neatly in drawers, like items all in one place, kitchen gadgets and little bits placed in baggies for easy packing, all important papers and cables, etc. boxed and in my car, bottled water aplenty, toilet paper left on the holder for those special moments…what more could I ask for. I was breathing easy and actually looking forward to the crew’s arrival…

Promptly at 9am

No – slightly late at 11am

Whoops – damned late at 1:30pm

Shit – you’re so damned late why bother showing up at all friggin’ late at 2:30pm. (And they show up in a truck too small by half and already half full!)

Says the husband:

“No fucking way will our stuff fit in THAT!”

Says the wife:

“Now, now Dear (teehee, not really), let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. You know how movers are…they can fit 50 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag. It’s an art!”

Says the diver: (at least this is what we think he said)

“Slept late, so sorry. Phone didn’t work, please excuse. Needed to stop and buy work boots, so glad we passed a Wal-Mart on the way here.”

Husband 😡

Wife 🙄

Driver 😯

Uh Huh. Okay then, daylight’s at a premium up here in the Northeast Kingdom this time of year, so they best get cracking if anything was to be done with what was left of the day (which, as it turned out for them, was about 4 hours, the last 3 of which were in the dark! More on this in Part II).

Time to get rolling on the process, the paperwork, and to get the crew working on bringing in boxes and packing material.

We get the process explanation (sorta); no sign of the crew.

We get the paperwork and the explanation of that (sorta); no sign of the crew.

We get frustrated with the back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, due to a language/communication problem (sorta); still no sign of the crew.

Husband 👿

Wife 😕

Driver 😯

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, seems the driver had told his two-man-crew to stay put while he got the paperwork done (one hour and one translator later). We are now at 3 dark thirty, which is fine for packing inside, but shit for loading a truck with overhead lights blocked by the previously loaded job. By damn-ass-dark thirty, an hour later still, all that had been accomplished was bringing boxes and ‘some’ packing material inside rendering what little floor space left, utterly useless.

Hmmm, where to find room to tape these boxes together. Hmmm, I know, let’s not worry about that now. Let’s start wrapping some furniture and taking it out to the truck. Yes…let’s do that. Let’s fill the nooks and crannies usually filled in nicely with boxes with MY FURNITURE instead because you can’t get to your job on time, can’t get your crew working without your paperwork being done, you can’t speak English, and can’t get your head out of your ass long enough to see it’s FUCKING PITCH BLACK OUT THERE!

Husband 😯

Wife 👿

Driver 😥

More in part II…I’ll save some stew 🙂

“As the Shade Spins” A traji-com-edy of dysfunction and disillusion

Paragraph

long ago and far far away, in the beginning of a dark and stormy night, it was love at first sight…then shit REALLY got interesting!

2014
The new year’s babe came roaring into existence
dragging what was left of her meaner older brother
2013
by the roots of his dead gray short hairs

I had hoped to see the end of The Year That Almost Totally Sucked Ass (T.Y.T.A.T.S.A.) around the same time I saw Massachusetts in the rear view mirror

Seems Ol’ 13 had other ideas.
Seems Ol’ 13 wasn’t quite ready to belt out Auld Lang Syne
And it’s obvious good Ol’ 13 conned his newborn kid sister into taking him along to continue the never-ending days of madness and mayhem

No way was he going out like a lamb
If he was anything at all, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing
And determined to stick around for the final act he called

“Wanna see the crazy old crow lose her mind?”

IMG_0007 (3) — WHAT’S HAPPENING?
(shades of poltergeist…at the 2.08 mark to be exact!)

My enthusiastic and optimistic return to enthusiastic and optimistic blogging in March of T.Y.T.A.T.S.A., has not gone quite as I had planned. Then again, how does one plan life anyway.

I won’t recount the entire war, as I have already shared a few of the bloodier battles here already.

Those days were the “Once Upon a Time” and “In the Beginning” days.

And, I’ll leave it to you to decide whether to visit the “”Long Ago and Far Far Away” tales and wade through those deep and scoured trenches.

For now, if you choose, a quick peak at what optimism looks like (On the Road Again), then maybe a bit of “Love at First Sight“…

For soon, we’ll pick up where the “shit REALLY gets interesting!”

Somewhere between Moving Day and Moving Day II

The can of worms is in the pan and on the stove, so join me for dinner and a show…

Next time on “As The Shade Spins“

😳

As Promised…The Opening Line

Once upon a time, long ago and far far away, in the beginning of a dark and stormy night, it was love at first sight…then shit REALLY got interesting!

(Okay…as first lines go, a bit tamer than I was feeling when I wrote “Pulling out the 50th Shade…”, but it works all the same)

😆

Here’s a tease

…let’s go to the movies!

**“My Left Foot”**
**Gets an Oscar**
while
My Right Ankle
Gets the shaft?

Weapon of Mass De-SUCTION?
Ok…not a movie, but really?

Mercury Rising? — *Mercury Rising*?
I mean, PHEW, thank goodness it was NOT one of those dangerous and banned
incandescent bulbs!

Does the show go on?

YeS!

Do you want to hear it?

Hope so…if for no other reason than you being able to laugh AT me if not WITH me…

Stay tuned…

Pulling Out the 50th Shade

Famous Opening Lines…We all know them and know too, that when we hear one, there’s bound to be a good story to follow!

Once Upon a Time…

Far, Far, Away…

Long Ago and Far Away…

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night…

In the Beginning…

It Was Love at First Sight…

You get what I mean right?

I know when I hear one, I feel a true sense of anticipation for what’s to follow.

Good storytelling does that for me.

A good story begins at the beginning; that great opening line.

One that gives me that special kind of ‘tingle up my leg’

(stole that from some pseudo-famous liberal’s “tingle heard round the world”)

Anyway…while preparing to re-enter the blogosphere after my short but eventful hiatus from sharing, I needed to capture, in one good opening line, the true sense of what’s to come.

A line to draw you in and make you want to keep going to see what there is to see and feel what there is to feel.

An open to encapsulate the last 374 days, 17 hours, and 49 seconds in a little amuse bouche that, once tasted, will leave you wanting a bigger bite.

None of those listed above will do for me though. Not this time anyway.

While great, they are lacking that je ne sais quoi I’m hoping for.

So, to that end…I’m pulling out the final shade in my Bag O’ Fifty; the one I didn’t think I’d get to for at least another 5 years minimum, if ever.

The one I call “The 50th Shade – Kiss My Ass and Call Me Fred, What Next?”

I know, I know…we are such a huge community of optimists here.

And I love that about us

I do! 🙂

But we all have our limits. That point where we tell optimism to fuck off!

After we’ve fallen through the hole of the shithouse two-seater, but before we decide whether to wallow in the muck and mire and drown in the sludge, or crawl out and take a damned shower!

Okay…this is me…post-wallow…yet…pre-crawl.

I’m covered in it, sticking with it, red-faced, and blotchy skinned from it…but I ain’t drowned.

I’m one slime-covered maggot with a boil on its ass away from dead, but not dead yet.

I still have one good leg and two good arms with which to push and pull my way out of this crap, and I’m using them now.

(Well, maybe the good leg’s not so useful on the keyboard, but hey, I’m giving it its due)

Stay tuned…my famous opening line is coming…as soon as I think of it.

Then watch out (or at least have an anti-microbial handi-wipe ready)

See ya soon!

In the meantime….

Steak, Medium Rare, with a side of MILF

Our Massachusetts exploits end today. We closed on the house yesterday and the Bay State will soon be in the rear-view.

But, before I leave, I’d like to share one last mini adventure with you. One of those rare (if ever) experiences that leave you reeling and become written with indelible ink in the memory keeper upstairs.

One that began innocently enough as dinner with friends and ended as noted above.

“Steak medium rare with a side of MILF”

M I L F

Know the acronym? Sure you do. Or you think you do.

If you follow me, you may be wondering ‘What is she doing writing about such things?”

I’m taking liberties, that’s what. I’ll get right to the heart of it…

MILF = Majorly Intolerant Liberal Friends

See? Not what you thought or expected. I am usually one to hold the punchline to the end, but for anyone who found their way here because their engine locked onto the MILF train, I didn’t want you to have to wade through to the end and be disappointed.

So, no luscious MILFs here…just your average non-milf housewife with 50 Shades of Gray Hair sharing a small tale (with a big body) about her last adventure in the state we will remember as as ‘the second worst place we’ve ever lived’, which has nothing (well,maybe a little) to do with the story.

Now for the adventure with a tiny lead in from the last month…

The house sold, the estate sale done, the few possessions we wanted to keep all packed in boxes

and for the last 4 days…

The moving van picked and packed, dinner with friends, closing on the property…oh wait.

Backup.

Dinner with friends…that’s what I want to share.

How a much anticipated evening of always good food and always good conversation turned into the Battle of the Bilge in this War of Potty Politics

We arrive around 7:30 to this lovely old home, the glow from within spilling onto the dark sidewalk outside guiding us to the wide open front door. The delicious aroma as you enter leads us back to the heart of the home…the kitchen, where the excited greetings are accompanied by big smiles and even bigger hugs.

Conversation starts immediately, flowing as easily as the wine, belying the fact that we’ve not seen each other in months and months. But it’s been that way since the beginning; easy conversation covering a wide range of topics from dogs to chickens to jobs to renovation projects to current affairs to politics to…..ahhhhhhhhh, politics.

The men hung around the stove, talking their talk. The women meandered outside, walking their walk, joined a little while later by the men, come to usher their ladies inside to take our places at the table set with obvious thought and care. The centerpiece platter of perfectly grilled porterhouse and filet sat alongside a lovely old wooden bowl filled with the late fall bounty of assorted greens, veg, and herbs, as colorful as anything you’d find outside clinging to the trees. Perfect.

(Almost)

As the genders had separated early, I was not privy to the conversation the boys were having during their tour of duty in the kitchen, but as is common, it had been politics (nothing wrong here). As is also common, especially here in the northeast where conservatives are the minority, and my other half being one of said minority, they are of opposing views (again, nothing wrong here).

However…Emily Post’s advice was forgotten this night. What should not be discussed at the dinner table, was.

The opposing sides continued their politically charged discussion while seeming to enjoy the fare lovingly and expertly prepared. I was not overly thrilled with the topic as I don’t enjoy discussing politics at most times, but never less than at the dinner table. My other half however, has no such qualms. Politics are his ‘go to’ subjects; his opening, middle, and closing statements. I usually roll my eyes, try to divert, try to zig when I see the zag, try to interject something funny to deflect, anything to change the subject. Not this night.

Perhaps because the country is in such political turmoil right now? Maybe because the left and the right seem to be going for the jugular lately? Could it be because it’s ALL we see and hear anymore? On the news, in the paper, on the radio…snipe snipe snipe snipe.

Whatever the reason, the subject was as much a part of what was being fed as the steak and salad, but much less easy to swallow. I sat, as I usually do, quiet on the subject. I sat, quiet, but becoming more and more uncomfortable as the two-way conversation became a two-on-one way conversation. I could feel it. The tension was rising, the food was becoming stuck in my throat, and the wine was not helping.

It was getting personal, but only on one side of the table.

The battle had begun.

The lines had been drawn.

The tempers and voices rising.

Insults flung.

Demands to “Shut Up” issued.

But…again, from one side of the table.

One side of the line drawn in the salad bowl.

One side, two like-minds, two voices as one…

“Get out of our house”

Yup.

Our last adventure in the Bay State.

Our goodbye dinner with highly educated, worldly, creative, well-rounded, the highest level of professional, acutely attuned to current events friends…could think of nothing more constructive to say when faced with as true a believer of his point of view as theirs, than…

“Shut Up and Get Out of Our House!”

MILF?

You got it…

Majorly Intolerant Liberal Friends

Only, sad to say, since the communication I received the following day was not an apology but a justification that ‘my damned husband had pushed them too far’, I’m not sure the F still applies.

Intolerance in any form, whether of one’s beliefs, color, religion, etc. is the root of what’s wrong with the world; what has always been wrong with the world. It starts wars between countries, helps create extremism, causes rifts in families, drives wedges between friends. I, for one, am saddened to say the least. I’ve never held that friends can only be friends if they all believe the same thing. I do, however, hold to the notion that respect for one’s individuality goes a long, long way toward keeping one’s friends.

But even more to the point…I’m disappointed that people I’ve held in high regard, considered enlightened, and I believed were very aware of the power of communication, would find themselves in the position of reacting to someone, a friend no less, with opposing beliefs and a willingness to stand up for them, would result in their lowering themselves to the level of a petulant child.

Get Your Heads OUT of Your Asses…

…and YOUR Asses Back in Your Chairs!!

pissed off — **I don’t care if you – Straddle an ASS – Ride an ELEPHANT**
**Get the houses in order and do your jobs**
**THAT is what YOU are STILL getting paid to do**
**F I G U R E I T O U T !!!**

I, for one, am TIRED of our country looking ridiculous and behaving like spoiled children

This is NOT a game

This is NOT a pissing contest

This is life and death for some

Put your million dollar asses in your thousand dollar chairs and get our country’s houses back in order

E N O U G H

or the next thing you hear from us will be:

Y O U A R E F I R E D!

Survivors

Of the many reasons I blog, this is at the top of the list: Meeting, befriending, supporting, and being supported by a woman like Susan. Thank you for this amazing piece my friend…I love your voice and am honored to stand beside you…

Susan Daniels Poetry

There is choice. We can die
from the shame of what is done
to us. We can wear the names
like letters branded into our skin
and quietly disappear,
become the nothings
they say we are, banished and vanished,
or we can wear our own words.

We can show them
women are not sheep.
Girls are not fruit.
There is no shearing of hair
or reaping a harvest from us.

We learn through breath
the difference between being a victim
and becoming a survivor
is subtle, delicate
before it grows strength:

That shift across the line
of being versus agency
is a thing danced, not learned;
sidestepping guilt and spinning it
back where it belongs
with something simple as a lifted head,
a turn around to shout back
at what is muttered under breath,
or the woman who did not stand in shame, wordless,
but blocked a door shouting for police,

View original post 31 more words

White Space and Gray Matter…

I never thought, when I began blogging, that so much of my white space would be devoted to the subject of rape and sexual assault and abuse

After all, my blog is not called

“50 Shades of Retribution”

“50 Shades of Horror”

It’s called 50 Shades of Gray Hair

And as I write that last sentence, I realize I’m doing exactly what my tagline suggested I was going to do

Exploring my own 50 shades of gray matter

And in exploring what tickles me and ticks me off…this matter happens to be one big, fat, hairy, gray one

Matter that took me more than 45 years from the start of it to face, speak out about, seek help for, and begin the process of forgiving myself by working to place the responsibility where it belongs

Not in the heart or on the soul of a 5-year-old, 6,7,8,9…19 year old girl! Or 20, 30, 40, 50…..80 year old woman, if I’m lucky enough to live that long.

No!

It needs to be thrown into the faces, stabbed into the hearts, and tattooed onto the souls of both the familiar and the unknown faces of those with black hearts and ruined souls who felt they had the right!!

Those who felt they were owed!

Those who felt we asked for it!

Those who believe a 5-year-old wants it!

Those who thought it was no big deal!

Those who blame their victims!

The following link shows just how deranged, deluded, and dangerous these predators are.

In their own words…as (forever and ever) remembered and demonstrated by their victims:

PROJECT UNBREAKABLE – an online photography project that aims to “encourage the act of healing through art.”

It’s not pretty

It’s not nice

But it’s real

Very, very real

Please, take a moment and click the above link.

If it doesn’t make you mad, it’ll make you cry.

If nothing else…it should remind you to

never forget or take for granted the power of words.

In the wrong hands, they can fatally wound a heart, forever scar a mind, indelibly stain a soul

In the right hands…they can free the world…one victim and one share at a time

And this shade of gray looks good on me…a fighting shade, a warrior shade, a sharing shade

By all means, choose your own shade

Wear it loud and proud

But do the world a favor…Share it!

Thank you

Masks Off

The Answer Heard ‘Round the World (wide web)…

Number 3 – RAPE: Rise Against Punishable Eccentricity

Number 2 – RAPE: Rise Against Punishable Eccentricity

RAPE: Rise Against Punishable Eccentricity

https://www.facebook.com/RapeHurtsEveryone?hc_location=stream

http://www.reddit.com/user/twistyrockets

The Answer Heard ‘Round the World (wide web)…

Reddit Ask Women asked the following:

“Among women here who have experienced sexual assault, what fate do you want, most of all, for you attacker(s)?”

For me, this is the answer heard around the world…and was given by a Reddit user named http://www.reddit.com/user/twistyrockets

I thank her, thousands thank her, for putting into words what most cannot.

I also thank Join the Conversation for sharing it on Facebook so that those of us non-Reddit users could see it.

Thank you Andrea and Bless You twistyrockets…

Her answer:

I want them to be walking around in a public place, like a grocery store, and suddenly recognize what they did and dissolve into panicked tears. I want them to lie awake at night and spend hours replaying those scenes wishing through choking, pathetic sobs that they could change the endings. I want them to be terrified of being around the opposite sex because it might happen again. I want them to be so deeply ashamed of themselves that they truly believe their own parents would stop loving them if they really knew the truth. I want them to get the cold sweats and shakes whenever someone mentions the word “rape”.

I want them to look at other people who are happy, who have healthy and pleasurable sexual relationships, and feel broken. I want them to feel enraged whenever someone spouts off “just world” philosophy bullshit. I want them to avoid mirrors because they can’t stand to look at themselves. I want them to spend countless nights getting drunk so they’ll finally have the courage to commit suicide only to realize that they’re a coward (just like they already knew). I want them to spend 15 minutes of every hour in the handicap bathroom at work trying to calm themselves down. I want them to feel inescapable panic about half of the time they have sex for years after the fact. I want them to think about my face any time they’re feeling sexual pleasure or getting naked or masturbating and I want that image to crush any hope of arousal.

I want them to explain to a significant other, through hysterics, exactly what happened on those nights. I want them to fear being out in public because it feels like the truth of those experiences is written on their faces. I want them to spend years in therapy. I want people to tell them that their pain is not a big deal and that they should just stop thinking about those nights because honestly, what is it really helping? I want them to feel a deep, unabiding sadness when people tell women not to go out alone or drink too much or wear sexy clothing because they know it’s not going to help a damn thing.

I want them to feel like I know them better than anyone ever could because I was there, I know what they look like when they rape someone. I want them to feel like I’m inside them, all the time, mocking them for every failure, panic attack and sick day. I want them to believe that it’s always going to be like this. I want them to feel like trash, actual use-and-throw-away trash. I want them to feel angry and have no outlet for that anger except their own body. I want them to feel weak and useless. I want them to feel DEFINED by those experiences. I want them to feel like a monster.

I want them to feel like me.