Five Years.

Five years ago, today, April 3rd - I was the victim of sexual assault. Every day it surfaces at least a little in my mind, and this year it's a little bit worse than it was in previous years. I'm not sure if it's just on my mind more, or if the half-decade is somehow significant to me. Last year, I wrote out my entire experience here. This year, I wrote a poem. I'm also going to be reading this poem in my English class in the coming week, and while I am terrified of standing up in front of 20 other people and reading it, every time I tell the story, I might help someone else find the courage to speak out about their assault. And that is worth any fear and pain I may feel in my eyes.

I learned that day, that fateful day, that I must trust my gut
I learned I must not ignore when it says that something's up.
I learned that there are those who exploit without remorse
I learned that fear renders me silent and later, rather hoarse
I learned things that make my blood run cold
I learned that under pressure I will buckle, fold
I learned to get away that day, through telling bald-faced lies
I learned getting away doesn't remove handprints from my thighs
I learned that day that there were those who had no sympathy
And those who backed away and stared with abject pity
I learned that some were all to glad to place the blame on me
I learned that few, a loving few, would always stay beside me
I fought that day, and for years hence, with my own guilt, I placed the blame upon me
And then at some part I stopped: it's you that should feel guilty
I hate you for shredding the last bit of innocence I had
I hate you for making me believe that I was bad
I hate you, and then I hate the world, for handing me the blame
I hate with passion any who would think the victim should feel shame
I hope that one day you will feel the wrath of what you've wrought
I hope one day that you slip up; I hope that you get caught.

Fingers, allow me to introduce you to keyboard.

As per usual I faded out for a time. Missed me? I wish I could say that in some coy, provocative manner, but let us face reality - while I am indeed provocative, I don't consider myself remotely coy. Not anymore, at least. I used to be. Then being coy grew to be, in alternate turns, both boring and aggravating. I'm too good at being coy, at playing games, and thus when I work those, people have little clue whether or not to take me seriously. A mistress of manipulation, perhaps I am, but I quit the manipulation game long ago when I decided that playing with hearts only lead to hurt. Sometimes on only one part, sometimes on both. Sometimes on many.

I certainly know how to jump into things I didn't even mean to discuss.

From the stats, the letter I wrote to my crush back in September seemed to be a popular entry. At least, I assume it really was. So for those of you who enjoyed that one, I regret to inform you that A's affection mostly dropped off, and while it's beginning to climb again, and I continue to have some feelings for him, these days I frequently wonder if those feelings were and are largely because he was there for me when I was fresh and raw out of the breakup. Yes, wondering such hurts. No, I'm not dwelling on it.

In relation, I finally left monogamy behind. I never considered myself monogamous, but I never knew how to discuss it with a partner. The Ex and I had an open relationship, but it was less than ideal under any name. The rules list was complex, and mildly ridiculous at times, and we both violated it. Perhaps him more than me. Alright, perhaps is a bit of an understatement, but we'll cover that later.

I'm not saying I'm poly. I probably am. I haven't entirely figured 100% soon if I'm poly or just a slut yet, and I'm not committing to anything before I know for certain. I used to jump into things with little thought, I'm a bit more cautious now.

I do have a sex life again, though. I quite enjoy it as well. I'd enjoy it more if it were more than each weekend, but life doesn't work well with that right now. In time, I'll give more details. I just need to figure out how to write it without giving too many details or falling into the trap I did back in the day with the Ex and waxing poetic about eeeeverything. Not that that was bad at the time, but these days, if I fawned and giggled over cock, I'd likely proceed to smack myself in the face with a frying pan. Not my cup of tea anymore. I can do it in person - while naked or clothed for sex, faced with it - but in writing? Can't. Would backspace it all.

I've been working on a lot of art and knitting and World of Warcraft when not consumed with sex, appointments for imminent schooling, and attempts to get hired somewhere. My art skills are improving again, it's quite pleasing to see. Sadly, I'm running out of room in my sketchbook and haven't the funds to get a new one.

I think that's really about it for life updates. Unless you reeeeally want to hear all about my every little sniffle. But I doubt it.

So. The meat of the matter; or, what I can't seem to stop making clear: I'm bitter. Yes, yes, my Ex and I ended on an amicable note. As far as the uninformed eye could see, we're still friends. I wish him all the best. But I also feel so much roiling resentment for so many parts of our relationship. I fume over it. I have a tendency to get bitching about it. And I can't help but relate near anything to the three years I spent with him. Is that normal? I don't know. A lot of my experiences during that time have affected me deeply. At 21 years old, that was a large chunk of my life.

We both did a lot of things that undermined our relationship. I say I'm not bothered, but who am I fooling? I grumble. I rant about how much the sex dropped off. I am displeased with how he handled many things, and yes, with how I handled many things. Communication was poor at best most of the time, and we had completely different ways of dealing with negative events. I wasn't always honest. I doubt he was always honest. Hell, I know he wasn't always honest, but I shouldn't air dirty laundry. Should I? Dare I? I don't really know.

I just don't really know. I mean, fuck. I know I'm not perfect. I stopped trying to be a long time ago. But is imperfect allowed to span airing dirty laundry about ones former relationship? Fuck. Questions.

Thinking about this makes me supremely uncomfortable right now. I don't think I'm ready to write this right now. But I will. Soon. I think.

I'll be back.

- Gypsy

30 Days Of Reflection - My Reflection In The Mirror

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

Hi there reflection,

You’ve been, along with my shadow, my constant companion for 21 years now. When I was small, I thought you were me in another world. Sometimes I still wish you were. When I reached adolescence, you were my worst enemy - every time I saw you I saw the bushy eyebrows, the crooked, bumpy nose thanks to that bitch who kicked me in it, the large moles. I struggled to find things I liked about you, but couldn’t.

When I first used you when plucking my eyebrows, I went drastically overboard and wound up with pencil-thin lines where there was anything at all. It took several years for me to take tweezers to my brows again - after that I simply used a razor, to shape, then eventually to shave entirely off and when I did that, when I looked in the mirror before drawing them on, I resembled an alien. Now I alternate depending on how lazy I am. At least I have eyebrows again and can go out sans makeup without odd looks.

When I was younger, I’d look at you, glare at my small chest, and pray for larger breasts. I thought I wasn’t anything without an hourglass figure. Now I look at them and think to myself ‘many guys and girls alike have enjoyed these with no complaint. They’re sensitive, they’re decorated with scars and in due time, with piercings, and they’re awesome’. It took me years to get here, but I finally did.

For a brief time, I hated my jawline. Now I don’t give a crap. As long as I keep on my pills my weight doesn’t do anything funky and leave me with an extra chin, and that’s all I ask of it. I no longer fantasize about getting plastic surgery to have a perfect jaw.

You’ve seen many permutations of my hair, you’ve seen the addition of scars and metal and the ever-changing cosmetic routine. You’ve seen me corsetted in silk and comfy in flannel. You no longer seem to judge me. You’re damn perfect for me, and I’m damn perfect for me. You’re beautiful, and don’t you dare fucking forget it.

30 Days Of Letters - Someone I Want To Tell Everything, But I'm Afraid To

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

Does it count if they’re deceased but they’re the one person who I’ve ever known that I can think of offhand that I would have feared telling about who I am and have become since they knew me? Everyone I can think of that I want to talk to that lives accepts and loves me for who I am, after all. And most of those deceased wouldn’t care too much. But my grandfather would.

Dear Grandpa,

You had great expectations of me. I was going to grow up, stop wearing the black makeup and the funny clothes, graduate high school and go to university, and become a journalist. Or a lawyer. Or something like that. You were very against homosexuality and the NDP. I never thought nor wished to ask you what you thought of abortion. I know you were pro-womens rights, but when my mom was pregnant with my half-sister she had to live in a home for unwed mothers and was unable to keep her after the birth.

The year that she didn’t get honours, you took her certificate off the wall and didn’t put it up until she got honours the next year.

I know you adored me, that I was the apple of your eye. I doubt I would be now. I’m very much what you never wanted. I haven’t grown out of the black makeup and the funny clothes, although I cannot be buggered to put them on when I’m lazing around or not going anywhere special. I’m VERY openly queer. I support the NDP with a sprinkling of Liberal, an unplanned pregnancy that I don’t feel capable of supporting will be aborted, and if I’m unwed I sure as hell won’t be staying in a home. Are there even specific homes for unwed mothers anymore? I’m really not sure.

Not only did I not get honours once in high school, but I barely scraped through grade ten and dropped out of grade eleven. I scrapped journalism on the level I wanted, am only now looking at finishing my diploma, and I’m looking at sex education as a career. I drink, perhaps too much, and smoke, and occasionally enjoy marijuana and salvia. Rather like my mothers ‘dirty hippy’ half-brother.

I’m also a LaVeyan Satanist, which Mom doesn’t understand and you definitely wouldn’t. It has nothing to do with sacrificing virgins, babies, and goats, Grandpa. It just fits with my ideals and my lifestyle and I love it.

None of this is something you would accept. Never mind the time I had a crush on a skinhead. In my defense, I was young, stupid, and he bought me smokes and loved the same bands as me. But he was massively fucked up, and I look back and wonder what the hell I saw in him. You would have hated him. You would have loved Lad. Lad would have listened to your war stories, and played cards, and treated me well. You probably would have demanded to know why when I ended it.

At least you would have understood why - You and Grandma loved each other to the end of your days. I trust that you would have supported me not staying with someone I wasn’t in love with anymore.

I love and miss you Grandpa, but were you alive, I’d be terrified to tell you anything about my life.

30 Days Of Letters - Someone Who Changed My Life

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

Dear Junior High Teachers,

Yes, all of you. You changed my life. You saw that I was smart, if awkward, and shy, and prone to emotional fits. You didn’t treat me any different from any students academically, and expected the best out of all of us, but one of you bent the rules in gym to allow for the fact that sports and I were an ill match, especially if I had to be remotely coordinated.

You were the realest friends I had in junior high, the ones that didn’t treat me like crap. I could talk politics with you. One of you, my badass goth science teacher, was my first conscious exposure to goth and I was hooked on it.

I don’t think any of you really ever found out how hellish my home life was in the last year and a half of my junior high years. I wish you had. I really do.

Thank you, ALL OF YOU, for being such a goddamn important part of my growing years.

30 Days Of Letters - The Friendliest Person I Knew For A Day

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

Dear Son Of One Of My Dad’s Friends,

I seem to remember you guys were ostensibly there to talk moving shit with my dad. I wouldn’t have even met you, but I’d come down with the most wretched cold I’d had at that point since my first bout with pneumonia. I’d been cooped up, with a sore throat and a bad cough, packing boxes like it was going out of style because taking a break wasn’t an option.

Until our dads fucked off and left us to hang out. You were pretty nice, really. I don’t know how old you were, but I was an awkward fourteen year old who felt wretched and was terminally shy at the best of times.

You gave me halls and made me laugh. Most welcome when I felt so horrible.

I wonder what you’re doing now, seven years on. I hope you’re doing well, whatever you’re up to. Thanks for keeping me sane that one day so long ago.

30 Days Of Letters - The Last Person I Made A Pinky Promise To

When I read the first of Essin' Em's 30 Days Of Letters (Done before her by other bloggers whom I keep intending to read in length), I was intrigued. And now I'm giving it a go myself.

Dear...Someone...

I don’t remember who you were. I sure as hell hope it was something worth a pinky promise. I better not have promised to always give you my last beer.

I’m sorry this is so short, but I seriously don’t remember who you were or what I promised.