My wounded self is still raw this morning. A bit better able to handle the world today, thanks to everyone’s comments and a day of indulgence. Still find myself clamping my body down, legs and arms tightly crossed in front of me. Protection. Keep away; don’t touch. Today I wish there was a floating red tape barrier I could erect around myself and carry like a boat…Stay this far away, come no further. Maybe get a car alarm installed on me somewhere. Whooop! Whooop! You have come to close to the body of Beeps. Please back away two feet. The authorities will be called in 10 seconds. 9, 8…
Took all day and The Guardians of the Universe before I laughed yesterday.
To make everything just that bit worse, as I was reading and crying over comments yesterday my e-mail pinged: a new message on FB from Ben. Apparently morning brought the clarity I wished he would have had the night before: I got an enquiry as to whether or not I was upset and half an apology. I say half, ’cause he really doesn’t know what’s going on with me (how could he? that’s decades of shit) so he’s apologizing for his behavior without being really sure if I’m upset or not. I erased it from my inbox and have not yet responded on FB. I may not; I don’t know how to respond right now. Still want to just avoid it all. AND I want to just say to him ‘No, I didn’t appreciate the gropes that went beyond the kiss I gave you permission for. This will not happen again. Goodbye.’. I’m not even sure if I SHOULD open up the conversation, other than to say I don’t think seeing him is a good idea. If I open the topic up at all, it gives him room to maneuver – apologize and promise not to do it again, which I don’t trust for shit. He said that once already, and already he’s gone beyond it. No. I do not trust him at all. I think he’ll do like every other guy in this situation – promise and plead and nag a bit until I give in, then it’s keep the octopus away AGAIN.
How many times have I been raped? I’ve been contemplating that since yesterday. I count two forced fellatios and two forced sexual encounters – and by forced sexual encounters I mean really feeling like there was NO WAY OUT of the situation; submit or be REALLY hurt. Odd how men can discount all the body language when they have a hard on. The turn away of the head, the tightening of all the body, the frigidity they encounter. Do they really derive pleasure? I know the one rape was a complete power thing; it was committed by my then abusive partner who later stalked me for years. The other one I’m thinking of? I don’t know. As with many of my sexual encounters, it was a one night stand thing. I think in that case he just expected me to ‘pay’ for dinner. It was the 80s. That kind of thing happened a lot.
I did manage to get to the doc’s and get my referral letter for Addiction Central. My GP made sure I understood why I was being sent there. Yeah, yeah. Yadda, yadda. All of you are gonna think my fucking irritation is because I’m cutting down on something I’m addicted to. You are such fucking pricks. Never occurred to you that I was fucking irritated with the world to begin with, which is why I began smoking in the first place – to deal with a world of fucking MORONS. No. I’ll go to Addiction Central, therefore I must be addicted, therefore all my behavior will be chalked up to this or that. I’m already fucking angry that no one will listen to me, and I haven’t even begun this fucking process. Apparently Addiction Central has its own staff of psychologists and psychiatrists and every other -ist type of person you want poking around with your emotions. I asked my GP if I should contact the original counseling center after I ‘dried out’ for 30 days, and she indicated there was no reason to – that Addiction Central was gonna take care of any counseling I needed. Yeah. Fuck that. I do not believe it one fucking bit. I believe they’re gonna oversee my quitting, then get into the morass of my mind and find it’s NOT something they’re prepared to fucking deal with and bounce me back to the original goddamn fucking counseling center once the fuck again. THAT’S what I think will happen. Fucking prove me fucking wrong. Oh, yeah. I was told my first appointment would take 2-4 hours, so I’ve got to juggle (1) contacting yet another place that will want to speak Dutch to me (2) getting them to speak English to me, and (3) finding time to go to the appointment. Not very happy about this. Not at all. I know part of my anger is because I’m afraid. I know that. But really! This just seems like a very long trail of breadcrumbs I’ve been asked to follow all by myself. I’m not sure why all the docs – or maybe it’s just mine – seem to think I can make all these phone calls all by myself when they all know I’m not confident with the language yet and a phone call is THE hardest way to talk to someone. And that’s not even factoring in my phone anxiety.
The world according to Beeps: listen to everything other people tell you, all their advice on how to proceed, then do it your own way.
Ended up googling the fucking place and found…an online sign-up. In English. So I can type everything in, clearly state I need an English speaker, and wait for THEM to call ME. Much better. That site claims they’re open and operating 24/7, and I’ll get a call back within half a day. So I’m gonna fill the form in Friday afternoon and expect a Saturday morning call. That works for me, as does an appointment over the weekend if there’s time. I am NOT giving up my swim time.
Two to four fucking hours. The first phone call with the original counseling center was difficult enough, and that only lasted 45 minutes. And I did it from the comfort of my armchair, with a smoke rolled and available. This means I’ll have to go to their office. No comfy chair. No tv on to distract me visually. No rolled J ready for when I can’t take it.
Better make that appointment for a weekend….I might be really torn up. Where do you want to fucking start? Rapes? Abusive lovers? My narcissistic mother? My bully of a sister? My eldest brother who “loves” me? How I was ignored? My dreams? My anxiety? My nightmares? My body image problems? Take your fucking pick.