CPII, During A Sleep Deprived Game Of Scrabble: I Hope You Choke On [partners] Uvula

CPII, during a sleep deprived game of scrabble: “I hope you choke on [partner’s] uvula”

Me, loopy af at 5am, thinking about it: “how the FUCK do I do that?”

CPII: “You THOUGHT ABOUT IT?”

Everytime I think about you the only sounds I can make are the same I made when I knew nothing; guttural and raw and without articulation

The same sounds I once used as an infant to tell people what was going on in my little head

And that I think it’s kinda poetic, a feeling so strong that the only thing I can think to justify it is a sound rather than a word

“It’s not my fault you sleep all fucking day, I didn’t know you were asleep. A text would have been nice, you know. You slept for 12 hours straight. In what world do you need that much sleep?”

You’re right, let me just [sleep texts you I won’t be awake until 3 pm]

I sleep because if I’m not awake I’m dreaming of a kinder place without having to hurt anyone.

Partner: “Darling i probably smell like sweat and grease, you don’t have to hug me”

Me, squeezing her tighter and kissing her forehead: “🥺 but I didn’t get to see you hardly at all today, I missed you”

Written in all sorts of POV’s because I’m unorganized and angry. Will edit later, I need to vent.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions and implications of SA, suicidal ideations if you read between the lines, a now ex friend who made fun of my experience

This is a VENT!!!

Innocence died screamin’

Honey ask me, I would know

I screamed. Begged. Pleaded. Eventually I had to punch.

My innocence died at 13 and I still remember waking up in that truckbed with sore knuckles surrounded by vomit.

And I didn’t cope with it in any healthy way. All the way up until the night after my 18th birthday I let people use me and jerk me around with my emotions as a collar.

So forgive me, cunt; if I tell you something with the confidence you won’t treat it like a joke. Forgive me if I’m angry and explosive when you treat these things as if it’s another story to go and tell all of our friends because you think you’re soooo special for not “giving it away” until well after your 20th. Forgive me if that makes me “an easy lay” for being vulnerable around people I once trusted.

“I just feel like it should be special when it finally happens for me, you have expressed you don’t feel one way in particular about virginity.”

I didn’t get a choice, otherwise virginity would be way higher on my list. I don’t get to have the same experience you did. I’m glad and overwhelmingly happy you felt safe, I glad you weren’t gutted and robbed like I was.

When my partner and I met she had only the bullet points of what happened to me. She had an idea that the reason [redacted] and I stopped talking was because something happened.

[redacted] felt like everyone where we worked should know, even after I did my best to cover up what wasn’t even my fault in the first place. To this day I’ve never once tried to bring it up to other coworkers that [redacted] was lying about what really happened. I had to beg with my partner not to knock his teeth out.

She knew before we started dating that my outlook on sex was skewed.

“I think sex can be beautiful with the right person; but I don’t think I could personally see myself being sexually active.”

And she accepted that as my answer. Part of me feels bad, though. I feel like on some level that because of my (albeit valid) fear that I’m preventing some level of intimacy between us. Only time will tell if something ever happens in that regard.

Sometime I look at the photo drive of people I used to be friends with. Sometime I dig through my Polaroids to look at the frozen moments. I don’t have the heart to get rid of them. And I don’t know why.

I hope that one day I can untangle the mess in my mind, get rid of all the photos; and eventually be comfortable in my own skin as myself.

“You walk quietly,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

“I had never noticed it before. It’s just habit I guess.” I shrug, not expecting her observation.

“It’s not a bad thing, I just noticed you don’t make a lot of noise when you walk. I didn’t hear you coming from the kitchen.” She takes a handful of pretzels from the bowl in my hands.

I knew I walked quietly, I just hadn’t ever noticed myself doing it without thinking before. I learned very quickly very young how to go unnoticed. Some of it was because I was up to general mischief as a little kid; some of it was because I remember how angry my parents would be if I got up in the middle of the night for a sip of water and I creaked the wrong floorboard. Now that I’m older and don’t really worry about either of those things. I don’t think about them often.

I learned which types of flooring made the loudest noises, where the creaks in the floorboards were, where the tiles echoed the loudest in the house. I learned to walk on my toes with my heels off the ground, like I was wearing invisible high-heels. I learned when exactly my dad stopped playing video games at night and when my mother would leave the living room for the night. I learned to be a silent walker not because I wanted to, but because I felt like my only option was to stay under my parent’s radar at all times.

I still was silently, without noticing it.