My Car Just Died.

My car just died.

The first thing I did was call my partner. Without hesitation.

Do you know what it feels like to be able to do that?

When he did something that profoundly upset me, he'd know, and he would force me to come to bed. Usually he'd have sex with me, and I'd lay there.

I would lay there, seething, until I knew he was asleep. Then I'd slip out of bed and go to sleep on the couch in the basement.

Only then I'd exhale. I'd message someone I wasn't supposed to. I'd stretch out and release my muscles. I'd masturbate to a fantasy in my head that didn't include him. I would feel safe knowing I'd hear the floorboards creek if he got up.

It was a false sense of security, but it was a breath that kept me from drowning.

I don't know exactly what the original post said before the angel teathattast (or a contemporary) fixed it, but I'm nauseous just thinking about it.

He was absolutely that guy.

*gag*

Therapy has been really huge for me. I don't want to understate that.

But i have been reading fanfic a lot lately, some of it dark, some deranged, some dirty, some all 3. It has been so cathartic to find people who put on 'paper' the ugliest bits of myself.

There's people out there that are going scream something about promoting problematic shit, but fuck you. Sonething something Nuance. Something something fiction.

It's not for you. There's tags. Read em. Move on. Let us broken babies wallow in the filth.

Seriously, if you write fanfic, you could very well be pulling someone from a ledge. Love you.

In the early stages of healing I used to trauma dump.

It was fucking WILD the shit that would tumble out of my mouth to people I barely knew. To combat it, I put a vice grip on it. I under shared to try to curb the habit.

It worked. Too well. And it appears to be permanent.

I have no idea how to share about my life now. This was a message I sent to my very best friends:

I haven't followed up.