#stuck being in a supermarket and constantly being around people and even the tills are mostly self-service now!)

[katya-goncharov]

one of the really awful things i find about ai technology is that it feels like it's particularly targetting all the jobs that are neurodivergent/autism friendly. like, my dad had this friend who i'm pretty sure was autistic who worked writing subtitles for tv shows while he was at uni, something i always thought was something i could do. that's basically redundant now. i wanted to be a translator for a long time too - that's another career that's gone. all the jobs that involve doing manual digital stuff, that suit people who prefer working on their own, seem to be the ones that ai technology is basically eclipsing. i imagine the situation's even worse for autistic people who have a very logic-based brain. it just sucks!

[a-secondhand-sorrow]

supermarket flowers

I love Zoe and I’m Sad

trigger warnings: suicide mention, implied abuse, swearing

title from supermarket flowers by ed sheeran bc I’m basic

read on ao3

***

Even through the haze of grief right after Connor died, there were moments that stuck through. Moments of clarity, of happiness, of extreme sorrow. Moments when she could see everything through her old viewpoint, even when she could barely stand without feeling like she was falling.

Even years later, Zoe remembered the endless arrival of cut flowers.

After news got around, it seemed like the doorbell was ringing at all hours with another flower delivery, or lasagna, or flower delivery, or unannounced company, or flower delivery, or sympathy card, or flower delivery—

It came to the point where the doorbell ringing echoed around her brain just as much as Connor’s voice did, although with the former it really was ringing half of the time. It was certainly more than she heard either of her parents speak in that time, and more than she felt like speaking herself. The pleasantries between delivery people where the only words she spoke with another human, really, in those days.

(It wasn’t like she could muster much more energy to engage her parents or see her friends, not when her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and there was a voice-no, a ringing-no, a voice-or was it a ringing?-constantly at work.)

Pretty soon, she was choking under the sheer number; vases of flowers lined every flat surface in the house common areas, peppered with cards and notes. Some actually brightened her spirits whereas others just sunk her right back down. Cynthia adored them, often wandering into the kitchen to view them while she took a break from staring into space on the couch and crying. Larry couldn’t get far away enough from them, retreating even further into his proverbial shell, and Zoe was starting to understand why as she found herself face-to-face with another flower at every turn.

She didn’t need tons of flowers to remind her of what had happened. She appreciated the gesture, sure, but her family didn’t need another flower arrangement delivered to their door when they barely began to puncture the broken bubble taking all of the air in their home. The flowers made it real yet detached, like something out of a movie. She knew no one sending the flowers really understand what that grief felt like. And she didn’t hold it against them. They couldn’t possibly know that, for her, it was as though her life had just been completely demolished in the space of one final breath.

The flowers wouldn’t fill Connor’s seat at the table. The flowers couldn’t erase all of the times he’d screamed at Zoe ‘til he’d gone hoarse. The flowers wouldn’t fill some brother-sized hole in their family. The flowers couldn’t erase Connor’s dead body from their minds.

The flowers couldn’t hurt her like Connor did.

(And there were so many it was possible they were going to start taking over Connor’s seat, but in the poetic flow of the moment Zoe chose to overlook that fact.)

She also just didn’t have the heart to remind her parents she was allergic to pollen.

She was at the kitchen table—with all of the flowers, and a slab of lasagna even though she hasn’t been hungry in a week—when she googled something she knew she’d regret.

As she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, she could’ve sworn she saw Connor looking at her from across the table, but when she looked up all she saw was a judgemental poppy staring at her.

She stared back for a moment before swiping Google up and keying in the letters of her search.

showing results for Connor Murphy obituary

She never actually read it before then. Either Larry or Cynthia had written it some point between the hospital and the wake, but Zoe hadn’t brought herself to be able to care enough to read it. She was too caught up in how screwed up it was, that at sixteen she had to worry about shit like what the obituary for her brother would be or what to wear to the funeral.

But there was nothing else to do, since some foreign part of her felt guilty when she hid away in her room instead of suffering it out with her parents. All of the contact made something just under her skin itch, and the pollen was starting to make her feel a little loopy, as well as the fact that the shock was starting to wear off and the reality of Connor being gone had sunk in. She’d pushed it away, still expecting Connor to come flying into her room in the dead of night and threaten to kill her just as their new normal had become. The frozen reality of it still thawed slowly and steadily, trickling its way through cracks into her memory.

Pushing away her fears, she clicked on the first link, screen smooth against her calloused thumb.

Connor Murphy, 17, passed away surrounded by family early Tuesday morning at St. Peter’s hospital. Connor was a high school student at Woodcreek High and had just begun his senior year. Connor is survived by his younger sister Zoe, 16, and his parents Larry, 49, and Cynthia, 48.

A beloved son, brother, and friend, Connor was an avid reader and could frequently be found at the Woodcreek Public Library at nights and on weekends ever since he began his trips with his parents as a young boy. On several occasions, he discussed his love of the book The Little Prince, being able to read it fluently both in English and in its native French.

Wake services will take place at the Morris Funeral Home from 5 to 8 PM on Thursday the 8th of September. A private funeral service for family will take place the following day. At his parent’s request, donations can be made to the National Suicide Prevention Center at the following link.

That was it, save for directions to the funeral home.

Zoe read the blurbs again, searching more and more as though it could provide some insight as to who her brother actually is-was. But there was nothing there. It was quick, polished, forgiving of her ‘beloved’ brother. She felt anger coil in her, tight around her heart. Where was the real part of his life, the parts where he spent all his free time getting high and terrorizing Zoe? Where was the part about how he loved weed more than his family? Where was the part about how he spent the past few years trying and failing to kill himself? Where was the part about how he tried to take Zoe down with him? Where was the part where he decided destroying anything near him was preferable to getting help?

(Going to the library every night. Please. She and her parents knew plenty well he wasn’t haunting the library when he wasn’t home ‘till 2 AM.)

His favorite book was the Little Prince. She didn’t even know that.

Maybe Cynthia was right. Was she was too caught up in every bad part to even try to find a positive?

(Did he go to the library? It’s not like she ever asked.)

(But that he would have told her. Or been civil.)

Her throat constricted and her already pollen-itchy eyes began to water as she wondered why she was even crying. He didn’t deserve her knowing his favorite book. He was broken beyond what Zoe could help. She’d tried to help him, she’d tried to give him her love, but all he’d done was throw her trust away time after time.

She’d tried to help.

Because there’s Zoe, she remembered, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe.

She didn’t really believe herself.

She didn’t even know his favorite book. She’d learned it from his obituary, where every past tense verb hit her like a punch in the gut.

(Where she’d been mentioned as a throwaway, a survivor, nothing more than an add-on to her brother’s life, just as she had been while he still lived and breathed. Where it treated surviving as some kind of privilege rather than a duty, a duty she now had to carry since he hadn’t been willing or able to do so. Where she almost felt bad for not being the name the obituary shared, in some kind of fucked up survivors’ guilt, even though it felt more like survivors’ envy.)

She’d learned something as juvenile as his favorite book from his obituary, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by cut flowers, at age 16.

Zoe shook her head quickly, hair swishing around her face. The tiny sting against her cheeks focused her just a tiny bit, the din of tuning and his voice pausing.

She just wanted to feel normal. But there was nothing normal about her life, at that moment. Her father was home from work, hiding in the basement or his room or maybe even plain sight, just blending into the walls of the living room. Her mother had barely moved from the couch in several days, too distraught to walk past her brother’s room. She was home on a Monday afternoon in September, all school work forgiven. She’d just learned her brother’s favorite book from an obituary she’d looked up online. She was sitting in a kitchen that practically doubled as a plant nursery, eyes so itchy they were ready to fall out.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.

A day or two after Connor died, Cynthia had announced the family was going to grief counseling, the first session being that Monday afternoon. Zoe already had an appointment scheduled with the school counselor for when she finally returned to school. She didn’t know why. She was coping just fine. Connor was an abusive jerk and her life was easier without him there to kick down her door.

She knew what would come next. The counselor would ask her to say out loud what he put her through, and it would all sound stupid once she said it, but she’d still get pushed too far and probably have a panic attack or something and all the while the counselor would be saying she’d been misinterpreting his behavior and she’d never given him a chance and she clearly should have given him a supportive network rather than been self-absorbed and taking it personally. She’d have to excuse herself to go to the bathroom and to work herself down from sinking to the floor and breathing until her lungs gave out, all because she didn’t know how to explain just why she took what he said so personally, how much every word he spoke hurt, how much she grieved him while he still stood in front of her. She’d engineer some lie to tell Cynthia so she’d never have to go back, but only once her pulse had calmed down and the tears had dried on her cheeks.

She was just fine without the counseling.

At least if she could stop sneezing from all the damn pollen.

And then she was crying, even though she didn’t really know why she was crying. Pressing a hand over her mouth, she tried to cover the sobs for a moment before she finally gave in and lay her head on the table in her arms.

Only when she pushed her arms out, they collided with a vase of carnations.

Before she even really knew what she was doing, that anger coiled up in her again and she batted out a hand, sending the flowers in their vase toppling to the floor with a shatter that evoked one too many nights in the Murphy household.

She stayed like that for a moment, letting her heart rate slow down even as her hand stayed raised. She could swear she heard a cruel, taunting laugh filling up the room, and her hand flickered with a ghost of chipped black nail polish.

Seems more like something I would do then you. Don’t worry, though, I’m impressed. Guess you do take after me, after all?

Zoe was up in a flash, hand gripping her fork so hard her knuckles paled to white, a bit of lasagna flying off of it when she spun around.

The kitchen was empty, besides her.

She threw the fork back to the table, savoring the clink it made as she remembered that he was gone and nothing more than a voice in her head and a phantom memory.

As she eased herself back down, she tried to forget about the flowers around her and the old memories of what had happened at the table. There were some things that she didn’t want to drudge up, especially while tears were still drying on her face.

Neither of her parents had even made a sound when she’d broken the vase. She thought about cleaning it up, and wondered if she was a bad person for wanting to leave it for Larry or Cynthia to take care of.

Because she really wanted to. They’d always left Zoe to clean up her own messes while they ran after Connor putting out all the fires he set. Now that Connor was gone, it was much of the same. They’d barely stopped to ask Zoe if she was okay, much less tried to help her get through it.

Which she didn’t need. Obviously. It just would’ve been nice to know they remembered that they had a daughter, one who had real feeling and problems, not just a son who was (a sharp inhale drawn from nose, eyelids fluttering) six feet under ground.

Before she could fully decide what to do with the vase, a knock sounded from the front door. A frown creased her face, unused to a knock rather than the doorbell (the damn doorbell) running. She paused for a minute, a waiting game to see if either of her parents would make a move towards the door and not leave their only (another sharp inhale, paired with a bitter half-laugh and quirk of the lip she knew exactly the cause of yet really didn’t want to think about) child to do all the work.

Neither made a sound, as usual. She would think she was the only one left if she didn’t know better.

Silently cursing whoever invented flower deliveries for the umpteenth time that week, Zoe padded her way through the kitchen and down the hall towards the door. She couldn’t see anyone through the window, but she opened the door anyway. There was no one in sight, and she nearly eased the door back shut and slunk back down the hallway. At the last second, she looked down at the mat to see-

More flowers-colorful, mockingly cheery, aggressive.

At first she was angry, but as the sight of the flowers got processed in her sluggish, tired brain, she could tell that they were different from the ones inside of her house. They weren’t cut. Instead they were potted in a plastic pot, looking a little sad even though they were so abundant. They looked like something you’d pass at the supermarket. Zoe didn’t know much about flowers, but she did know these were bright. A folded-up note was stuck on top of the pot, Zoe scrawled on the front in unfamiliar handwriting.

These were hand delivered, and they were for her, specifically. Not her family. Not for “their loss.”

For her.

With a twinge, Zoe realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had something all for herself.

After a moment’s pause, Zoe bent to pick the pot up, sticking out one hand to pluck the paper from the flowers. Without thinking she sniffed them before immediately turning to sneeze into her elbow.

If she never saw another flower after that, it would be too soon.

Damn pollen. Damn allergies. Damn doorbell.

Once she got to the kitchen table after sidestepping the broken vase, she unfolded the note.

Dear Zoe,

I know that everything can be a little overwhelming, and I saw that you had a lot of flowers, so I thought that having some of your own that will (hopefully) survive a little longer than the cut ones couldn’t hurt. (Too many flowers over all? This may have been a poor plan, in hindsight.) But I know I feel a lot better when taking care of a plant or two. It’s calming for me at least, so maybe it can be a little calming for you, too.

Things might be a little chaotic, now, but I know you’ll pull through, and hopefully this little plant will with you.

-Evan

Zoe smiled almost imperceptibly, a tiny little quirk of the lips, but it was more than she had smiled in what felt like a long time. She glanced over at the other side of the table where Evan Hansen had sat for dinner a few nights previously before looking back at the flowers he’d given her.

They were a little sad, but she figured she could get them to perk up again with work and a little time, and probably some google searches. Maybe she’d even forget about Connor and the upcoming therapy session for a minute while she tried.

The flowers were kind of cute, really. And it was nice of Evan to drop them off, given he didn’t know her at all. Hopefully she wouldn’t kill them too, just like it seemed she killed everything else.

She sneezed again, her allergies taunting her and asking her if that was what she really wanted.

Stepping over the shards of glass and heading to the kitchen for some water, she decided that, well, it certainly couldn’t hurt to give those supermarket flowers a second chance at life.

[if-i-told-you-wouldyoujudgeme]

The thing that took me 5 years to tell you, aka My 20th Year, aka My Shame-filled Secret.

If you see this and you need me to make another tag for triggers let me know.

Trigger warning: instances of rape, sexual assault, mentions of binge eating. 

I’ve done my best to address the ‘whens’ but the whole year was a bit of a blur in that respect.

...

                                                   Ok, so...

The day I turned 20 (November 2011) I broke up with my high school boyfriend. We had been on and off for a few years and I felt like I had fought a long time to make it work. Although he was always super respectful in the bedroom, he had become quite jealous, critical and controlling and I had escaped my hometown to complete a Teaching Degree. And although I really did (and still do) love him, and I was scared that no one else would be that respectful to me in the bedroom (which is a fact he constantly reminded me of) there really wasn’t a real reason to continue. With the addition of a myriad of other reasons, on the morning of my birthday, I couldn’t take anymore. We broke up by text message.

Now as depressing as that is, and was, I was loving life at Uni. For a few months, I was away from my unhealthy relationship, away from my family, away from everyone who ever knew me and told me who I was. I had left town deciding that I was going to be whoever I really was and if I didn’t like who I was, then I would work on that as it came. 

As it turns out, I was ok. I was independent, I made amazing friends in some strong, determined women who understood where I was trying to get myself, loved me for who I was and who supported me when things got difficult. 

I was learning the importance of hard work and after 6 months of battling binge eating issues before I had left, discovering that there was more to ‘being happy’ then numbing my feelings with food. I was also pretty broke, so I didn’t have much choice. As a result, I had lost a bit of weight (not in a very healthy way). By the time I had come home for Christmas that year, I was feeling pretty great and as far as people told me, generally just looking healthy and happier.

Since I was out of being under the control of my ex, I spent the Christmas break with a childhood friend that I adored, in between supermarket shifts. He was my favourite person in the world, the light of my life but was very troubled, and for a reason that I am still not quite sure of, we just stopped talking. Which did nothing good for the inner turmoil I was internally dealing with that maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge.

                                Then things weren’t so great.

It was not long after this, that a chance encounter while running errands for my mother lead me to run into him. My high school ‘friend’ (not to be confused with boyfriend, although we had dated briefly in high school). The one my high school boyfriend had always warned me to stay away from (though, he said that about everybody).

When I look back now, the relationship was terrible from the start. But my loving and loyal nature wouldn't let me see it, to my own disadvantage. We would have only dated for 6 months (maybe not even that long) but it took less than that to kill the very essence of who I was.

Like I said, when I look back now, the relationship was always terribly unhealthy for me. We always did what he wanted, even if I hated it, even if it made me miserable. He was a cricket umpire, I hated cricket, he would make me go to the matches anyway... all of them. I didn’t really drink and wasn’t comfortable in pubs, he would drag me to the local pub, get drunk, gamble away his money all while having me there as an accessory, to make him feel special, his possession to touch when he wanted. If I didn’t feel like kissing him, hugging him, being touched, he did it anyway. It was ALWAYs that way.

But he wasn’t horrible to just me. The way he spoke to his mother, the women who gave birth to him, the women who worked her butt off supporting people with disabilities for their family should have been the biggest red flag. But I wanted to believe everything would be ok, that for me he’d be different.

No matter how much I pushed back and said no, things always went his way. We NEVER did what I wanted. We never spent time with my friends, only his. Every time I needed him to come through, he let me down. Every time he said he would, he didn’t. Why did I keep going? Honestly, I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing by the guy I chose to be with.

                                    The hardest part to tell you.

Now I’ve been dragging on a little with things that may not even matter because I am avoiding the hardest part of the story. 

I no longer address this person as an ex. I almost never address him by name. He is only ever addressed, even in my personal diary, or in counselling, by his first initial, or by what he really is... my rapist.

To you, knowing what you know so far, it seems kind of obvious. Hell, it’s pretty obvious to me now, I should have run for the hills. But in the midst of it, for whatever reason, I couldn’t see it.

As much as I should be able to explain different instances of what can be described as rape. I can’t. Only some details that have only just started to return to me and no specific dates. Yes, dates. It happened more than once. In fact, it was a regular occurrence. I would sometimes travel 5 hours in my tiny car naively thinking it wouldn’t happen this time.

How do I know I was raped? How did it happen so many times? Am I sure that’s what it was? Why didn’t I scream? 

There’s is probably a million things I have heard on the rare occasions I have told people that I just couldn’t answer. It becomes so hard to answer when you feel the intense burning of anger throughout your entire body and your brain becomes so clouded you begin doubting your own experience. And up until recently, I was completely unable to recall details or even sensations because I struggled to accept that it even happened. It was because of the inability to recall details, that I don't think anybody really took me seriously.

It isn’t until now that even the people I did tell in the past, will know the whole story.

But I know what happened. I was there. I felt the pain. I felt the fear. I felt the loss of control over what is supposed to be my body.

How do I know it happened? How do I know it was rape? ... I did not give consent. When it first happened, I believed that it was a misunderstanding. That I just didn’t make it clear enough that I didn’t feel like having sex, that the use of a condom is a condition of my consent, that this was on me. But as time went on and it continued, when it happened again and again,  I realised that nothing short of hurting him would make this stop. 

Why didn’t I hurt him, kick him, scream for help, knowing his family would hear me? Well, it’s not that simple.

We all know that when we feel threatened, and the adrenaline starts flowing through our veins, that it engages our “fight or flight response”. Therefore in this situation, I would either do everything I can to escape him or fight him till he is unable to hurt me right? 

Not me. Not when it’s someone I am supposed to be able to trust.

It’s not often talked about but there is a third response to such danger. The freeze response. That was me. The phrase you’ve heard of, “being frozen in fear”? That’s real, it happens. It happens to me when I am threatened at the hands on someone I trust or love. It happened when my high school boyfriend raised his hand at me because I wouldn’t move during a depressive episode earlier the year before and it happened then.

I was scared. I was frozen in fear. I wanted to get out. A part of me wanted to hurt him, to scream, to fight. But I was stuck. Every time, I physically went blank. I had a million things running through my mind and I couldn’t focus on a single thing long enough to make use of it. And this was every time. Every time I believed it wouldn’t happen again, that I could do something more to get him to stop, that he just didn’t get it and I needed to help him get it. But every time the new thing I tried didn’t work. Every time, my head would race but my body would eventually freeze.

Pretending to be asleep didn’t work ( for all he knew I was actually asleep). Gently saying I didn’t feel like it didn’t work. Firmly saying “no” or “stop it” didn’t work. Pushing back or trying to push him off me didn’t work. Being in pain and saying so didn’t work. The bleeding didn’t work. Asking for more “me time” didn’t work. Reminding him that I didn’t want to have sex without a condom didn’t work. I was never safe. The only time I ever could recall feeling like I’d be listened to in general was when his mother was around. they were the rare occasions when I knew he wouldn’t mistreat me because he knew she would call him out on it.

If I was with him and we were alone we had to have sex. It was mostly at his family home but not always.

Why didn’t I leave him? A part of me was scared of him. If he would do this then what wouldn’t he do? 

Another part of me believed that he loved me, it was my duty and I Ioved him. 

Another tiny part of me believed it was what was expected of me, it was his right.

I’m still not sure what thoughts were my own, and what were the ones he made me believe.

                                          I remember once...

On one occasion, we were with mutual friends (from high school) at the pub I had grown to hate. One of which had a fiance who was heavily pregnant. She was also with us. The guys were drinking somewhat heavily but I chose to be super sober because I was protective over the pregnant fiance. They were super in love, and super excited about the arrival of their first baby. I was super happy for them. Apparently so was he. He wished it was us and made no secret about it. To be honest, I didn’t completely hate it (not yet anyway). It was nice to think he wanted a family with me. Again, I believed he loved me.

As he got more drunk throughout the evening, he became more pushy about starting a family. I brushed him off because he was just being silly and drunk and was just being influenced by the presence of his best friend. it all seemed pretty cut and dry. I figured because he was so drunk it would be easier to simmer the pushiness down especially after the friends had left. But as usual, I was so wrong. He was going to try to get me pregnant that night and I had no say in the matter. 

Stupidly, I had rebelled against being on the pill after my last breakup, because I was forced by my ex’s mother to be on it and to not be on it made me feel more in control of myself. So to say that I was berating myself at this point is an understatement. 

No words can describe the fear I felt that night.

That instance is one that sticks in my memory so much because it was the one that I felt the most fear, the least control. I did not want to have a child. Not yet. I had just started my degree and finishing it was the most important thing in the world to me. The idea of getting pregnant at that time of my life was terrifying. The idea of someone forcing me and my body into such an unwanted situation was terrifying. I was relieved when he wasn’t successful.

*EDIT:                    The time I was ‘asleep’...

As a result of posting the original post (or coincidently), I had a flashback of the incident I referenced about being asleep so I’m adding it.

It was night time. The bedroom lights were off. The weather was warm. I was at his family home, in his bedroom. It was either one of the weekends I made the 5-hour trip in a day to be with him or a uni break. I don’t remember. We were both in ‘bed’ (it wasn't really a bed, it was a mattress) trying to get to sleep. 

At this point in my life, I was pretty miserable so it was not unusual for me to be lying still for ages in the dark while he went to sleep. He always thought I was asleep. That was how I liked it. 

On this occasion, I was lying there but genuinely trying to sleep. He was constantly rolling around, clearly unable to get to sleep. That was when we hugged me. Again, not an unusual occurrence. I was his favourite possession after all. But once his arms went around me, it was unlikely he would lie still.

I didn’t stir.

He began his usual act of ‘affectionately’ kissing what he had access to, none of the stuff I actually liked though. It wasn’t for me. Love wasn’t his style. It wasn’t about what I enjoyed. This was about waking me up, and getting me only just ready enough to have what he wanted.

I still didn’t stir.

My theory was, that if I behaved as though I was deeply asleep, he would get frustrated, then bored, then stop, then go to sleep. This time at least, that’s not what happened.

At no point did I stir in a way that seemed as though I was going to wake up and engage. I sleepily brushed him off with my arms. I made that sound you make when you’re dreaming and you say no in your dream and rolled away from him. But he did not let off. 

I was so sure he’d get frustrated and stop because I was clearly not giving consent. I clearly did not want to have sex. I kept up the charade of sleeping, I kept on not engaging. I was quiet. I didn’t kiss him back at all. By the time I realised that this was another instance where things were completely out my control, it was too late. I was frozen. I remember looking at him in the eyes. I remember the hatred I felt for him. I remember the moment another part of me died. I remember not being able to speak. I remember not being able to move.

He finished. He told me he loved me. He rolled over and went to sleep. 

  Then another time (this one’s not so bad, but still bad)...

There was one other instance among the many that I remember in more detail and is arguably not as bad because what could have happened, didn’t. 

It again involved the presence of his 2 best friends and the fiance mentioned before. I am pretty sure that it was Australia Day 2012 but it may have been later. It was a rather hot day at his house and he and I were essentially playing host to his friends with snacks and stuff.

For whatever reason, we decided it would be an awesome idea to get kiddy pools from K-mart (the ones that came with ball pit balls) and play around with them. So I, his single friend and the pregnant fiancee, (who were the only sober ones) drove the 20 min each way to get them. I’m still not sure why the other 2 didn’t come with.

Anyway, after a fun-filled afternoon playing around with the hose and pools and plastic balls, we were really wet but it was kinda warm so it wasn’t so bad. At least not to me. While we were all sitting around on the verandah, talking the afternoon away in the sun, he announces that he’s going to go shower. This is nothing out of the ordinary, obviously, on top of the fact that he showered many times a day anyway (and yet always smelled terrible). 

He asked me if I wanted to come, which again was not out of the ordinary. I, naively thinking that I was safer in front of his friends, declined saying that I thought it was rude to leave his friends there without either him or me around. Internally, it was more about knowing what it meant, and just generally really not wanting to have a shower yet. He then insisted. I replied by firmly saying “I said no”, again thinking because there were witnesses, he would back off. 

Once again, I was incredibly wrong. What followed was him grabbing my wrist to get me to follow him. I got myself loose, again firmly reiterating that I didn’t want to have a shower and sat back down. 

Again, he grabbed my wrist and proceeded, with more force, to drag me towards the stairs in order to get me up them and into the bathroom. During this, I was trying to stay calm but firm. I remember very clearly repeating phrases with increasing desperation and loudness such as, “I said no”, “I don’t want to” and “stop, you’re hurting me”.

Despite my increasing force to get away, despite thinking I would manage to break free at the base of the stairs, he, although skinny and lean, was able to drag my fat ass up a flight of stairs and into the bathroom. 

His friends (I now know they weren’t my friends) did nothing, said nothing. I guess they didn’t want to get involved in a domestic issue. If it was so bad I would hurt him or adrenaline would kick in, right? I thought so too.

Which brings us back to the scene in the bathroom. He positioned himself between me, and the only door of that room. He could see I was mad because he kept trying to make out like I was being ridiculous and that it all didn’t have to be this way if I just did was he was asking me to do. I guess he thought that I would think it was easier to do what he wanted then make the effort to go back downstairs after all that. 

But I wasn’t having it. Not this time. I wanted out. I’d would continue to play happy-go-lucky girlfriend later, but this, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t take. I was going to get out of this particular situation untouched, even if I had to draw blood to get it. I didn’t care about what those people downstairs thought of me. I didn’t care about my pride or keeping up appearances. I only wanted what should have rightfully been mine. The right to decide what I did with my body.

The rage that filled me when I saw that he placed himself between me and the escape route was unforgettable, indescribable and unlike me. The need to survive was my only focus. The route of escape was my goal and I was going to reach it. He was shirtless standing in front of me, assuming I’d back down. I looked him straight in the eyes, and with all the strength and venom I could muster, uttered the unforgettable phrase calmly, honestly... “Let me out, or I WILL kill you”. 

I might not have killed him if he didn’t move, but I was going to hurt him. Whatever it took to get out that door, I would have done. 

It didn’t come to that. 

He moved out of the way and got in the shower. I closed the door behind me, composed myself, went downstairs and back to ‘our guests’ like nothing had happened. None of us spoke about it again.

                                              After that...

I’d like to tell you that was the end of it. That that was the straw that broke the camels back. That I had enough and left him. But it wasn’t and I didn’t. I think we were together a few months after that, with things still pretty much the same. 

The relationship ended one night after he got depressed about losing his job, got himself drunk, gambled away all of his money and texted me while I was at my mother’s house saying that he couldn’t do it anymore.

I was angry but relieved. Just like in the bathroom, this was my escape route and I was going to take it.

He sobered up the next day, saying that he’d taken it all back, that he was just really messed up, that he couldn’t live without me. I wouldn’t have it. I was free and I was never going back.

He harassed me for a while after that. Abusive message after abusive message after abusive phone calls, trying everything he could think of to bring me down, to hurt me, to threaten me. He knew where I lived while I was at Uni and I was so scared that he would make his way up, that I’d have to face him. But it never happened.

I later found out, through the grapevine that he proceeded to tell slanderous, completely baseless lies about me, trying to destroy my reputation and my name behind my back, to people I don’t even know, to the girlfriends after me. 

I never got my victory. I never got revenge. He will never be charged. I can never prove in a court of law what happened to me. But it doesn't change the fact that it happened. 

                                       It got a little better...

After that relationship. I was pretty broken. I was always scared. It may have even been where my anxiety started to impact my life. It was that fear that I was broken, that I was unsafe, unwanted, used, damaged goods, that led me to the person who loved me before I became broken. My high school boyfriend.

Indirectly because of what happened to me, he and I got back together and stayed together for a year and a half. There was “I told you so’s” involved and of course, the relationship was not healthy, just like before. But I knew it got worse and I knew I was loved which was what I craved the most. 

In a really messed up way, he protected me, he was a kind of refuge and I will always love him and be thankful for that.

He was the only one I felt I could tell and who would believe me. For a couple of years, he was the only one I did tell and even then, he never knew all of it. I refused to talk about it and he couldn’t handle the details.

At least for a short time, I was safe, safe from the perpetrator, safe from the memories, sometimes I was even happy. I wasn’t ready to deal, wasn’t ready to heal. I needed to forget. To revert to a happier time. But I always knew I couldn’t stay there.

                                       Why have I said all this...

I know I can’t do anything about it. But it wasn’t until 4 years after the got drunk and dumped me that I was ready to accept what had happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was forced to move back to my hometown where it all happened and was too broke to leave, I probably never would have. 

After I confessed in counselling that it was something that happened to me that may have been keeping me from dealing with my anxiety, the flashbacks started. They still happen. Memories come, seemingly at random, without reason and without provocation. They come in the form of images, sounds, smells and sensations and they are all part of the process. They sound scary but I learned to deal.

I’ve documented this part of my life for a few seasons. For some people in my life, it’s essential knowledge because it helps me outline why I might act strangely in some situations or completely avoid other situations altogether. For me, it’s a reminder that it did happen. I can’t deal with what I refuse to acknowledge. It’s no way in the hopes of gaining sympathy or revenge. I don't need either.

Most importantly I’ve done it because rape/ sexual assault/ sexual abuse/ sexual violence takes many forms. This is just one story. I am just one person. Recently in the light of the #metoo movement in relation to H.W (I won’t name him, he doesn’t deserve to be humanised at this point), I was humbled by the women who chose to share their experiences. 

But having said that, it’s important to remember that survivors don’t owe you their story. If this kind of thing happens to you, regardless of the gender of you or the perpetrator what you do with the experience is up to you. Who you tell and when you tell them is up to you. You have control over what you do with the information.

                                  So again why did I share mine...

The main reason is empowerment. Being factual about what happened has empowered me because I have to deal with it. It no longer holds power over me. It just is something that happened to me. I am hoping that this will help me to let it go just that little bit more.

I know that I am lucky. To be able to seem so ‘normal’, especially when it comes to relationships. I am lucky that I can emotionally differentiate between the guy that did this and other people.

That doesn’t mean it no longer affects me. It doesn’t mean I’m glad it happened. It doesn't mean I'll ever go back to the person I was before. I am forever changed because of it, a part of me will always be dead.

Rape is not something I would wish on my worst enemy.

Another reason I did this is to challenge the mainstream ideas about what rape is. 

In my case, it was not perpetrated by a stranger. I was not drunk or intoxicated by anything. I did not wear revealing clothes. I was not alone in the dark walking home. He was not a family member. I was not a child. I did say no. I did fight him off at times. I happened to be a female, he happened to be a male.

But even if all those factors were different... I did not give consent, we still had sex. That is rape.

His refusal to wear a condom, which was a condition of my consent, one that I was not quiet about, means that consent was not given or was revoked, even if up until that point, I was a willing participant. He engaged in sex with me where there was no consent, or where consent was removed. Non-consensual sex is rape. Rape is not a spectrum. It happens to both genders. It happens in hetero and homosexual relationships. It is usually about power and control.

My last reason is to empower and reassure others, because I know that sharing my story is not going to make it stop, unfortunately. But it will give anyone who reads it a look into the mind of someone that this has happened to.

                 Before we leave the bad stuff behind...

I want to arm you with information I have discovered along the way and some things I wish I knew then, may you never need it:

The leading cause of PTSD in both genders is rape. It is essentially the most traumatic event any human can go through. More people develop PTSD as a direct result of sexual violence than as a result of going to war, which personally blows my mind.

That doesn’t mean that you are broken. I am not broken. I am still able to love and trust. I am still able to enjoy physical contact. But I have my moments and the only way people have come to understand me is by me telling them. The most important thing to me now is control over my body, my life.

Some people can’t handle the story. They’ll deny it or disbelieve you. They may run from you because they are scared of making things worse for you. They may simply not understand or know how to deal with it. Unfortunately, it’s another aspect of the ordeal. But you are strong enough to keep moving regardless. 

There are people who do understand, who will listen, who do care, even if they have never been there. There are people whose actual job it is to help you get through this.

Deal when you are ready. Talk about it when you are ready. Report it to the police if/ when you are ready. Remeber this is a crime. If this happens to you if someone does this to you, their reputation does not matter, their job does not matter. They committed the crime of sexual violence, the consequences of that are their problem, not yours.

My experience and the aftermath will not match yours. The way the trauma expresses itself in everybody is different and whatever way it does express itself is ok. Never let anyone’s presumptions of rape and trauma or mental illness, in general, make you feel like your experiences are invalid. They are valid. You are valid.

The rest is stuff I wish I knew then.

You do not have to provide anyone with access to your body to prove that you love them.

The first thing you are likely to want to do when something like this happens is get washed up, change your clothes and scrub every cell on your body, but you mustn’t. 

As soon as possible, get to a hospital. You do not have to report it to police.

Evidence can be collected up to 5 days and help for up to 6 months, whether or not you chose to report it to police.

Testing for date rape drugs can be done from 24 hours to 72 hours.

Medications to prevent pregnancies and STD’s need to be started within 72 hours.

A rape crisis counsellor or support person can go with you to the hospital.

Everything you do or don’t do is your choice.

No matter who tries to bend it that way, rape is never your fault. You are not invisible. I see you. I care.

                                                      Well...

I know that that is all kinda long and heavy, but so is the process of dealing with rape. Now that I’ve told this part of my life. I’d like to back it up with the positives that came along after the initial shock of dealing with it. But it will have to come at another time.

For now, know that I stayed in Uni, got my degree, loved my friends, loved my family, and got the chance to live my dreams and that I did it all despite what happened to me in my 20th year.

Until then, remember that you are not what happens to you. Thank you for seeing me if you got this far. 

Love always,

Sarah.

[cakeribbon]

Last day of 1 month GP placement: my honest opinion

1 month of driving 40 miles daily to a GP placement in a not so affluent area surrounded by beautiful A-roads and not much else. On the whole it was definitely a positive experience and I've learned some invaluable tips on how to better communicate with patients and how to effectively structure questions during a consultation, using ICE, taking a thorough HPC, not forgetring social hx with smoking and alcohol etc.. But a few times I did feel out of place and one of the young GP registrar's properly looked me up and down like I was something ugly and dumb which wasn't too nice. She was super pretty and petite herself and maybe I just look a bit butters.. Also I have this whole self confidence issue again I know I'm so blessed with go of health but I can't help feeling constantly ugly and it's really tiring Pretty people have it much easier in life no joke Sigh. The self consciousness tied in with feeling awkward around my main supervisor guy who was lovely but I always felt unsure about whether I should be professional or friendly and chummy chummy but i stuck to being totally professional cos it's easier And I wasn't too confident in my abilities at times and I found it hard to swallow some. Constructive criticism, not cos I think I lm perfect (I am so far from it) but because I thought I was doing well only to have it suddenly brushed under the carpet. And sometimes I don't even defend myswlf and let them criticise me even if I was actually competent and it wasn't simply 'down to luck' which my supervisor said today when I correctly diagnosed a patient with having costochondritis but subconsciously excluding other differentials but because I didn't explicitly say I ruled out PE, it meant my actual diagnosis was just 'down to luck' As I type this i sit in my car alone, in a nearby supermarket car park with a drink and packet of munchies and nothing but my own thoughts till I have to go back to the practice one final time of I see patients before I'm done for the afternoon. I've just finished chatting to a uni friend which was so refreshing cos I've felt isolated from them This month cos I'm so far away from them. Maybe I'm a loner but I cba to sit in an empty staff room and make small talk for 50 minutes, I'd rather keep to my thoughts expressing.

[thetravellingbutler]

Cocaine in Colombia

So it’s been another week, I’ve moved on from Medellin but I wrote this while I was there and think it deserves full attention. It’s a fair bit more important that what I’ve been doing the past week. I learnt a lot about Medellin and Colombia and the drug war of the 80s/90s, I couldn’t write about all of it but this was my take at least:

First of all I want to make it clear why i’m writing this post. It’s a fairly taboo subject here in Colombia and back home, but the more and more I am in South America and the more I learn about the cocaine trade the more interesting I find it. Unfortunately and understandably it is still a huge issue for the people here who endured enormous hardship in the 80s and 90s but also the significant stigma (which you’d be familiar with from Australia) that still so crushingly affects Colombia as a country. It’s simply not fair. 

I also want to ensure you that despite any sentiment or things written in this post, I don’t judge anyone for taking drugs. I’m sure many reading this do so. I have done so myself, in Australia and in South America (who’s surprised? yeah exactly. I didn’t think so) and let’s face it I will do again. Try everything once, don’t knock it till you tried it and all that, you get the picture. That doesn’t make somebody a bad person though. 

But like so many things we buy and do in Australia we don’t always think about the affect our actions have outside of our own backyard. For this reason we buy products made in sweatshops, we eat foods that harm our environment and we so frequently ignore anything other than the impact on our wallets and our time. Myself included. “Oh no, here he goes telling us we are all bad people”. Not at all, I still make decisions every day to continue supporting multinational companies and the like, but I think it’s at least important to know some facts so you can make a decision to keep doing it. In the case of cocaine and it’s relationship with Colombia and Australia, the numbers are fairly staggering. 

I did a tour one morning which was about Pablo Escobar and the drug cartels who terrorised this country in the 80s and 90s. It was super interesting and i’d encourage you to do the same if you come to Medellin (www.paisaroad.com). I also mentioned in a previous post that I’ve met a lot of Australians who are simply in South America on the hunt for cheap cocaine, to the point that it’s embarrassing at times given how many other amazing reasons there are to be on this continent. The numbers certainly support that too: 2.1% of Australians consume cocaine each year at least once (around 480,000 people), it doesn’t sound that significant but that leaves us 4th in the world behind only Scotland, the US and Spain. Consider then that the global cocaine trade is worth $85 billion dollars and you can infer that Australia is a fairly big contributor to the market. Cocaine trafficking still contributes 3% of Colombia’s GDP, but I promise you, there’s so much more happening here.

Unsurprisingly the local people have a fairly negative view of Pablo Escobar as a person, as well as the tours like the one I did and of course the Netflix show Narcos. This in my mind is a completely rational dislike. Here you have people from much wealthier and less corrupt countries, coming into your home and putting a man on a pedestal who was responsible for over 30,000 innocent deaths of your friends, family and neighbours. Not to mention that the atrocities committed by the drug cartels are fresh, they happened in our lifetime. The lady running the tour likened it to doing a Nazi tour in Germany just 20 years after the holocaust. I can certainly see where she’s coming from. Fortunately, the tour I did was super factual, not glorifying the man at all and giving aspects of the story from a local perspective. As you’d expect though, it was fairly hard hitting. This is why. 

In the height of the drug war between 1987 to 1993 there were 33,000 murders, 623 terror attacks, 550 murdered police. These numbers are eye-watering. Caused and led by the drug cartels as a result of greed and willing to do anything, literally anything, to keep the money flowing in and the cocaine out. A disgrace on humanity. As described by local people here this place was constantly on the brink of disaster, when will the next bomb go off? Where will it be? the supermarket? the bank? Can you imagine living like that?

At one point Medellin had around 20 deaths per day and was known as the “Murder capital of the world”. Hardly a nice time to be growing up in Medellin, all Colombian families were affected one way or another by these events which is staggering given Colombia is twice the size of Australia. Some people were positively affected, sure, there’s definitely some people who benefited from the work and money of the drug cartels but you can say that about any atrocity that has happened in the world, it certainly doesn’t make it ok. I’m also not going to write about Pablo Escobar or exactly what he did either, I’ll leave you do to your own research on that (don’t just watch Narcos). It’s pretty fucked up to be honest. But obviously this tour had a fairly profound impact on me so I encourage you to read about it. 

The stigma and what you can do

Before coming to Colombia (or even South America as a whole), so many people said things like “Isn’t it dangerous there?”, “Why are you going there? It’s dangerous?”, “Are you sure it’s safe?”. Now, I understand a lot of those comments were out of love, worry, concern and I completely appreciate that. But as Australians, especially given our impact on the cocaine industry (to some degree responsible for the drug war), we need to be more understanding and aware of other countries. The tour guide described the stigma of Colombia being dangerous as “Sad, ignorant and aggressive”. I couldn’t have agreed more when she said that. It stuck with me. Australians (and people all over the world) don’t want to visit an amazing country because of something that happened 25 years ago, that 99.9% of Colombians had no control over or wanted to happen. These people lost their children, brothers, sisters, friends and instead of moving on and acknowledging what happened as history, the rest of the world still view Colombia as that dangerous country where there’s a tonne of Cocaine. I can promise you it is much more than that. 

To me there’s 2 things you can do about it: 

1. Stop doing so much fucking cocaine Australia (who’s to say a war like this won’t break out in Mexico next?)

2. Come to Colombia, or at the very least find out a bit more about it, it’s a fantastic place. Maybe my favourite yet…