I like that “good morning, princess” / “morning baby” kinda relationship. The no games, great communication, lots of sex, lots of kissing, lots of cuddling, lots of flirting, lots of being goofy kind of relationship. The kind that makes you want to run 100 miles, read books, clean up your bad habits kind of love.
(via subtle)
After my rape, I did everything I could to erase all remnants of my rapist’s presence. I unfriended and blocked him on Facebook. I blocked him on Gmail. I blocked him on Moodle, for crying out loud, our school’s open-source online learning platform. I got rid of all his clothes I borrowed. I got rid of every gift he ever gave me. I shredded any photos I had of him. I blocked his number. Deleted all his texts and emails. I deleted all my parent’s emails on their account and mine that mentioned him. I removed any gifts I’d bought him from my order history on Amazon and Etsy. I threw away the notebooks, exams, and papers from the one class I had with him as a preceptor. I removed all photos of him from my Facebook. I blocked his friends’ Facebooks and his family members’ Facebooks. I blocked his Instagram and his family members’ and friends’ Instagrams. I stopped eating at restaurants we used to frequent. I never rewatched any movies we saw together. I blocked every single Facebook account that I could find with his name even though I knew they weren’t him. I didn’t set foot on his street or anywhere near it for years. I stopped ordering the coffee drink we used to order together. I deleted photos of him and me off my parent’s camera. I stopped drinking the flavors of alcohol we drank together. I didn’t go anywhere near his old dorm until I had to. I untagged his name from all my Tumblr posts. I stopped watching all the shows we watched together (to this day my heart drops when I hear of the shows Archer or Game of Thrones). I went to therapy. I went to inpatient treatment. I went on meds. I went to the hospital. I avoided any college events he might attend. I avoided the academic buildings he might have classes in. I dyed my hair. I got piercings. I lost pounds and pounds of weight. I started going to the gym. I got rid of the birthday and Christmas gifts from his mother. I threw away the ticket stubs from the movies we went to; I threw away the receipts from any events, concerts, or restaurants we visited. I threw away the clothes he bought for me and the jewelry I bought when we went shopping. I threw away the clothes I wore when I stayed over at his home during winter break. I stopped listening to the musicians he introduced me to. I didn’t talk about it. I tried not to talk about it. I reported him to my college. I asked them to prevent him from contacting me. I thought about a restraining order. I blocked the anonymous friends of his who sent me Tumblr messages. I met with my college every time his friends contacted me. I asked my college to warn me whenever he would be on campus after he graduated. I wanted to take a night class after he graduated but found out he was auditing it as an alum, and so I didn’t. I stayed inside my dark bedroom for the three hours he was on campus for that class after he graduated. I wrote it out. I wrote about it. I didn’t write about it. I started a journal for survivors. I got a job educating others about rape. I reported other rapists. I avoided the tours he led on campus when I worked during the summer. I launched into angry crying rants against strangers on Facebook when they were victim-blaming other women. I didn’t say his name. I had a friend who was dating someone with his name and I said “__’s boyfriend” instead. If I saw his name in books or journals I called the character “the asshole” instead. I tried to stop liking the breed of dogs he owned. I closed my eyes every time my parents had to drive through his hometown. I clenched my fists until we passed through into the next town. I stopped expressing affection. I lost trust, or chose to put it away. I asked a friend who made rape jokes if he had ever raped anyone. He hadn’t. But I stayed scared anyway. I blocked his friends’ numbers. I avoided looking at them. I stopped listening to my favorite song because he used to play it on the jukebox. I stopped asking for waffle fries in the dining center because he used to order them too. I unmatched strangers on Tinder who looked too much like him. I swiped left if they had his name. I forgot to eat. I joined an online support group. I donated money to RAINN. I read about the rape kit backlog. I took a different route home. I wrote a book about it. I kept screenshots of his confession in a folder just in case. I told myself it was bad, or it wasn’t bad enough. I avoided vanilla candles because he had one in his room. I took down the posters he gave me. I joined in on jokes about how boys who watch Fight Club are shitty people. I stayed inside during orientation. I blocked his fellow orientation leader on Facebook. I stopped talking about orientation. I never mentioned who my orientation leaders were. I thought about calling the police. I took sleeping pills to avoid lying awake for too long thinking about it. I went on walks. I went on too many walks. I slept when I wasn’t in class. I cried when I wasn’t in class. I left class when the professors mentioned rape or sex. I asked for academic accommodations. I took time off work. I said things were fine. I said they were fine. I wrote him long letters then deleted them. I smiled through it. I blocked his friends on LinkedIn. I blocked his family members on LinkedIn. I blocked him on Twitter. I blocked his exes on Facebook. I warned one of his new girlfriends. I blocked the one after that. I got the college administrator who victim-blamed me removed as a keynote speaker for an event on rape. I started hating Jenny Holzer because her work was written on sculptures in the garden he took us to for orientation. I missed Jenny Holzer. I kept hating her. I didn’t go back to the sculpture garden. I left campus buildings when I saw his friends. I stopped eating dinosaur chicken nuggets because he used to make them for me. I followed every date rape story in the news. I left movies or the room during rape scenes on TV or in movies. I learned what trigger warnings were. I started using them. I started asking for them. I told my blog readers not to ask me about rape. I convinced myself he could never touch me again. I didn’t go to winter ball because he assaulted me the night before. I asked a friend to spend the night the day before I reported him.
I don’t want to hear anymore how survivors don’t do enough.
If a girl ever wore lingerie for me I think I’d die
(Source: foress-t, via i-love-girls-so-fucking-what)
