Tag Archives: C-PTSD

Yer Fired!

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A few years ago I had a horrible experience with a therapist I had been working with for 2 years.    It created such a breach of trust which still impacts me to this day in my current psychotherapy and work I’m trying to do with my therapist, Lee.  Learning to trust again after it has been broken by so many is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

There was nothing fun about sitting with my shrink and have her stare at me while I tried to cough up my feelings that were too painful and shameful to utter aloud.  So instead I put on a good persona and artfully tried to dodge the elephant sitting on my heart that I wished I had the balls to say, but I was way too much of a pussy.  I knew if I did I would risk looking like an asshole.  I had learned early on to hide vulnerable feelings so the hungry ones wouldn’t devour me.

It took me weeks to get to the point of even mustering “it” up.  The emotions carried that much shame for me to say.

It took me awhile to get the courage up to spit out what I was hemming and hawing about saying for that 40 minute session.

The thing I said well, it made me feel weak, embarrassed, vulnerable, powerless.   All feelings I HATE.  All feelings I don’t have skills to tolerate very well.

But I did finally spit it out, because I wanted to get healthier and I thought that puking up what’s hard to do, would get me there.  I needed to tell the shrink that there is a fractured part of me; a splintered, inner-child like piece to me, who I can sense at times, is stuck chronologically at the age a lot of my child  abuse occurred.  The embarrassment for me, was that this child-like part of me seemed really attached to the therapist.  Who was younger than me.

I breathed in quickly after saying all this to her as it took all the courage to muster to say.  So I braced and waited, hopeful for a good outcome.

*****

I was totally  blindsided by her response.

The therapist began laughing out loud saying, “you don’t really feel that way, do you?”

Then I felt my face burn beat red, humiliated on top of the existing shame.  Mother fucker.   I wanted to bolt out the room and never come back. But instead I found my legs wouldn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights.

I “present so well” and hide my emotions, I’ve been it doing for so long.  I had created a seamless veneer simultaneously as the abuse was happening in childhood.  To protect me so that no one could “see”  how ugly I was.   Some primitive defense mechanism to be sure.

The therapist was oblivious to my dual nature despite a factual understanding of the complex trauma and rather largish case file containing my trauma history.  She denied my inner fragility and vulnerability at the expense of making a chiding remark , and was unmoved by what I had shared.  She began booking next weeks appointment.

*****

Sitting there in that chair in her office feeling ashamed, my brain flooded with similar events from my past, I had try to  bury long ago.

Especially the young, impish, fractured, splintered off part of myself I thought I could seal behind a wall and bury alive.

But that girl’s muffled voice broke through from behind the bricks that day  choking back her pitiful fucking tears.

*****

There she was again, from behind the woman veneer.   Stirring somewhere from latent consciousness.  Crystallized and I’m still paralyzed.

I seem to walk through life, reflexively, a continuous loop of internal thought patterns,  “I am bad. unlikable,  unwanted,  unacceptable….. I am un-lovable.”

*****

When I told my shrink how I felt about her, she scoffed that I must be wrong.  It stung.   Walls went up.

Usually, I reject me before anyone else can hurt me.    Well, I fucked up.

******

I am ashamed….of me.  Ashamed there is a child in me so needy and desperate for love.

I am realizing that shame is a bigger part of my emotional make-up than I ever knew. It’s inescapable presence envelops me like a blanket.

If I don’t deal with “it”,  I will continue to live in misery.  How can I deal with it if I’m not even being believed.  That Mickey Mouse post-secondary degree douchebag clinician that attended a cut-rate graduate school whose clinical skills were on par with a third grader, doesn’t know shit-from-shinola about incest,  complex trauma, or the presentation of dissociation! She fucked me over!

Before that session I might have passed for an average girl, walking with a seeming look of purpose, unfettered by any stress. And in some ways, I guess that would have been true.

I left however, restricting my gaze downward to the cobblestone street, tears staining my cheeks, reflecting the ugliness I still hold inside.  Ugliness from which I haven’t been yet able to wriggle free.

I later called her and told her that laughing at me and not believing me at a most vulnerable moment was too shaming and unacceptable.  That I was done, I won’t be coming back, that she, she was fired.

*****

BDSM and bondage isn’t about rope and and submission for me any more, for I’m out of the lifestyle.

The riskiest scenes take place on the inside, with the chains that bind my very soul.

 

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I’m a Marketing Dream

It occurred to me the other day as I stared blankly out of the window, not wanting to get out of bed, just like every other day, I am in the Bell Jar.  

So many of the commercials on TV for medications to treat depression are so fake.  They depict people suffering with it having a seemingly mild case of the doldrums. Just moving as if stuck in molasses.

They never show you what depression really looks like.

I am willing to let a pharmaceutical company film me to get a more accurate depiction.  It would look something like this…..

Voice over of announcer: “Depression robs a person of their energy.”

Camera pans to me sitting in the middle of my living room with a mountain of dirty laundry staring at it like the woman from Close Encounters of a Third Kind.  Saying, “I know I should wash you” and then just shaking my head no and finally collapsing back into the cushion and saying “fuck it.”  I am down to one pair of clean panties this is now my “edge play.”

Voice of announcer:  “Depression feels physical.” 

Camera lens catches me glancing outside at the morning school bus through the window .  I move to the kitchen and stare at the heaping pile of dishes that has amassed in the sink and repeat “fuck it” as I then head to the bed and proceed to pull the blinds and dive in to the sheets.  (Time elapses)   I rise in my pajamas in a haze hearing the afternoon school bus pulls around the block again.

Voice of announcer:  “Depression causes changes in appetite.”

Last scene too fucking easy.  Like a vampire rising from the mist I awake from bed to eat a box of Girl Scout  cookies.  Because anyone knows that if doesn’t come out of a package or ready-to-eat microvave box, then food isn’t consumed.  Camera fades with me on the couch with said cookies in the middle of the night swearing at the Girl Scouts, blaming them for peddling their crack.

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Real Depression?

Depression is wearing the same pear of sweat pants and tee-shirts every day like a uniform, and having hygiene fall to the wayside til’ someone has to insist a shower is taken.   Brushing teeth? what’s that? there’s no energy.  Sleeping 16 hours a day feels natural.    Feeling black even when the sun is shining.

Depressions steals a person of their  emotions.  Such that life holds neither joy, nor sorrow, no anger, no pain.  It steals away the ability to imagine, to dream, to hope for a better day.  It is the great equalizer changing healthy,  robust,  thriving people into living, breathing, vacuous zombies pondering their very existence.

*******

Why doesn’t Roche, Pfizer, or GlaxoSmithKline want to show what real depression looks like?  Because their drugs are largely ineffective against severe forms of it.   You will look and feel the same on their drugs as you will off them.    Big Pharma doesn’t want anyone to know that.  If the efficacy of their products aren’t much better than a placebo than Lord have mercy, where would their capitalist enterprise be?

I have tried 13 anti-depressants over my lifetime and only one did something.  Not a great track record for pills as monotherapy.   If you are mildly depressed, pills may snap your serotonin back into shape.  Buddy, if you have a severe case of dysthymia, and some C-PTSD you are not going to have that sort of response.

Millions of people are suffering with depression.   Big Pharma wants to profit from the pills they produce to treat a condition that is largely unresponsive to pharmacological intervention.

The most common reason for people to become depressed is sustaining stress and trauma.  Until we become more pro-active as a society about preventing trauma both in childhood and in adulthood we are destined to fail by looking for a pharmaceutical panacea to remedy the problem.

Learning how to intervene once children and adults have been identified as having been exposed to trauma and getting these individuals trauma informed care, we have the hope of healing them.

People need people.  The broken trust that happens through the process of trauma needs to be repaired.   Pharmaceuticals certainly have their place as an aide.  The way out of depression starts with the desire; the wanting to climb out of the bell jar.  Once that decision has been made to seek help, the human factor, not a pill, will always be a more effective “treatment”.

 

 

 

 


Attention Whore

 

81B9D6F8-5A4C-4E51-AD79-CE6AE3102EF8When a person comes from a place of emotional neglect in childhood it’s beyond painful.  One’s basic needs for emotional sustenance, a sense of well-being, feeling  loved and safe were not ensured.  So that deep scar, carries over into adulthood if not addressed.

I definitely had a lot of emotional neglect in childhood.  My parents were not mean people by any stretch.  However, I unwittingly became the invisible child because one of my step-siblings was a young sociopath in the making.

As a boy, he was labeled with “conduct disorder.”  There was always some podunk police officer showing up at our house to let my parents know he was in trouble again.

The other two step-siblings of mine were “problem children” as well because of extreme learning disabilities and needed a lot of time and energy.   My mom spent hours doing educational advocacy so they could have any chance at having academic success.

I became the invisible child.    I was the kid who got straight A’s, the one my parents figured didn’t need any help because I was succeeding.  However, I was dying on the inside all the while, wishing they would stop long enough to hug me, tell me how proud they were of me, sit and help me do my homework even if I didn’t need it; hell just have my mom sit down next to me and tell me I was a cute girl ….something, anything.

Things went from bad to worse over the years.   More police involvement with my step-brother, more arrests, even prison time for him, my parents divorced, our house was sold.

Time passed.

I found myself involved in relationships throughout my adulthood searching for that attention I never got.   Ironically, from men who weren’t capable of giving it to me.  I just didn’t realize it at the time.

That was perhaps the cruelest twist.   See, I was ignorant before I went into psychotherapy years ago.  I didn’t realize that the  complex trauma I had endured as a child, primed me to seek out and replicate the very same neglect and abuse…. to be re-victimized.

I remember one of my first abusive relationships, the guy saying,”you’re a total attention whore!” At the time he had said it, I had asked for more affection from him.  I wanted to hold hands sometimes, I wanted to hug him and have it just stay being a nice warm hug.  Not have it not lead to him wanting to push my head down to make me give him a blowjob.  I wanted affection, not just a purely sexually based relationship.

His response? I was too intense, too needy, clingy, high-maintenance.   That I was too insecure.  That I wanted too much.  “That” guy? well that guy turned out to be the sexual-sadist-sociopath who has no conscience.

Yeah, okay but I’m too intense and needy….

You know now that I think about it? I think it’s pretty normal to want to feel loved, safe, attractive, validated. Especially after not having had enough as a child and teen.

It is unhealthy to expect one’s partner to the be the primary source of one’s emotional well being, that needs to come from within.

That said, stop going to the hardware store for milk.

 


Clowns scare me

The elephants smell bad.  The food makes me sick.  The port-o- potties always lean like the tower of Pisa and I fear they are going to tip and fall whilst I am inside them.

I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.

Isn’t  it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring circus.

I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring.  Which includes my shrink , Lee and my BFF, Tiffany.

In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film The Wolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because a Narcissist, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat.  As she yammers her famous line,

“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is  bright.” 

Stupid gypsy,  I went on a chat forum where garlic and charms can’t be seen and he bit me, and what’s more, part of me is liking his bite.

Then in a third ring there’s me trying to balance it all 10,000 feet up on a high-wire  without any safety net below.   Half of me teeters left, intoxicated by the wolf’s advances, the other half teeters right, recoiling as if to touching a hot pan on a stove.

BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.

Tiffany knows everything about me, we stay on the phone for hours during the week sharing our journey  together.   Lee knows little.  I fear no judgment from Tiff.  She’s made the same mistakes I have.   Lee, there is a formality.  I have never seen her teeter, much less free-fall.  How can she help me? How can she teach me?

I think my trust issues with people are deeper than I thought.  I can even trust my own damn shrink.  Now that’s some kind of special right there.

This is scaring me, what is going on inside me….Lee pokes around too much with asking me what I’m feeling about this, or that, or the other thing.  WTF? I feel like I’m being interrogated at times.  “How did you feel when you showed  me the photo of the gun up your snatch?”    I’m like .... “I didn’t feel anything.”  Was I supposed to feel something about it?    I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, am I supposed to have specific  feelings? Oh shit ! Well I’m not.  Now I’m getting anxious that I’m not having feelings about something that I’m probably supposed be having feelings about.

When I let people into my real world, if I feel they get too close to me, I tend to run.  Run from safety.  I tend to sabotage things.  Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly.   I believe my shrink may be able to help me.  At other more times, I feel she can’t do squat to help me.  Right now I just want to be done with therapy.  I feel like it’s a dead end.  I feel it’s useless.  Other than sharing anecdotes and trying to make Lee laugh, I feel like I’m not working towards any thing.

At least with my ex-Narc, each week I was working on lessons.  How to give head, how to deep throat, how to rim, how to take the cane, the whip, the paddle et cetera.  There was progress but I digress..

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now.  So I have returned to what is familiar.  Those old circus clowns.  They scare me, sure they can hurt me.  But they are a swamp I know well.  I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp.   But it’s a familiar swamp.   I know how it reacts, and how to react to it.  The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.


Miss Scarlet, in the Library, getting f***ed with the revolver

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Clue, don’t cha know.   I should get a clue by now.  That fantasy is way better than reality.  Always.

I have been in a relationship with a vanilla man for 5 years now.  I know that it’s “healthy” for me.   But I’d be a liar to say I don’t miss the intensity of what I had living the D/s lifestyle.   I was never in a 24/7 TPE.  Pfffft.  I was too feisty to submit beyond the bedroom.   I have pangs to return to kink from time to time, especially when I read others’ blogs. It brings back memories. Some good, some not.  I still make my pilgrimage back to my blog on alt.com to see what my buddies are up to, even if they don’t see me looking.

I think the most fucked up thing I ever let my Dominant do was to shove his Walther PPK .32 caliber handgun in my pussy.

When I showed Lee the photos of that, she didn’t even blink.  She was more interested in how I felt about sharing this  with her.  Typical. It’s always ‘how do I feel’.  Hell I don’t have feelings much these days, I feel empty.

What’s to feel about it? It’s a photo.  I have many more in the same vein.    She asks the wrong sorts of questions, it seems.  Or maybe I’m the one just not saying  enough.   For instance I never told her that I recently called my former Dominant.

Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.

Everyone knows Miss Scarlet was a whore and everyone knows Professor Plum was doing her.


Flashback

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3…..2…..1….. 

 

heart races

stomach drops

blood runs cold

it’s happening again!

eyes shut tight

paralyzed with terror.

please not here, not now.

 

I’m teetering

400 miles up

on this tight rope

I’m walking.

no one

can hear me scream

but me. 

 

1…..2…..3……

 

don’t say a word

just breathe

in and out.

act normally

open your eyes

touch the ground

it’s not happening.

 

Ghosts look so very real.

Hard to discern

no imminent harm

in pursuit of me.

After all these years,

they still besiege me,

unexpextedly.

 

 


In plain sight

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I stand there before You,
aching for Your
love.

Your affection.

Your approval.

i can’t believe after all this time,
You’ve
never looked at me.

in my pig tails and patent leather
shoes
,
standing in the doorway
wistful and willing.

but You cannot see me.

for i am hiding behind the wallpaper
where all
little girls hide,
the ones who survived.

layers upon layers cover me
redecorated as
years pass,
yet i remain forever unchanged.

frozen in time
beneath this woman
veneer.
waiting and hoping,
will you take me home?


Toxic Shame

0E6185B6-ADF6-490A-9675-B1E2F5FD549EComplex trauma has left a wound on me that I don’t know will ever heal.  Or maybe it’s that there’s so much scar tissue I just need to get used to that “new normal” of who I’ve  become.

Complex trauma is still a relatively new field of psychology. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder.  (C-PTSD) results from enduring complex trauma.

Complex trauma is ongoing or repeated interpersonal trauma, where the victim is traumatized in captivity, and where there is no perceived way to escape. Ongoing child abuse is captivity abuse because the child cannot escape. Domestic violence is another example. Forced prostitution/sex trafficking is another.

In my particular case, I was a victim of childhood incest.  It is the hardest thing to type that sentence, harder still to say it out loud.  I want to delete the sentence and delete “it” from my history.  Additionally, there was heavy-handed corporal punishment which by today’s standards would be considered physical abuse.   There was definite emotional abuse and at times neglect.  Continual domestic violence pervaded my childhood home.  My home did not often feel like the safe place it should.

Later in adulthood, I was the victim of domestic violence within my two major long-terms relationships.   I don’t know that I even recognized it happening as such it seemed so familiar.  If that makes sense.

All of my life I have struggled with low self-esteem.   Underneath my low self-esteem  belies a  darker feeling .   There is this deep sense of shame I have carried since as long as I can remember.

Unlike ordinary shame, “internalized shame” lingers and changes our self-image. It’s shame that has become “toxic.

When a person is ruled by toxic shame it interferes with their ability to accept positive regard.   For in childhood they internalized the belief of not being worthy of being loved or given any attention.

It dawned on me today as I couldn’t look into the mirror, that I just hate myself because I’m ashamed of me.

I wonder if this shame will ever leave.  I’ve got a new shrink I’ve been seeing for about 9 months.   I’ll call her Lee.  One can’t help but feel disillusioned after 20 years in/out of therapy.   I’ve ditched seeing Lee the past month.  Made up some excuse or other.  I mean everyone needs a mental health day from the mental health provider.   Oh wait this can’t be treatment resistance this soon can it?  I am feeling vulnerable because we are past the point of rapport building, and she’s a quick study.  She sees through my best defense mechanisms, and is trying to dig deeper and I’m running like hell.

There’s no shame in investing in a sturdy paper bag to wear over my head to hide myself, right?  Wearing bags are so much easier than facing your own demons.  ‘Cause Lord knows I’m hoping for a loophole.

 

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Of Mice and Monsters

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When I was a child and had a nightmare, right at the point where I knew the monster would “get”me, I thought it better to try to befriend the creäture.

I believed in doing so, this may spare me from being devoured.  I kept the authentic me, hidden from the monster.  The façade of being its friend, enabled me to survive those long wretched nights.

My childhood was riddled with nightmares.  Sadly during my days, I was hunted by the profane personified.

My nocturnal brain wiring to cope with the unacceptable.

~~~~~~~

The first indication I had that he may have been a monster, was the night he asked me to kneel naked in the porcelain tub.   He told me this would be fun.

I complied.

He stood naked next to me.   I waited for what seemed a long time.    I looked up at him.   Still waiting.   Wondering.    Then…..

Right as I asked,” what are we doing?”  He urinated in my face; right at my mouth.

He erupted into peels of laughter, over and over again watching me as I spit and grimaced.

I don’t think I have ever tasted anything so acrid in all my life.  I hope I never will.

When he could see that I was angry for what he had done, he apologized.  I knew it was fake but accepted it anyway.

My acceptance of his fake apology was perhaps the beginning of my courtship,  with a real-life monster.  One so dark and empty, I could have never imagined.

~~~~~~~~~~~  Part 1/10

Of Mice and Monsters II

 

 

 

 


Litte Red Riding Whore

It’s been nearly 3 months since he dumped me. ….so into to him I couldn’t walk away no matter what a piece of shit he was.   Cheatings, beatings, lies……..  For 3 and a half years he cheated on me with various prostitutes, couples, Craigslist hookups, and a gangbangs, and as I just recently found out few men too.  None of this was known to me til the last year.  But I thought I could “fix” him.  I really thought if I just loved him enough, he would stop.  He dumped me; a faithful, monogamous woman……to go out with and fuck all them

My heart is still broken.

Last night I finally decided to have a drink with an acquaintance I have spoken with for a year by phone, we shall call him S.

He lives a few towns away.  We click on many levels, but he realized that I was entrenched, knee-deep in shit with my ex and he was busy was pursuing a married woman who was “seperated”.   So although there has been perhaps some interest romantically on both ends, the point was moot.  It has remained utterly platonic and we have never met face to face, that is until last night.

We scheduled to meet at a local pub up the street when he got out of work.

I met S at said establishment at around 11:45.  I was a bit late because I had just received a voicemail on my home phone last night around 11:30 pm from my ex.

I had seen his name come up on called ID and did not pick up.  Who knows why the fuck he calls me, he doesn’t want me anymore.  Oh that’s right he’s a sadist, he enjoys seeing me cry and rubbing my face in pain.   Foolishly, I did check the message and what I heard made me have the dry heaves.

It was not the voice of my ex it was the voice of another man,

Thanks for loaning you ex-boyfriend **** out for the night he fucked my wife real good tonight,  she really enjoyed that big cock, I didn’t realise he was into bondage he really whipped her ass real good.”   Then from out of the background the wife says “oooo I loved it……ohhhh yeah…..he fucked me really good….. oh he fucked me better than ever ……he did things I’ve never even felt before…thank you very much.”    Then my qualifier comes on the phone and says, “these folks are going home now, and now I’m going home.  Have a good night.”

So 5 minutes before I have to go and meet my new friend and our first possible “date” I am choking back dry-heaves and tears.  I am in the bathroom fanning out my eyes and re-applying make-up.   I get to the Pub and meet S.   It is noisy and so loud, the cigarette smoke when the door opens is so thick, I realise it is not conducive to conversation.   Since my son is away for the holiday, I ask S if he would like to come back to my place.  He follows me in his car.  I am very nervous as I have not had another man in my home for 3 and 1/2 years.

Things go really well for the first few hours.  We talk and enjoy great conversation.  I see that he makes some subtle advances and I begin to get nervous because I am realising I am in over my head.  Although I like S very much and find him attractive.  He does have an amazing body and beautiful blue eyes…..I am not ready.   My heart is a mess.  and if you know me, I need to have emotional involvement to have a relationship.  Otherwise he will be a one night stand.  I like S too much, I DON’T want it to go that way.  We have been friends for a year.  Not him……Not now.  But he doesn’t see this.  He continues to make advances.

First base.

I recoil.  He senses I am uncomfortable.  I apologize for pulling away from the kiss.  I feel like a line has been crossed.  I feel like I have betrayed my qualifier in some fucked up way, even though we are long since broken up and I still love him…. that only another victim/ empath would understand.  Some fucked up torch-bearer like me.  Even though I like how he feels, looks, tastes.  I feel what I am doing is wrong.   He tells me we will kiss again in a few minutes.  He is correct.

Second base.

In the pale light of the pc playlist going, I am having actual flashbacks.  My ex and S are the exact age, height, same hair cut, and in this strange light I am having flash backs of “him”.  As S is leaning over kissing me, I am actually seeing my qualifier.  It’s my C- PTSD (Complex-Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder) I recoil again because I am actually leaving my body. It’s too much to handle and so I’m just leaving.  S notices something is wrong and asks if I am okay and I don’t know what to say.  I tell him “I’m just leaving, just zoning out a bit.”  I am more worried about freaking S out and don’t know what to do.  How can I explain this to him.  The thoughts are intrusive.  They are flashbacks, not me wanting to think about my ex.  My guess probably largely due to the phone call I had just received.  Images of him fucking these people.  S continues puts his hand down my panties, I freeze like a deer in headlights panic and can’t seem to say anything, Much like a child who experiences sexual abuse,  body betrays me and responds anyway.     He probably thinks nothing is wrong.  But inside my mind is going wild my heart is racing out of total terror, not the excitment S is feeling.  I want it all to STOP.

Third base.

Something rises up in me and I finally I  able to get my body to execute what my mind wants to say and stop him cold in his tracks.   I take his hands and just flip him off.  I explain to him my position.  That once you cross that line, you can’t go back to being friends.  and as the words are coming out of my mouth I am simultaneously realising sadly, this man already thinks I am a whore.  This guy never had the intention of getting to know me either, the dirtbag.  He just wanted what he wanted.  Even though not one single solitary man has either touched me nor entered my home in almost 4 years.  Even though my ex has cheated on me scores of times, possibly a hundred by now, scar-ily.  I remained faithful to that sadistic misogynistic pig.   I just want to find a possible relationship and this guy only care about getting off.

Once S realises I am not going to fuck him.  He goes to the bathroom, says he’s going to freshens up and says he is going to head out citing that is will just further frustrate us both to keep going on this way.  Instead he comes out with his pants unzipped and asks me if I want to see how big his cock is as he’s already pulling it out.

I tell him “No!” and that him just leaving unless I did something sexual, is hurtful.

S said nothing and left anyway.

I feel like a filthy whore…..I feel like I have no worth.

All I wanted was to meet him and get to know him better.   Why wasn’t I able to tell him I need to have things move at a slower pace? Why can’t I set boundaries ?

Now this morning I have two pains.  The pain of knowing my ex rubbed my nose in some woman he fucked and how much she liked it and her husband apparently watching and liking it.  and knowing he chooses that over me.  and that he wrote me in an email that he paid $250 on two hookers 2 days earlier for their services.  How bad can I be, that he would rather be with a hooker?

The second pain is that my friend S, left because I wouldn’t fuck him.

The message?  Unless I spread my legs I have no value.

This must be fucking hell.  I must have died on the operating table 2 months ago during surgery.  Life can’t possibly hold this amount of pain.


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