Pretty shit week? Yes.
Spiraling through BPD episodes & triggers? Yup.
I am a prisoner to the architecture of my own brain. My thoughts are a loop of every man who has ever seen me as a warm body rather than a person. Sometimes it wasn’t even sexual, which somehow feels even more pathetic, I was used simply because I was an easy target. Already traumatized enough and desperate enough for the attention I never received as a kid. I’ve realized It made me malleable, and I still am.
It started with older men grooming me on Omegle, exploiting my naivety and my "daddy issues" to coerce me into baring my body. Then there were the boyfriends my narcissistic mother brought home, abusive, pervy, or just a nightmare to live with. I remember being verbally degraded by one; I remember another of her boyfriend’s friends trying to grope and rape me in my own kitchen. He was always there, standing inches behind me, a constant, looming threat. It was a cycle: I see now that I viewed my interactions through rose-colored glasses, trusting men who didn't deserve it, men who saw me as just another body. Even when I tried to be selective, I failed. I let a man I genuinely liked use me, and the realization that I gained nothing from it is the hardest part. There was no intimacy, no mutual pleasure. I never even had an orgasm. I really think we only fucked twice. Rather, I was just an assistant for his mechanic work and a tool for his satisfaction. I allowed myself to be guilt-tripped into a routine where my only role was to serve his needs while my own were completely ignored.
He’d call randomly, guilt-trip me into hanging out, and have me help him with his tedious mechanic work. Every 'treatment' of dinner, if he even deigned to pay, carried a silent, heavy tax. I knew the expectation before we even left the table. The humiliating part isn't just that I knew, but that I never once declined. Not once. He had a particularly liking for my mouth; it was written in the way he’d lean back while I performed behind the wheel, or how he’d watch his chosen movie while I disappeared into the shadow of his lap. One night, the pretense of asking vanished entirely. He simply reached out, gripped my arm, and put my hand onto his bare cock. That was the same night he forced his rhythm down my throat until he finished. He was never extra rough like that. That was the first. I spent the drive home in silence when he dropped me off, knowing I even spent the night there. The same night I got home and sobbed myself to sleep on the bathroom floor.
Now, I find myself here, baring it all for a digital crowd. I suppose this is just how I’ve learned to process the weight of it. I want you to hurt me. I like knowing it makes you harder when I cry.
I say, If the past cannot be changed, perhaps the only thing left to do is own the story. Not even when every word stings to retell. I could sit here and whine for hours about the shit in my life that sucks, but we all have those so I won’t bore you. I’m handing you the one thing I know gives me my worth.
Do your worst, my body paints colors pretty easily, anyway. 🫶
- K