Solving a Problem by Creating a New One

Rehashing through my sexual history can seem amusing or entertaining to most (sometimes to me too,) but quite honestly it takes quite a mental toll on me. 

I’ve been busy fucking up my relationship and trying to keep it together. Quite the hypocrite aren’t I? ( not really fucking it up, I’ve just been PMSing and shit has been rough my depression blah blah blah trouble in paradise.) 

ANYWHO my brain had to take a break from Paul. I don’t think about or talk about him… So yeah I needed to set that aside for a little while. Writing helps me sort through things. Sift out the tiny details that I missed or make sense of a situation I was too close to to understand. When I wrote about my past and my experiences it’s not always pleasant. It needs to be done though, it does help me ventilate issues I won’t talk about. 

One of the major issues in my life besides my taste in men and my skanky decisions, is my eating disorder. I suffered under its reign from 2005/2006 (that would have been my eighth grade year) till current (2015). I must admit, my eating has gotten better in the past two years but I still struggle and have bad months every once in a while. 

I never had a good body image or good self confidence. I was always the strawberry blonde, freckled, fat kid. I didn’t really become “attractive” per say until I reached my senior year of high school. (That’s my own opinion. I’ve been told otherwise.) My parents were going through a tough time after my eighth grade year. My grandfather had passed away whom I was very close with and my sister was off at college getting DUI’s and failing classes and spending lots of money. Plus my parents had their own issues. 

My dad would drive me to school in the morning and bitch about my sister and my mom. My anxiety and the pressure from listening to a 40 year old guys problems crippled me and a lot of times I’d throw up once inside the school. I always thought it was nerves or my anxiety or whatever but once I realized how much better I felt after throwing up I started to make myself throw up whenever I felt an anxiety attack coming. (I later learned it was a coping mechanism and sometimes a trigger for anxiety attacks.) 

Then after school my mom would pick me up and is listen to her. I was always back and forth between the two. A owl, a messenger a tennis ball being belted from one player to the next and crashing against the ground only to be whacked again. 

When a girl and her friends in the hall at school made vomiting noises at me after I came out of the bathroom I knew my habbit had gotten worse. 

You’re still fat,” I remember her saying the further I got away from her the better. But her words clung to the back of my brain like a leech and I’ll always remember that. I started making myself throw up more. Even when I wasn’t having anxiety. I was hiding it at home. I’d turn on the water in the bathroom and throw up. When that became a problem I learned how to throw up almost silently. 

By the end of my freshman year every time I threw up it felt worse and worse until one day I threw up blood. It terrified me so bad I stopped puking for a week. The next time I forced myself to puke my throat felt raw and tired. “I can’t keep doing this, what if I die,” I remember talking to myself. That was the first time I thought dying might not be so awful. 

A friend Tara, cut herself a lot and when she was trying to stop or ran out of room to cut herself in places that could be hidden she used a tight hair tie to snap her wrist when she felt the urge. Conditioning yourself to stop. It worked a little for me but I found the best way was not to eat. If I didn’t eat I’d have nothing to throw up. 

I had “solved” one problem and created another. How did I deal with my anxiety? I started cutting. It was easy to do. It made everything in my head go dark and quiet, like laying your head on cool tile in a dark bathroom when you have a migraine. 

By my sophomore year I had lost a significant amount of weight and had been rollerblading everyday at my brothers football practices. I got a lot of response from my family and friends and people at school. “You’re so thin,” “wow you got skinny so fast,” “you look the best you ever have,” “I was worried you’d turn out like your sister.” 

It only made me feel better. Reinforced my need to grow thinner. Vain. I know. Then it became so much more. Every time my parents would fight or use me for a councilor I wanted to disappear. I wanted to hide. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me about their problems because I could barely manage my own. 

My sister had gone to school out in west Texas and got a warrant out for her arrest for writing a hot check. I remember my dad blowing up. He was never happy. He made my younger brother cry. I didn’t want to talk to my dad, I didn’t want to exist when he was around. I was painfully aware of my parents financial situation. I knew how much they paid for everything. In stride, I never asked for anything. 

So when Kathleen told the people she told at our church who then told my parents they were ready to send me off to a inpatient treatment center. I felt so selfish and awful I didn’t deserve to recover or get help. It was too expensive. I objected till the final day that I walked into the facility and my parents turned me over. It felt as if I were punishing them financially for something I was doing to myself. 

I really hated myself for it and sometimes when I think about it, I still feel guilty for letting them try to help me. 

** image used with this post is not my own. It was downloaded from the interwebs. 

Flying From a Nightmare and Back to Hell

I was still sick and on medicine when Paul told me he was going to go to Chicago for a baseball event he had planned with his buddies months ago. I honestly didn’t mind because that meant I could have some R&R time and no mental abuse. Two days before Paul left we got into an argument because he went through my phone and saw I was emailing an old friend from high school, spencer. 

Spencer was very outgoing, very talented. Played music, sang, could do magic, he could act. Just a all around talented and sweet guy and we talked about our nightmares and dreams and writing. Paul got jealous and started slamming shit around at 3am. (He had gone through my phone while I was asleep.) I woke up confused and he was shouting at me that I didn’t care about him. 

I began to attempt to reassure him saying things like “I do love you. I moved all the way from Texas to here for you. To be with you. To be near you.” It wasn’t enough he kept talking over me. I was so tired I sat back down on the bed and put my head in my palms. I didn’t understand what he wanted from me.  “What do you need me to do to prove to you?” I asked him. He didn’t hear me or he did but his drunk self just ignored me so I got under the covers and put my arm over my face to shield the light because I was not going to argue with a drunk man. 

Next thing I knew he was on top of me. Hitting me, with his fists. I started crying and begging him to stop. I told him I loved him while he was hitting me, it didn’t stop. I blocked my face from him and began to really fight back and I knocked him off the bed. That made him angry. I went for the bathroom door which wasn’t far and he grabbed my waist and wasn’t letting go. 

I was half in the bathroom half in the bedroom and that’s when everything got real, really fast. 

I will not and can not go into detail on the whole thing but he had me by my hair and told me to tell him I loved him over and over again while he did what he wanted with me. 

The next day I wouldn’t speak to him. I barely slept the night before. We got into a fight about me wanting to go back home. He went in the bathroom and “cried.” Then after an hour or so he came out and tried to act like an adult. He was mad at me that I didn’t try to open the door or check on him. 

The day after that he left for Chicago. He Skyped me while in Chicago. Drunk within hours of arriving. Begging me to tell him I loved him. It was exhausting. The next day I drove myself down to the market and for soup and some items to make me feel better and more at home. I watched Netflix all day and Drew and blogged. The fifth or sixth day he was in Chicago he thought I had someone with me while we were skyping. He insisted on me showing him no one was there and agin with doubting my affection for him. I was still very sick and grew sicker of him the more he drunkenly blabbered on. 

He called me several times that night  and by the fifth or sixth call I had had it. I told him it was over and I didn’t want to speak to him ever again. Then I hung up on him. His friend called me, all his friends called me. Left me voicemails not to leave Paul and that I was acting foolish. I called my parents house, crying and asked if they could book me a flight. 

My grandmother worked for an airline and got me a first class flight so I had to dress up/look nice. It was 10 at night and the flight left in an hour or so. I packed as much shit as I could and left everything else’s behind. Nothing I needed or couldn’t replace anyway. I called and got a taxi and I left about 20 minutes after I got off the phone with my dad. My Taxi driver was really nice. He asked me where I was going and I said “Texas,” and he asked “is that your home?” I stared out the window with tears streaming down my face and managed to say “no, just where my parents are.” 

I tipped him well and went and got my ticket checked in my bags and literally walked straight to the terminal and got  onto the plane. No waiting. I was in a navy blue dress and I hadn’t brought a jacket. I was freezing. I don’t know how I did it, but after take off and seeing the Fourth of July fireworks go off I fell asleep. I didn’t wake up until we were preparing to land. 

I remember getting off the plane and getting my bag. I walked through the airport out to the entrance my parents said they would be at. As I walked outside the air stuck to my skin how syrup coats pancakes. The moist air soaked my lungs and the heat made the back of my neck sweat a little. This is what Hell feels like. 

I did not cry. I simply got in the truck and we went home and I went to sleep. 

I thought maybe it was over but it wasn’t. Paul had made up his mind to seek vengeance for me leaving. I just didn’t expect him to hop on a plane and come after me. 

Tail Between My Legs

I am an animal lover. When i hear the term or phrase “Running away with its tail between it’s legs.” I think of a scared or defeated animal. Probably hurt weather it was mental or physical. That is exactly what happened between me and my dad and why i put my tail between my legs and ran back to my abuser.

Where we left off last time (In my time line of mis-fortune in relationships.) I had left in the middle of the night to fly back to my boyfriend who i had every intention of leaving. Being there was a significant age difference it was difficult for me to communicate effectively with him. Often at times it felt as if i were communicating to my father… not in a good way. It was hard to relate to him at times and we disagreed a lot. I thought I knew Paul and understood him. He was honestly a stranger. I couldn’t have known less about him. I didn’t want to take anymore mental abuse from the environment with my parents, as a result I ran back to the stranger who hurt me in other ways.

Let me just say… I am TERRIFIED of planes. I don’t get on them unless it is crucial to my existence. (In this instance it was because i believed I had no where else to go.) Between being up all night before hand trying to decide weather to go back to Paul or not, being extremely emotionally spent from the fight with my dad, terrified of getting on a plane alone and going from one abuser to another, was not a good combination on my body. I hadn’t eaten in almost 48 hours either. By the time i got off the plane i was just happy to see the ground. Paul was there to pick me up and he drove me “home.”

I wasn’t feeling well and i remember unpacking and wanting to cry. The next day we went  to see his brother, Jason, which was a 35 minute drive. Paul lectured me the entire way there despite how sick I felt. I specifically remember that drive because a trooper pulled us over and Paul talked his way out of a fucking speeding ticket. I digress, we stayed there all day and left Jason’s after I had fallen asleep on the couch from Jet lag and being sick.

Paul had his tonsils taken out when he was extremely young so he never experienced strep throat or laryngitis or anything that affects the tonsils and makes you fucking miserable. He didn’t believe i was sick and told me to sleep it off despite the fact that i begged him to let me go to the doctor. He threatened me saying he would kick me out. I asked him to drive me and I would give him the money from my next paycheck and he said it would be a waste.

I went three days without taking any medicine and feeling like shit. On the third night Scarlet Fever had taken over and I began to hallucinate, I was talking nonsense, yet i don’t remember any of it. Paul said my body was hot and I wouldn’t stop sweating. He drug me to the balcony to get some fresh air. It was 40 something degrees outside so I began to seize from the temperature change. Paul had to carry me inside and finally called his mom and asked if he should call 911. I did not break my fever that night. The next morning I woke up unable to speak and Paul drove me to a care now facility.

I had developed scarlet fever from having untreated strep throat, and had pneumonia. I cried in the doctors office while away from Paul. I wanted to ask the Doctor for help… not just medically. I was unable to communicate seeing as I lost my voice so even if i did have the courage i wouldn’t have been able to. I was prescribed a bunch of medicine and they sent me home. Paul apologized profusely and told me he was afraid for my life. He was mad and said he hated me for scaring him like that. I felt distant from him after that. As an apology to me he went and adopted a kitten who i named Pumpkin. Pumpkin kept me company while Paul went out looking for a job since he had become unemployed.

When my mom called and I talked to her she cried and said she wanted to get away from my father and she hated him for driving me away. She begged me to come home. I told her about being sick and that Paul hadn’t taken me to the doctor and she cried while i reassured her everything was okay.

What was to come later that week I would have never expected would happen to me. I had experienced violence from Paul but not like this.

Curiosity and Revolt Against My Own Rules

Oliver was a Bass guitarist, skinny, tall, awkward and soft spoken. A true stoner and a philosopher of sorts. 

*Man do I pick ’em*

He was my source of revenge against Houston but also to feed my hungry curiosity. 

“Curiosity killed the cat” I know that’s what y’all are thinking. 

Well we dated all the way till October and in that time we learned about each other and how we think. Our opinions on religion and humanity. What kind of music intrigued us. I went to all his bands shows. I smoked with him and his friends all the time. We were more friends than we were boyfriend and girlfriend. 

Houston hated me. I could smell the hatred rotting his intestines from the inside out. Hate is a poison you feed yourself. I was having no part in it. I guess you could say I’m cruel or a sadist although I disagree. At the time I believed he well deserved it. Nothing could quinch my sexual thirst like he did so if he was going to treat me like shit then I’d punish him emotionally. 

I tried having sex with Oliver, I did have sex with Oliver, it wasn’t very good though. I admit, he did what he could to please me and I did successfully orgasm once or twice with him. Majority of the time it was faked to get him off of me. 

Over time we became more distant and eventually broke up. My reason? He wasn’t good at pleasuring me and he dropped out of school and wasn’t looking for a job mooching off his parents. I wanted someone with initiative and drive. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.” Only it wasn’t as satisfying. 

Houston got word that Oliver and I split up and he gave me a call. He had moved in with his mom to help her pay for bills and stuff since his parents had decided to separate. I drove to him and we talked for a long time and I told him why I had made my choices. 

He grinned and told me what a little shit I was. That he was sorry for behaving how he did. We went swimming the next night and we fooled around in the pool and then he carried me inside and threw me in his bed. 

Commence one of the most intense fuck sessions of my life. 

It was as if he were taking his anger out on me but in a “gentle” way? I can’t explain it without getting graphic. I just remember his tounge curling around my ear while his hand serviced down there and simultaneously fucked me like crazy.  The multitasking of that man. We had sex three times that night and then I left in the morning. 

The next days to follow were stagnant. It was as if time was slowly leaking from a hairline crack in the walls of life. Talking to him was… uninteresting and boring. I had nothing to say to him and he had nothing to say to me. We left things there for the most part. Talked on and off but our “relationship” went away very fast. 

At my job at Haveys Hardware my interest went in another direction. l, against my better judgment, (I have a rule about not dating people I work with. Guess I revolted against my own rules.) met a on site technician/repair guy who was too intelligent for his own good. *Tommy #1*

Tommy was an extremely intelligent guy. Majored in rocket science. Kind of guy who makes you think of “Sheldon” from “The Big Bang Theory.” Only not as intense. That relationship was purely innocent at the start. 

We almost had sex one night in the back of his car but there was no pennitration. He immediately accused me of having a STD the next day when his dick was a little sensitive and itchy. 

I went and got tested, after waiting days for that result and feeling completely mortified the test came back negative. I informed him I didn’t have and STD and he apologized. (He had honestly made me feel so gross and awful.)  Our relationship got rockier from there. 

The sex was good-ish and when I told him what I liked in bed he complied. It was faked, forced even and I told him to forget what I liked and to just be himself. He felt insulted and upset so, that didn’t go over very well. 

After that I couldn’t stick it out with him.

He knew he was smart, he made it known. He put others, (including myself) down and constantly disregarded people’s feelings. I pushed him away and eventually broke up with him shortly after Valentine’s Day. He was upset but remained professional at work. 

Two short weeks after we split up I met someone else. Someone who would make the next 9 months of my life mostly miserable. 

*man do I pick ’em: for a while I seemed to date guys who smoked and drank and made poor decisions. So that would be sarcasm my friends. 

*Tommy: I literally went on to get involved with 3 other Tommies, you’ll hear about it later. 

Firey Sex and Great Revenge

After I graduated guys came out of the wood work at me. 

“I liked you so much in high school, I never had the courage to talk to you.” 

“You’re so gorgeous let me take you out on a date.” 

Stupid shit like that. 

I was too into Houston to care about any of them though. Houston had this egotistical confidence that was disgusting and attractive. Dominant personality and greedy. Once he put his hands on me I felt drugged. 

The first time was when I was a freshman. He put his hand down my pants in the hallway. Right in front of everyone. But no one saw because of how we were positioned, because of the pillar in front of us. It was quick and fast and to prove a point. (We had been playfully debating) That he simply could and that he made me wet without doing anything. 

He wasn’t wildly attractive. He wasn’t super muscular. He was very cute though and a decent body. He was funny. Sarcastic. Self depreciating but not in a bad way or in a way that makes you uncomfortable. 

I always acted as though I couldn’t care less weather he was interested or not but deep down I cared. I cared a lot. 

The night I graduated I went to a party at his house. Everyone was in the garage. Soft core porn on the tv in the back ground. Beers. Weed. He was two years older than me. All his friends were older too. One of the guys at the party, Colton, was drunk and grabbed my boob. Houston, almost broke his hand. 

When I left about 30 minutes later Houston walked me to my car and kissed my forehead and apologized for Coltons behavior. After that we were almost inseparable for the rest of the month. I snuck out of my house to go see him all the time and we kissed and played with each other but didn’t fuck. 

One night in particular though he had to see me. He drove to me and picked me up and I gave him *road head* all the way to his house. We always hung out in the garage. Their was a couch and chairs and a tv and a plush rug. I was sitting on his lap while e played a card game with his friends, Alex, Darius and Oscar. I was spaced out from smoking and in my own world enjoying being in Houstons presence when the guys got up and left. 

Houston and I started making out and then he ripped my shirt. Like. Tore it in half and picked me up and was fucking me. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I was hooked. His mouth was greedy and he wanted the air from my lungs. Our sex was firey and passionate and rough. His hand in my hair was a control but not pain. He curled his hand around my throat lovingly and would bring his body close to mine slowing the rhythm. 

In the middle of this the garage door began to open. I remember being on top and Alex and Darius standing with the garage half open gawking at our naked bodies. It wasn’t until I started laughing like an idiot that they chuckled and closed the garage door again. It truly didn’t bother me. (I sometimes wonder if it was the weed or the subspace I was in from giving my self so wholly to someone.) 

He was amazing as far as sex went. After June, after we had had sex several times he became distant and mean and cruel. He said mean things to me that would make me cry and verbally asualt me around his friends. Calling me slurs and laughing. So I broke up with him. And made him cry. Plus I started dating one of his friends, Oliver. 

*Road head: when a person performs oral sex for another person who is operating a motor vehicle.  (if you didn’t/don’t know what this is I suggest looking at urban dictionary for further explanation.) 

Fuckboys, Older Guys, and Stupidity

If any of these Fuckboys* I talk about are as important as my current boyfriend it’s Gregory. Greg for short. We made out in the chapel at church. We fucked in the back of my car in the church parking lot. I gave him a blow job one of the empty class rooms and I can’t tell you how many times at Sunday mass we would go to the bathroom to make out. 

If any one is going to hell it’s definitely me. I just hope that fucker Greg has a seat far away from me. 

He’s a year older than me and I went for Greg because I couldn’t get to Kyle. (Kyle was a tall muscular swimmer who was a senior at the time I was a sophomore? So like 15) 

I had the BIGGEST crush on my Catholic wednsday teacher Matt. He was like 6’7 maybe 6’8. SUPER tall and handsome. Dark hair, muscular, lean, gorgeous smile. (I’m a fuck in sucker for a nice smile and pretty white teeth.) he would talk to me after class and would run his hand through my hair while talking to me. (I had really long naturally blonde hair then that was almost down to my waist.) He made me feel important. I would talk to him about my depression and my issues with the church and my eating disorder. I trusted him. A lot. There was one occasion (before Greg) where I stayed after class to clean up and we were talking about how I was doing and about my most recent breakup and he said (I will never forget this.) 

“If you were my girlfriend id treat you like a goddess.” 

I was speechless. I was just this awkward too skinny freckled little 15 year old and he was 22. I remember him sitting on a desk and I gave him a hug and he was still taller than me but he cupped his hand at the back of my neck and pulled my face towards his and RIGHT as he was about to kiss my lips he kisses my forehead and then hugged me and grabbed his stuff. We walked out together and I went home that night my panties wetter than they had ever been before. 

Maybe three weeks after that is when I started talking to Greg but we weren’t dating. My friend, Kathleen, who was super into art too, asked me about my weight and stuff and I talked to her and confesses that I was throwing up and miserable and depressed and she then told Matt and Johnny who were my teachers and they told my sister who was their age who then told my mom who then put me in a out patient program for bulimics. 

I stopped talking to Greg and wouldn’t talk to Matt or anyone in my religious class and at school I just hated everyone and felt so fat. 

I did however fall for a drug dealer who was a year above me. Israel, he was a loser and akward like me and we kissed, and had sex a few times and then we broke up. After that I dated a black guy Enzio, Zoe for short. I loved him FIERCELY. He was sweet and honest with me and just very caring. I have him head in an empty class room after school one day and we wound up having sex. We were inseparable until my dad found out he was black. 

My father is a racist and an asshole. I punched my wall I broke shit in my room I caused all kinds of chaos when he demanded I call and break up with him. I did it while crying and he told me it was okay, we could talk the next day at school. I did and he told me he wanted to end things. He said if my father was like that then we would have to hide our relationship and go through a lot of hell to stay together. 

That broke my heart and I spiraled into my eating disorder even worse. My mom was working a lot so she wasn’t really following my out patient program and my dad was pretty much in denial. So that summer before I turned 16 my mom sent me to an eating disorder clinic for in patient help. 

I gained SO much fucking weight that summer. I hated myself. The only person who called me while in out patient was Greg. When I got out I went back to starving myself and wanting to be thin again and Greg and I started dating. We were like two matches burning so strong and bright and fast just to fizzle out and turn our backs on each other. We always went back to each other though. 

During one of our worse break ups because I found out he was doing drugs, I started dating his friend Frank. Frank was shorter than me, was a virgin and very into his church. I think I ruined him. I took his virginity, we snuck around and he got into trouble with his parents and by the end of our relationship he wouldn’t tell me he cared about me. We never said “I love you.” We always said “I care about you a lot. Good night/good bye/good morning. It hurt me but I ended our relationship because I could feel his disdain for me. 

Having sex was mutual but it meant something to him. To me? I was just trying to feel something at that point. We both knew it. I had chopped off my hair, gained 40 lbs from out patient and following my program. That was partially after outpatient and at the beginning of my junior year. 

I spent a few weeks in Santa Monica with my cousin. I smoked some heroin. I know. I know. It’s fucked up and who the fuck even does that? I learned a lot but apparently not enough because my taste for drugs grew. When I started school again After thanksgiving or Christmas I don’t remember.. I started hanging out with Felicia a lot. She got me snorting adderal and taking vivanse and smoking weed, I was peer pressured into speed and all other kinds of drugs. I lost a ton of weight really fast and me and Greg got involved again. 

He was finally clean and there I was fucking up and taking my turn experiencing drugs. He got me to tone down the drugs and my eating disorder. I can’t say he didn’t do anything to help me. He tried really hard. He did cheat on me though. I found out and we broke up for the umpteenth time. Shocker. 

That summer I hung out with Felicia and Farrah a lot. Hung out more with Felicia than I did Farrah. I got into plenty of trouble but I don’t really remember having sex with anyone except for Patrick during that time. 

Once my senior year started all hell broke lose. He put me through hell and treated me in unspeakable ways. He was the first abusive relationship and just the tip of the ice berg of a few more abusive relationships to come. 

* fuckboys: like the word “slut” but for boys. To be when I hear “fuckboy” I just think of a guy who I fucked and it didn’t work out because of reasons? (I dunno I’m drunk and doing my best Bc I forgot to add the “fuckboy” explanation to my draft. *