In my quest to become someone, the person I want to become.
I’ve realise that unlike others, my main goal in life is to live in solitude, writing my novels, drinking bottles upon shelves filled with vodka.
I unfortunately realise I was becoming Conor, and at first, I was frightened, but now, I know that I am Conor.
Since he’s died, I’ve become such a wreck and mess, I need to be alone in order to understand myself more.
In my quest to become someone, the person I want to become.
Just gotta get myself a unit, fill it with copious amounts of vodka and do a Conor every single night, drink and listen to music and forget that anything ever existed.
That is now my life’s goal for the year. To be drunk every night and forget Conor ever died.
Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault, Rape.
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
I’ve started to hallucinate.
The feeling of uncertainty hangs in the air like there’s more than one way to live tomorrow.
It feels as if my body wants to be alive yet for myself, it’s crashed and burned and destroyed itself.
As I lay in my bed, pondering what nap I’ve had, I have to ask myself, is this how I want to live now?
Forever awake, forever deciding how to deal with something?
Is this anyway of actually living? And if so, why and how does that actually work?
Sleep is now, I know, inevitable.
There is no hope, there is nothing but hatred and pure spite.
Forever an insomniac.
Sleep is inevitable.
There is no hope for sleep again.
These long nights are filled with tossing and turning, jolting awake, rain hitting the roof hard, eyes have become sore from trying to force sleep upon myself.
My lungs have failed, the rib cage perhaps have collapsed on the lungs, causing great stress, pain and bloody vomit.
Doctors cannot help with that kind of body failure, their equipment isn’t that advanced yet.
As I lie straight on my back, I cough blood black and dark crimson, with the end nearing what little time I have left.
I have to wonder, how many times I have lost all feeling.
The numbness is welcoming, perhaps death won’t be long off.
It would be a comforting change.
I decided, as a human, as a dog owner, as just me, I would take a new approach at life.
Take these things differently.
How do I see life now?
What can I take away from this knowing things are different?
Questions I ponder and wander upon.
How will I do this?
How can Piper and I be different as human and dog?
So I’ve decided to document how I go about as a dog owner and all the rest.
wombatportrait asked: Hi, It's nice to see someone with a bigger wombat friend. Everyone seems to have the pocket-sized one!
Hi! Yeah! He’s giant! I have a few smaller ones, that I get for my birthday every year, but that giant one was a home coming present from my brothers last year :)