Perfection. Instilled.

I finished my first day back at school, but because I’m awesome, I wasn’t just doing school. The amount of phone calls I make to get people to actually do their job is just, amazing. And that paperwork? I’m a freakin’ bawse for keeping up with that too.

If you asked my family or anyone who actually knows me they will say that I’m pretty cute and sweet, and super nice. But if I do get mad at you (and it’s usually a very good reason) run for your life. And I am irate right now. Just free-floating bitch mode all up in here. 😡 I know intellectually that no one around me is responsible for how bad I’m hurt right now but I’m still just so angry I can barely talk to anyone.

You should have seen what happened when a cute innocent little freshman girl took too long at the drinking fountain today.

Side note which is totally random and has nothing to do with the ascribed incident above: I’m really glad the LDS church doesn’t make you pay money to atone for your sins.

Maybe the persona of Regina George is contagious…

a little bit dramatic

Yes, watch Mean Girls. It’s like a documentary of American high school that focused in on the girl world. Which I usually try to stay out of as much as possible by surrounding myself with guyfriends. Sometimes I feel like when girls get competitive with me it’s like I just crossed the finish line and I look back and I see a girl huffing and puffing and swearing, and I didn’t even realize we were competing.



OKAY if I am being honest yes, I am pretty savage in general day to day life, but when I’m actually ANGRY about something? My nickname is not the Queen for nothing.

Example. My Hawaiian Studies professor asked me to say something interesting about myself.

“I dance hula with a halau once a week.”

‘That’s not very unusual though, a lot of people do it here since this is Hawaii.”

“Uh, I’m actually good at it.”

“Okay well since we are looking for weird, do you have a defective body part?”

Complete with a graceful flourish to indicate my meaning to be from my head to my toes I said

“Perfection. Instilled.”

The class does call me Queen  now. I don’t think anyone is going to remember my real name this semester. 😉 again.

But the part of the story I didn’t tell was that I had to duck out of class early and take a phone call about taking care of this whole mess my life has been since I was raped. And I was just furious because I found out that departments involved, medical, insurance, etc- haven’t told me the whole truth. As a responsible adult, I need to make informed decisions. In order to make informed decisions- I need information.

Sometimes I think that out of the goodness of their hearts some of the professionals I work with gloss over things. When I walk into their office I literally have doctors etc say “You look so young and so happy and it makes me so happy to see you.”

These people obviously know nothing.

But that was what I realized! When I was a tweenager there was a book called the Secret life of Nancy D’lacey- OK I don’t remember the name. But the girls loved it! They thought it was so exciting that during the daytime she was the good well-behaved student but outside school she was a shopping, wild, daredevil girl who did sports competitively and was absolutely fierce. Despite my vigorous protestations to this (I’m the girl who sucked at Theatre because I couldn’t be anything other than myself true story) I DO have a double life.

You need to look at this like I did in order to understand it. We’re going to look through the eyes of my man-friends because I have 2 female friends and I don’t see them often I know I’m not great with girls my age don’t rub it in.

My guyfriends typically see me when I visit the Polynesian Cultural Center and come chat with them when they are at work. There is something about that place (google it, it’s awesome) that feels so healing to me. So peaceful. I’ve had a lot of joy going there since I’ve been at school here- students can go for free to visit the villages it’s just that I’m the only one who is there almost every day.

So when they see me there I’m happy because I get to see them and it’s one of my good places where I can just relax and think about the people there and learn about their cultures and watch the dances and hear the Tongans singing and it just transports me somewhere else when I’m there.

What my guyfriends don’t see is when I duck into the bathroom and have a full-on panic attack and dry heave into the toilet and shake and cry because I can’t stop remembering the rape and it hurts and I want out of the memory but I’m stuck and something’s wrong but I can’t get out. I’ve done work on this, but when I’m having a real panic attack, I get to ride it out.

My guyfriends didn’t see what I looked like before the eating disorder. They don’t see me going crazy and throwing away all the “unhealthy” foods in the house or standing in front of the mirror for hours pinching and wishing away all the “fat places”. They don’t see the times I have thrown up food or the times I ate something that was probably a normal human portion and obsessed about it and talked to my therapist about it for a few weeks afterwards. They didn’t see me when I couldn’t eat a whole sandwich and I would cry if I had to.

They didn’t see me getting raped. And they don’t see my sketchbook. If you turn the pages, I tell my story in pictures and words. I write pages and pages about how fucked up everything is and the things I remember and all the secrets I had to carry and yeah, if I had to decide between stripping naked in front of one of them or handing over my sketchbook it would be a very hard call.

They don’t see me laying awake at night waking up from nightmare after nightmare or just crying for up to 2 hours for seemingly no reason. They don’t see me stressing over the medical bills or crying when I’m alone on the bus headed to another doctor and I’m just exhausted. They’ve never seen me fight so hard not to cut my arms and then lose and just lay there utterly defeated because dammit I did it again and I should be stronger than this.

They don’t see me freeze up or check behind my shoulder or freak out because someone looked like him or start crying for no reason because I heard a sound that was too close. They don’t see me get so upset when I was doing therapy with a vaginal dilator to help with the vaginismus and by the way that’s on hold because of how bad things are right now, which makes me feel even more helpless. They don’t see me lay awake all night because I had a feeling of attraction to a man and I can’t stop beating myself up over it. They don’t see me crying because I’m touch-deprived and depressed and lonely and scared.

They don’t see me beating my knuckles bloody on the punching bag or working to exhaustion at the gym or compulsively exercising and then coming home and passing out because my body is too damn tired to walk let alone do three workouts in one day.

And they didn’t see me today when I called my dad and I actually yelled into the phone about how frustrated I was that this rape stuff was not just working out. “I get so close to getting something to work and then I just hit block after block after block and I’m sick of it! If anyone should be screwed up right now, it should be him. And who the hell told him I started to tell the truth about this?”

It’s ironic that most of the people I call friends, don’t know a damn thing about my other life. I show up sassy, cute, funny, and laugh with them and bake them cookies.

They don’t know a damn thing about me. And that’s because I chose to put on that performance. If they saw just how f-ed up things are they’d scatter in all directions.

I have to be honest. I don’t think they can handle it. I think even hearing a piece of what is truly going on behind closed doors with me would make them bolt. And I’m afraid to chance anything else because this is a small, small college, and based on what happened last time something got out, I don’t want any more text messages in the middle of the night or sideways glances or strangers coming up to me and demanding details. No, I have enough “followers” and this is not something I want likes for.

This is serious. This is life or death. And anyone who takes my story and spreads it just to have a laugh, is even more f-ed up than I am.

One of my small comforts in all of this is that if he has raped other children (he has) and they have problems like I do, maybe my coming forward can save them some pain. That was the whole point of me writing a blog and telling my family the truth and getting help was if someone else goes down this road, they don’t have to do what I had to. The past 2 1/2 years have been sugarcoated hell.

I totally deserve a powernap. And a facial.

Sidenote if you remember when that one girl texted me and told me off “keep my boyfriends name out of your mouth” and blah-blah-blah and “PS, this is me being nice.”

Yeah. I wasn’t exactly scared.

Huh. Wonder why that is…

Also I just realized that I could tell my entire life story with Regina George memes. Things are about to get interesting all up in this blog and omg

dis gonna be good

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