The Before and After of Rape

Today is the four year anniversary of my rape – a rapeversary if you will. Even as I try to forget, my body and mind are constant companions leading up to this dreaded fucking day, kicking my PTSD into the highest of all gears. I wish there was a WD-40 for the body.

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One thousand, four hundred and sixty days ago, as I sat with my ass cheeks on thin paper, protecting me from any other prior ass cheeks that unfortunately found themselves sitting on the same exam table in the rape kit performance room, the overwhelming fumes of bleach almost resurrected me from the protective shock in which my body had retreated.

“Do you want a rape advocate?” Detective Stupka (soon-to-be renamed Cuntka) questioned me after she recorded my statement of the illegal, intrusive sexual assault that took place hours earlier on my best friend’s couch. I couldn’t recall Shane the Rapist’s last name (that was listed in my phone, which was dead from being at the hospital waiting for eight hours), how was I able to know if I needed an advocate? What was an advocate? Did I need one? Detective Soon-to-Be Cuntka said she could not advise me and I somehow communicated that I did, in fact, want an advocate.

Does this look like the face of a person who knows what they need?

When Barbie the advocate tenderly walked into the room, careful not to touch me (when I just wanted her to sweep me up in her arms and tell me everything was gonna be OK – although that would have been a disservice on her part because nothing about being raped is ever OK, so, therefore, no hug took place). She spoke with the same amount of tenderness she used when she was inching toward me.

Barbie resembled more of a Skipper than the actual Barbie doll with a petite frame, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (that naturally, I admired and wondered if she had a phone charger tucked inside I could use) and was so nice in a day full of shit. After a few minutes of fill-in-what-horrible-thing happened to you, she looked at me straight in the eye and said, “Honey, there is going to be a before rape and an after rape moving forward in your life.”

It was one of those moments that you just know what’s being said is true, no matter how much you want it to be a lie.

Immediate thoughts on life after rape.

Barbie left the room to sit with Dada CBXB who was most likely wondering how in the fuck his Friday turned out so inexplicable. I sat ass cheeks to thin paper, waiting for the rape kit exam to commence after yet again being hazy on decision making when asked, “Do you want the Plan B pill? Did he wear a condom? Do you want to take the HIV preventative even though it will rob you of 30 days of your life since its effects are so brutal? Do you want to be tested for every STD in which science is aware? Have you eaten anything today? Here are crackers to take with the handful of pills we are giving you.”

I seriously cannot compute.

Upon completion of my rape kit, I was handed a folder of information, with numbers to national hotlines I could call, pamphlets of what to expect in the coming days, and instructions of when to take the next round of pills to rid my body of any other foreign substance left behind when Shane the Rapist raped me.

My life after rape began.

I had no inkling of what the fuck I was up against.

Yes, hello. I’m calling from the shitter because my world is about to become a literal shit show. I would like to exchange my life, please.

Nobody wants to be in this club. Nobody wants to be an expert on matters in which we never want to be associated. But rape happens. And there I was and here I am.

I miss my pre-rape life in the way your heart breaks when someone your world revolved around dies. The me I’d always known, died on January 29, 2016, and I had no idea how to bring myself back to life. Thing is, I was still breathing. I wasn’t dead. I just had no feeling left inside, which made me feel like a shell. Hollow, empty and alone.

A fucking road map would be nice.

Friends that I thought would be by my side scattered. Jdub, whose boyfriend raped me, believed him. I stopped hearing from friends that were also friends with Jdub. A shell – feeling hollow, empty, alone.

Thanks for believing me.

The sex crimes department was supposed to be working for me, the victim of a rape. Detective Cuntka told me on March 7, 2016 over the phone that I was one of 29 other cases she was working on. This was a he said/she said case so not much will come of it. Oh sorry, this is my first time being raped and dealing with anything that accompanies. Please excuse my incessant questions about how this shit works – why are my pajamas I was raped in still at my Mini Mase? Have you talked to my ex-friend Jdub? Have you talked to Shane the Rapist? Why do you want me to try to reach out and call Shane the Rapist? Can you give me any idea or information as to how this process is conducted? The constant follow up left me a shell – hollow, empty, alone.

Daily routines ceased existing. Brushing my chompers was a chore. Washing my hair happened if I found a living creature (other than a cat) in it. No more wearing make up. No lipstick. No polish on my talons.

This is my version of silent screams for help.

No more hot yoga. No more running. No activities where I was alone with my own thoughts. I couldn’t get off of the couch and into my bed for six months to sleep, which is still a hard audience for my body to captivate, further exacerbating the endless cycle of depression, anxiety, nerves, and self-loathing empty, hollow shell of what I once was.

Get back on the bench, Bitch.

Therapy has given me life-saving coping mechanisms. Medicines have made my daily life manageable. The kindness of human beings has been astounding and reinstated the belief that simple acts and words of love can do some serious healing. The outpouring of support once I was able to openly talk about my rape case after the grand jury found insufficient evidence to take Shane the Rapist to trial was astonishing.

No shame in my pill game.

Now more than ever, I understand that we all carry invisible things. Others can’t see your shame.

Others can’t see your guilt.  Did I somehow ask for it?

Others can’t see the blame you put on yourself every single second, minute, hour, day, month, year.

Others can’t see mental anguish caused by society and the normalcy of rape culture.

Judgment is a fucking beast and after rape, it becomes an unwanted daily acquaintance at your breakfast, lunch, and supper table.

One thing I know to be true is that people who love you – really love you for you, don’t waiver. It’s been my family, my rock-solid friends, the folks who have come to my rescue via virtual friendships, the people who have re-entered my life to lift me up when I was sure I was going to drown…that all exists.

Reminders on therapy Thursday.

Here I am four years later, my heart beating the last 1,460 days, feeling alive again.

I did not understand that grief is an emotion that exists even when life still is within. I died but I lived.

Daily reading on my bathroom mirror.

When I think about the people I love and the fur babies I’ve lost, I choose to celebrate them. Drink their favorite drinks, watch a favorite movie, look at photos, read old cards, love on my current Pussy Posse, share fucking funny stories with others that loved them, too. After forfuckingever four years, I am ready to start celebrating myself again.

I’m declaring January 29th the official International Day of the Badass who is making all things related to rape her bitch.

“I won’t back down. I will stand my ground.” – Tom Petty

Who wants to join this bitch in the aftermath?

Happy International Day of the Badass.

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Bitch Since Birth

Oh, the joys of having a birthday fall on a weekend.

Not hating my day of birth.

I got to do a whole lot of nothing (aka snuggling with pussies on dreary, rainy Friday night and Saturday), squeezed in some gal time with an at-home impromptu cocktail party (where a handle of Captain was drained by Skinny Pirate consumption) and the sprinkles on top of the weekend were the bottomless mimosas I was treated to on Sunday.

Skinny Pirate #1.

After some basketball watching, Skinny Pirates and pie hole stuffing on Friday night, I was beyond elated when I woke up Saturday, realizing I slept 10 consecutive hours. Ten hours people! While this may seem like an overindulgent feat, I haven’t slept more than four hours at a time since Rapegate happened in early 2016. The lack of consistent sleep has only added negatively to my already challenging, stereotypical “blondeness”.

Feeling and looking like a million dollars, I hustled to the fridge and busted out the birthday cake Sister CBXB made while she was here. Then I promptly returned to bed to consume.

Because why the fuck not?!

Theses two demanded a lick.

I got sucked into the footage from the March For Our Lives coverage and holy shit. These fucking kids…I can’t even. My heart was aching while also bursting with pride at the firsthand accounts of honesty regarding an epidemic that knows no class, demographic, race or political affiliation. Gun reform isn’t a republican or democrat problem. It’s an American problem. It’s an issue that these kids who were born after 9/11 and Columbine have faced their entire lives – at schools, churches, movie theaters, concerts and many others face in urban communities daily. How fucked up is that?

I am hopeful that the rally cries this generation is making turns into meaningful legislation with compassion to act because thoughts and prayers aren’t, haven’t and don’t work as we have all witnessed. Realizing it’s encroaching on Second Amendment rights, how does a government limit rights stated in the Constitution and yet, the most basic human right is life itself? Is there truly a reason to have weapons of war in the hands of civilians? The government tells me to wear my seat belt and abide by speed limits (which I mostly do). I must take my fucking shoes off at the airport and walk on ever germy floors because of one shoe bombing incident.

This 11 year old girl spoke more eloquently than most adults I know.

My favorite quote from a Parkland survivor, “We cannot keep America great if we can’t keep America safe.” I love that these kids are fearless in their relentlessness to call bullshit. BRAVO. I stand with you.

Fucking truth.

I was happy to see that even in my home state of Iowa, they were marching even though it was dumping snow on them.

Speaking of Iowa, you know who was cooped up inside after ten inches of snowfall? My twins, who were going to decorate Easter eggs but ended up eating them instead.

Rainy Saturday night rolled around and my gal pal Rasta came over and delivered a very spot on gift.

We can’t wait to wear them to the pool this summer.

Sunday, I lolligagged in the bed just long enough before slipping into my bday giddy up.

I opened up gifts from bed, too….because why not?!

As for my giddy up, it was nothing but class, as always.

BITCH SINCE BIRTH

And, what outfit of mine would be complete without a pair of whore in church heels?

Dada CBXB was one lucky dude, accompanied by five gorgeous gals to brunch.

Practicing our drink counting in prep for football season.

We enjoyed bottomless mimosas, food and for me….

Mimosas.

Presents I obviously hated.

And more mimosas.

I was spoiled beyond but there are no complaints from this chick who got to laugh her ass off with some of the best folks in the world.

Bird Lady and Rasta took me to my fave honky tonk, Robert’s Western World to cap off my day.

Birthday Bliss!

I don’t think we made a scene at all.

Monday morning came waaaaaay too quickly, but it was well worth it.

Cat ass. My morning wake up call.

I’m so lucky to have you guys in my life. Thanks for knowing how to make a lady feel like a queen with all the kind well wishes, messages, cards and calls.

Until next year!

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

Weekend Winks – Glitz, Groping, Girltime

Someone once told me that I was the ‘girliest dude they know’ and took that as a huge compliment. I love sports but I also love my sequins, using a spare bedroom as my dressing room at the mini manse and makeup. I adore makeup. So, it was a dream come true to have a whopper of a package sent to me compliments of Too Faced made possible through my friend M. Star.

I got home from hot yoga and had to take a look at all of my loot in between undressing and the shower, naturally.

No. It doesn’t get much better than this.

March marks my last payment on my Toyota Forerunner! It also marks the time that every cent from my tax return check (and then some!) goes right into the fucker. This year, I needed all new power steering. Once they thought it was fixed, the vehicle was back three more times because it kept leaking fluid. So I started taking power steering fluid wherever I went so I could keep the car on the road.

Classy lady at the bar.

I’ve decided that after dumping $2,000 into my rust bucket, the chances of me getting my dream car of a Range Rover are waaaaaay out of reach for years, so I’m settling for my version below.

Done and done.

Snuggling with my two furry fellas helped ease the pain of my ever diminishing bank account. And while I was gonna stay in on Friday, I was coaxed into making an appearance outside of the mini manse.

Bed heads.

Rasta, our buddy DS and myself lived it up in Nashville’s midtown area.

Tequila + Jell-O = FriYAY

Being ever so responsible, we called a Lyft for a ride home. I sat up front with the driver chit chatting and we dropped Rasta off first and then headed the 45 seconds it takes to get to my mini manse from hers. As the ride was ending, the driver asked for my phone number, which I declined to give him, he asked for a hug and kiss, which I absolutely denied to give him and as I was opening the door to back out of it (worried he’d slap my ass), he instead groped my chest. I slammed the door and ran inside.

I was in shock to a degree and think that after Rapegate, I’ve become somewhat desensitized – although it’s not OK to fall back on that. It’s mentally exhausting to think through this shit and then realize that due to no fault of my own, I get the pleasure to chase this man down through his company and be sure this doesn’t ever happen to any other passenger of his again. This shit is exhausting. And wouldn’t be an issue in the first place if people remembered body basics taught in kindergarten and just keep their fucking hands to themselves.

It took a minute, but was a trigger for me on Sunday, making the emotions of PTSD come to the forefront and well, exasperating other aspects of Rapegate. But such is life and this is how it is for now. So bitchiness is my best friend.

In happier moments, one of my Iowa twins lost his first tooth!

Prince B and his pea sized tooth.

Naturally being related to me, Princess B was miffed she didn’t lose one and get a visit from the tooth fairy. So you know what this gentle soul of a young fella did? He snuck into her room before she woke up and gave her one of the two dollars he’d received.

And he also played tooth fairy dress up with his sister. Best brother ever.

In the biggest news yet, the twins are making their debut in Nashville this week and I. AM. DYING. with anticipation of their arrival.

Saturday was an impromtu brunch date with Bird Lady and as always, I had to have both hands full.

Double fister through and through.

My gal pal found a fabulous place called City Fire with bottomless mimosas (I’m their worst nightmare).

Cheers times two.

Bird Lady then acted as my own personal Uber driver and took me to my hair appointment, where I also kept both hands occupied.

I never want one hand to feel left out.

I received one helluva fun surprise from one of my fave cat lady besties.

Best. Shark. Ever.

All of the pussies took turns in their own personal shark tank. Ultimately, fur flew as one fur baby pushed the other out for a mouthful all day long.

Speaking of babies, my cousin welcomed his first – a sweet baby girl named Lucy Kay!

You’re gonna rock this dad shit.

Fabulous parenting must run in the family because one of my sweet pussies aided me in lunch today.

And cats get a bad rap for being assholes.

In other animal news, GO GET THIS APP NOW.

So, my squad is on the road already today!

Here’s hoping wherever you are, this week feels more like spring than winter already. Am I right?!

Cheers!

CBXB

Ass Kissing Like a Boss

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end, $28,000 designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck.

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.

Sweating

Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?

Mells

The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother fucking cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.

CBXB

CBXB!

How Many Bitches Does It Take to Open a Bottle of Wine?

At a recent bachelorette party, we wanted a little swig of wine before leaving (and to be honest, carry in our plastic cups during our walk) to the bar.  Being the oh-so-smart ladies we are, no one brought a wine opener for the bottles so we called down to the front desk. And after about 30 minutes (they apparently don’t keep them on hand…at a downtown Nashville hotel…WTF?), one arrived.  I thought my years of deep expertise uncorking bottle after bottle of vino would suffice and I offered to open the damn thing that we could hardly wait to get our tongues on.  But I was wrong. Way wrong.

Not a job for one...but two...

Not a job for one…but two…

This cork would.not.budge. It seemed really crusty (if that is even possible for a cork) and we had the shittiest wine opener on the planet (the kind that makes a T at the top with a tiny spiral attached).

If I had on a skirt, I'd have rug burns on my knees

Coco’s leg power and my spaghetti arms were no match for this bitch.

Not if G can help it!

If I had been wearing a skirt, I’d still have rug burns on my knees.

With all of the difficulties the two of us ladies were having, my gal pal G (you know, the one who yelled at the 80-year-old man) decided to bring her pull into this uncooperative wine bottle.

Tug-o-wine war

Tug-o-wine war.

This was one serious cork

Three ladies, no luck.

Realizing Coco was outnumbered by G and yours truly, LK entered the corking contest, pulling and tugging on the biceps of our resident redhead.

And the fourth gal got involved, trying to help Coco

Eight arms outsmarted by one defiant jug of vino.

When it was all said and done (and I was thankfully not pulled apart into two pieces) this fucking cork refused to budge.

No such luck but a great arm work out.

No luck but a great arm work out.

We then decided it would behoove us to push the cork down into the wine. And then it started disintegrating before our eyes, breaking in half and making me want to start bawling while kicking my arms and legs on the floor in true tantrum style. I WANT WINE DAMMIT!

All of that for half a cork still in the f'ing bottle

All of that for half a cork still in the f’ing bottle.

Then Coco used what strength she had left in her arms to push the stupid piece of shit into the liquid we all needed so badly. SCORE!

Cork pieces taste so good

Pieces of cork really add something special to a glass of pinot noir.

And that folks is how it takes four bitches to “open” a bottle of red wine.

I know, so classy. Expect anything else from this chick?

I didn’t think so.

Cheers!

CBXB

CBXB!