Weekend Winks IS BACK

Well, well, well life seems to be falling into a sort of ‘normal’ now that the Rona vaccines are out and available. It seems like f-o-r-e-v-e-r but yet justlikeyesterday all of the shit hit the proverbial fan. Who could have foreseen the division created by political so-called leaders in fighting what could have saved hundreds of thousands of American lives by refusing to wear a fucking cloth over one’s face.

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Anyhoo, I hope you and yours are well and on the hunt for the vaccine if you haven’t already been shot with the Fauci Ouchie. I’m pumped to say both of my folks are vaccinated and hugs will soon be shared by all of the CBXB clan! WHOOP!

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My weekend kicked off with birthday festivities for the second time during Rona. There was nothing that was gonna stand in my way of celebrating this year. I have a full bday recap coming because I’m literally celebrating every.single.day. in March.

Bday Rona Round 2

Oh hi Rona round two.

I rang in my birthday Wednesday night talking with two of my girls – Miss Bella outta Chicago and A3 outta Duluth.

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I’d stopped to get myself some bubbly on my birthday and splurged on a fancy (for me because it was above my typical $6.99 budget) frugal bottle.

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I was beyond spoiled to say the very least upon my arrival back to the Mini Manse. This doesn’t include all of the loving I got before, during and still after my day (don’t forget we’re celebrating ALL month and there are three days left in March).

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Wondering what was in the tall box, I contemplated if it could possibly be a tent delivered to the wrong address.

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Turns out it was delivered to the correct Mini Manse AND was filled with the best treats a girl with Celiac Disease could wish for – a case of GLUTEN FREE DOUBLE STUFFED OREOS that just hit the market and have been impossible to find!

Double Stuffed Delight

Double Stuffed DELIGHT.

I laid in bed all birthday morning eating Oreos and read all of my messages over and over and over and over. To the point my pussies were trying to claw the device from my hands for some attention.

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But Mama’s got some claws of her own. My gal Lash Goddess has been in my Rona bubble and started practicing her talon magic on me much to my delight.

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I won the claw fight over the phone, masked up and headed to my fave watering hole on the planet in almost a year…Dalts. Annual birthday Skinny Pirates galore (not unlike a preRona Friday night) for me.

Skinny Pirate

Due to the INSANE amount of rain, it was the purrfect Saturday to stay in bed and binge watch Schitt’s Creek (the show the rest of the world watched at the beginning of the pandemic).

Netflix and Chill

I Netflixed and chilled. Prissy whimpered and whined for a bite.

Nashville has been hit so hard the last 365 days, it’s almost impossible to comprehend everything that has happened. Starting last March with a tornado that ripped through all of Middle Tennessee, a bombing downtown on Christmas morning and ass clown tourists passing Rona around to our citizens because…bachelorette parties are more important than grandma’s life.

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GO. THE. FUCK. AWAY. @musicshitty

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Insanity poured down on Music City once again. South Nashville was hit especially hard and its demographic of citizens heartbreakingly aren’t typically the type to keep the news in cycle.

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Bridge of debris in South Nashville. @musicshitty

Another fun reason I lollygagged in bed was due to being triggered by a rape case in Minnesota. The state Supreme Court of the Land of 10,000 Lakes really knocked the wind outta this survivor’s sails.  A woman was raped while she was drunk in 2017. The rapist was convicted and sentenced in 2019 BUT his smarmy (like for real, who defends rapists?) lawyers appealed to the Minnesota Supreme Court with absolute credibility because IT IS LAW.

Minnesota Rape ShitThis is victim blaming at its fucking highest level. It made me physically ill. Not only because of the similarities to my case but holy fucking shit. A rapist never rapes just once and he’s being given a new trial.Minnesota Rape Shit

This is absolutely infuriating. ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. It tore me to pieces and I cannot imagine what the victim must be feeling – reeling from – after having come forward, her case making it to court, her rapist found guilty and sentenced, only to be given a new trial UNANIMOUSLY by the state Supreme Court because SHE was drunk. Folks, this is rape culture.

Minnesota Rape Shit

This is why who you vote for matters. It matters a FUCK ton because judicial positions such as these are appointed by politicians in which citizens vote. You know, like how former president Covita stacked federal courts and the Supreme Court with lifetime nominees. THIS. SHIT. MATTERS.

Minnesota Rape SHIT

Needless to say, I spent much more of the weekend holding space for myself, while Prissy and The Pussy Posse wallowed in bed with me.

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After being fired up for two days straight, it was fitting to start my Monday with the gang who quite literally carried me virtually through the pandemic on Instagram. A workout crew, the Clams, started by Body By Trainor is almost always my saving grace.

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Is there any better way usher in a week than with a swift one-two to the face?

I think not.

Love ya, mean it.

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BUY ME A DRINK!

International Day of the Badass

* TRIGGER/SEXUAL ASSAULT CONTENT WARNING *

Today marks the five year anniversary of being raped – my rapeversary if you will. Last year was the first time since January 29, 2016 that I felt even a sliver of my “old” self on this day. I declared the 29th day of this month the official International Day of the Badass, making all things related to rape and the aftermath of trauma my bitches. No apologies. Sorry not sorry.

Always and forfuckingever nasty.

I was feeling really fucking fabulous. Seeing the world through my pre-Rapegate rose colored glasses again and ready to celebrate any and everything but most specifically, honor all things ME. This motherfucking badass bitch was back.

And then, that cunt Rona showed her ugly face a little more than a month later and my entire world (along with the rest of the global population) went to shit a matter of days.

Who the fuck invited you here?

My trauma ticks (as I call them) that I worked so fucking hard to kick in four years of therapy cropped up whenever the fuck they felt it inconvenient. Stuttering, leg and foot bouncing, incessant itching at imaginary hot spots on my skin, stress induced cortisol dumping into my system, insomnia, the severity of my anxiety was back at its skyscraper height and my stomach hurt 24/7 with a deep side of sciatica (a new place my stress manifests itself in my bod).

Fun self inflicted times on my wrist, inner arm and ankle.

Feeling these regressions bubbling up sent me on a downward spiral so fucking fast, I was constantly treading water that was circling the drain. For me, it’s been the hardest part of Rona because I was JUST feeling foxy again, ready to strut my stilettos and resurfaced sassiness all over the pace. I hate the feeling of going backward (but who loves it unless we’re talking about aging?) and the grief attached to my trauma ticks, along with being isolated when I was ready to mingle with the world again about did me in.

Thank fuck for emotional support animals.

I had a four year out-of-body experience where I had to mourn the loss of my pre-rape life, the death of myself as I knew me –  as well as construct my resurrection. I’d trudged my way through an avalanche of the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But Rona took me straight back from a happier place of acceptance to the prior four stages any time she felt like fucking with me.

I think I chose my closet as my panic attack recovery space in 2016 because it’s small and sparkly for comfort.

Then, I was reminded that grief (and all of the shit that comes along with it) isn’t linear. 

Queen of the pivot turn.

I gave myself grace (or at least tried – still trying) and remembered Superhero Sheila’s sound advice. If you wouldn’t say it to one of the twins (that woman goes right for the dagger when she needs it), don’t say it to yourself.

It’s like Superhero Sheila is good at her job or something.

So I got my self talk back on some semblance of a cordial track and proceeded to make my way through the additional perils that 20fucking20 threw at every single citizen of the world in its own unique, shitty way.

I choose to wear sunglasses and fancy headpieces to cope.

But even as I try to forge ahead on this International Day of the Badass, 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 bones because the worst is being in your body, not able to control it.

All because one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five days ago, I was raped by my best friend’s boyfriend while I slept on her couch, in her 600 square foot apartment after a wine and cryfest, grieving the sudden death of a young friend. I woke up to her boyfriend of five weeks on top of me, pajama pants at my knees, arms at my sides, his face in my neck. That was the moment the me as I knew her, died.

Later that day, 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.

Emily Doe later revealed herself as Chanel Miller, the woman Brock Turner raped behind a Stanford dumpster.

“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 several hours earlier. 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 on a rape kit), how was I able to know if I needed an advocate? What was an advocate? Did I need one? Detective Cuntka said she could not advise me and I somehow communicated that I did, in fact, want an advocate.

I still can’t wrap my brain around my bff not believing me nine hours after being raped, do I look like I can make a goddamned decision about anything?!

I believe rape victims should be assisted with an advocate, period. No questions asked. Just have one show up and let them do the talking because it was a good three years before my typically decisive as fuck ass could make any decision about ANYTHING.

I will just have one of everything on the menu because what do I want?

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.

Where was one of my goddamn pussies when I needed them?!

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 such a pleasant sight after the day kept spewing like uncontrollable bowels. 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.

My immediate thoughts of 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 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 can’t compute.

Upon completion of my rape kit and consumption of no less than 51 pills, 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. It was like onboarding at a new job or getting every class syllabus on the first day of college. It was literature on what my life after rape was going entail.

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

Open ended ticket for one, please. @deepfriedfreckles

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.

All too familiar when I wish I had no clue.

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.

You don’t have to cry for me because my eyes leaked enough fluid for nine lifetimes.

I found out who could withstand the shell of myself and who needed an exit. I immediately realized I was going to become a walking, talking rape victim stereotype (the victims that report, anyway) when interacting with Detective Cuntka when she told me 37 days after being raped 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. Chasing my case and any details became a second full time job.

Daily routines ceased existing and the depression bombarded its way in. Brushing teeth, washing my hair, applying make up (I was Ronafied ahead of the times), no polish on my claws because they became unbearable chores.

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, further exacerbating the endless cycle of depression, anxiety, nerves, self-loathing, shame, blame, fatigue and stress leaving me empty. Literally dead inside.

I gave zero shits.

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.

After all of that recovery, after all of the therapy, after the shit show of 2020, now more than ever I understand that we all carry invisible wounds. And Rona brought all of my luggage back but this time around the baggage felt excruciatingly heavier.

Others can’t see the shame I carry. Others can’t see the guilt I hold (did I somehow ask for it?). Others can’t see the blame I assign myself every single second, minute, hour, day, month.

The year 2020 made it achingly obvious that people I love haven’t been listening to me and can’t – or worse yet – DON’T WANT to 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. I started eating at this fucking buffet again last year.

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 (silver lining of 2020!), the people who have re-entered my life to lift me up when I was sure I was going to drown…that all exists.

Here I stand five years later, my heart beating the last 1,825 days, feeling like a motherfucking badass once again. I now understand that grief is an emotion that exists even when life still is within. I died but I lived.

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 five years, I am back to celebrating ALL THINGS ME again.

Sorry not sorry.

Join me in celebrating the International Day of the Badass.

This pussy grabs back.

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

What are you celebrating on this International Day of the Badass? Because if you’re reading this, you’re one too.

Cheers to all of my best Badasses.

BELIEVE SURVIVORS.

CBXB

BUY ME A DRINK