Wowza was it a fucking scorcher of a weekend in Nashville. Sticky humidity, coupled with high temps was a reminder that summer is here. How did I blink in January and it’s now fucking June?
I’m not really into being a basic bitch if I can help it. I don’t really like the normal flavored White Claws (I know….GASP…) but I will absofuckinglutely drink them if they are a) free and b) in front of my face, being my only choice. However, I found a new poolside fave in the hard seltzer category and it’s fucking White Claw brand. BUT it’s iced tea flavored and didn’t give me a canker sore after having several libations at the get-in-the-water-or-you-will-melt pool day this weekend.
Aside from the weather making me hotter than the hell I will surely grace with my presence one day, I am still seething over last week’s news that Attorney General Merrick Garland will allow the Justice Department to continue to defend Donald Trump (Covita to me). Our tax dollars are being used by the DOJ to defend Covita in a defamation lawsuit filed by a woman he raped in the 1990s, E. Jean Carroll.
It’s the equivalent of me paying for Shane the Rapist’s defaming comments about me. Thinking about it almost makes me spontaneously combust. The fact that Covita used the DOJ as his personal law firm throughout his presidency was gross misuse of power (to which fucking no one held him accountable – aside from Americans voting the motherfucker out of office). The current president slammed this misuse of the DOJ last year but it’s his Attorney General, Garland, allowing this to continue.
Since speaking out about her issues with Covita, (all he needs to do to clear his name is provide a DNA sample to her lawyers because she still has the dress she was raped in – with semen on it), E. Jean Carroll has lost her longtime job at Elle magazine (I unsubscribed immediately) and been at the epicenter of victim blaming. And folks wonder why rapes aren’t reported.
To elude myself from walking around needing a fire extinguisher, I turned to my on screen boyfriend, Rip, who is a character on the TV show Yellowstone. If you aren’t watching this series, giddy the fuck up already. It’s on Paramount Network and Peacock. Season four debuts this Sunday and I’ve been rewatching previous episodes to prep.
We make a cute couple, right?!
Also beyond k-uteness are the twins who performed at their recital this weekend. Thanks to technology we got to tune in and see pics!
This weekend marked my first party post Rona vaccine and it was fabulous to be in a space, unmasked and not feel the slightest bit weird about it. Sleepy’s not-so-little lady is turning 16, which of course is cause for celebrating!
I never thought I’d have to force a kid to take a selfie…but I persevered!
Hat’s off to a sweet sixteen!
I chose the wrong shoes because I forgot what parking is like in Music City when you go anywhere near downtown. The parking lot was gravel, yet I remained in an upright position both to and from the restaurant. That’s a major accomplishment for yours truly, who loves tripping on air pockets like it’s my side hobby.
Shoes most definitely not made for gravel travel.
Heading into a new week is welcomed after the last felt like it was seven years in length. But the sneaky fucking thing that continues to stalk me into being its best friend, anxiety, has taken over the wheel on my bus.
For me, anxiety can be crippling. Not to the point that I can’t function or go to work but certainly to the point that I am in a constant state of flux. I look fine (well, maybe more tired because it interferes with my precious sleep, and then that seeps into your entire fucking life and then I end up in a state of what I refer to as “circling the drain”- it’s supes fun), I sound fine, I walk fine, I talk fine, and on and on. I am just experiencing an internal boxing match with myself constantly. I’m on meds for this type of shit but man, it’s hard not to dwell on what got me in this state in the first place…Rapegate. And……repeat the cycle.
However, one of the methods I gained from my years of recent therapy, is to look forward to the small stuff. And yet another basic bitch trait I’ve picked up in the Rona Times is shitty, ooey, gooey, can’t-look-away-makes-your-life-feel-better trainwreck of the reality TV show, The Bachelorette.
You can tune into my recap of the show on my Instagram stories. Yes, I always dress up for the live reporting on the best trash TV every Monday evening. Never a bride, always a bachelorette. You know what I’m saying?!
Holy hell! Anyone else find yourself wondering what it was like in the Before Times?
Did I really love the the Before Times life as much as I thought I did while experiencing a global pandemic with the rest of the world? I mean FUCK. Talk about seeing the world through rose colored glasses pre-Rona.
I was fortunate to be able to work from home most of 2020, returning to an office in January of 2021 part-time that did not enforce masks. In fact, almost 90% of employees chose not to wear them (which was like living an episode of the The Twilight Zone since the rest of the world was still on high Rona alert). As soon as I knew I would be returning to a maskless office this March, I made every effort possible to get the vaccine. Fortunately, I received it with Prissy in tow, my partner-in-crime turned stage five clinger due to endless months of quarantine together.
I still wore my mask at all times in public and while at work. And then one afternoon, President Biden came out and leisurely announced that those of us who chose to be tracked by Bill Gates (I kid, I kid but how do people seriously believe that shit?) could carry on with life like in the Before Times.
WHAT THE WHAT?
Did I hear that correctly?!
After 14 months of following the Centers for Disease Control and my boyfriend, Tony Fauci’s advice, this announcement seemed like a miracle of sorts. A beacon of hope after a year of uncertainty and fear. But then, my anxiety kicked in. Do I still wear a mask at work? Or in public (I live in a state where leadership flagrantly downplayed Rona, costing lives)? What about if I’m around an unvaccinated person? The questions swirled like a tsunami in my noggin. What about people who were lying about being vaxxed…was it OK for me to be around them maskless? As a person with already severe anxiety, this should be fucking fabulous announcement sent my brain into overload.
On top of that, I was used to being able to skip makeup and any sort of regular beauty routine, hiding behind a mask, greasy hair in an up do and sunglasses 24/7. Major pandemic glamour.
I thought maybe we’d be easing back into the Before Times but instead (for those of us that took this shit seriously, wearing masks and caring about our neighbors and community continuously for 14 months) mask mandates were being ripped off as harshly as a band aid stuck to arm hair with no countdown.
I’m having a hard time recollecting what was so fabulous about leaving the house at 7am only to return at 7pm (after a commute, eight hour day of employment at a desk in a cube and post work yoga sesh), every week day. And, after working from home nearly a year, I absofuckinglutely DO NOT MISS getting up hours before arriving to my job to shower, (washing my hair on a regular basis is STILL a pre-Rona trait coming back at a snail’s pace), feeding my zoo (of six indoor pussies, four outdoor pussies, one high maintenance Pomeranian), taking the dog out, scooping cat shit, taking said shower, blow drying hair, putting in contacts, trying to remember how to apply makeup, making coffee, chugging down my vitamins, meds and supplements, attempting a quick breakfast (still a microwaved egg, slice of cheese on a piece of toast – my first meal of the day since college), not forgetting a fast packed lunch on the counter to rot the day away, and sitting in traffic all before getting to the office at 8am.
I do not miss any of that one bit. My work from home lewk was a greasy, casual, wait to shower until after my lunchtime workout, roll out of bed and take my time making my way to the computer anywhere I wanted in the Mini Manse unappealing, not easy on the eyes but easy on my mind routine I’d come to adore.
Of course this news was fabulous. But I had to get my shit together overnight (like the rest of folks like me) and start giving fucks about my appearance again (I mean, I guess I don’t have to) once I was going to be recognizable in public without the lower half of my face covered. I had to remind myself what it was like wearing lipstick again, paint my face with at least tinted moisturizer so I didn’t constantly get asked “are you sick?” at work (I got serious dark circles gang), and work on not letting my facial expressions get out of control since again, they’d been covered up for the better part of 14 months.
Once I had my mind straight on the ground rules, being out in public and seeing others at the grocery, liquor store, post office, etc. without a mask made me want to put mine back on or ask them to stop breathing unless they were across the room from me. Turns out after talking to friends and fam, I’m not alone in the post Rona panic. It’s a discussion that comes up with peeps in my ‘bubble’ (those I know who took Rona with the same seriousness and are vaxxed or on their way there). Adjusting to the new (but really old) norm is gonna take some time for most of us.
BUT this also means hugs, kisses, seeing loved ones again, drinks at Dalts, leisurely trips to my mothership Target just for shits and giggles, no more maskne (zits caused by the cloth covering), and almost most importantly back to the Hair House to see my Elf on a Shelf who works hair wonders on my mane.
So, if I have yet to see you in our new post pandemic world, the only reason you’ll need to panic is if I haven’t yet seen you. Prepare yourself for a major mauling by moi. In the meantime, I’m taking baby steps back into the maskless universe with the first stop being my pool. Surprise.
Adjusting to the new (but really old) norm is gonna take some time for most of us.
The fashionable 2020 March look is the fucking same in 2021.
If you had told me 365 days ago that I’d be having a second birthday during a worldwide pandemic tomorrow, I would have cock/cunt punched you.
But here we are STILL in the throes of a global pandemic due to many “you can’t tell me what to do with my body” mask refusing ass hats, accompanied with politicians who act like they know more than the Center for Disease Control (go fucking figure) closely accompanied by the folks that follow said non-doctors blindly. I digress. My VIP Rona ticket happened to include my first ever birthday in quarantine. And now my second.
Oh hi! You feel like celebrating with people now? Too bad.
Little naive me thought I’d be hosting a half birthday party on September 25, 2020. Joke was on me! Well, really all of us. These were thoughts on my day of birth last year…
Poor, poor late March babies.
My birthday took place the first full week of lockdown in Nashville (when every business finally complied – lockdown actually started earlier). But still, I think everyone was hopeful/under the impression/couldn’t comprehend how this could last longer than a month, tops.
Due to Rapegate, I would have been down to par-tay in isolation on any of my past five birthdays. But in 2020, I was ready for shenanigans and celebrations all about me, as I would have typically been pre-Rapegate. CELEBRATE EVERYTHING!
But not 2020. Oh no. This was the first year where this badass bitch was baaaack to finding all things joyful and ready to celebrate the entire month. So I did just that in spite of a fucking global pandemic.
I still celebrated my face off.
I partied and Prissy force loved it.
While the circumstances were not the most epically fabulous, my peeps far and wide celebrated with me. Boston Barbie canceled a trip she had planned to Nashville to celebrate with me in person due to the germy Rona shit. So she did the next best thing – had a bottle of champs with me via FaceTime and sent a pizza for supper.
Presents and hot toddy’s were delivered to the Mini Manse door.
First Mate tapped on my window and brought her own airplane sized bottle (is that what they are really called?) of fancy vino over and poured it into her own glass. Rona shit was still so new, masks weren’t a required accessory yet (ATTENTION NASHVILLE RESIDENTS AND THOSE COWBOY BOOT PUKING TOURISTS – AS OF THIS DAY IN 2021 MASKS ARE STILL MANDATED IN DAVIDSON COUNTY).
Text messages dinging my phone all day kept me smiling from ear to ear.
The world literally stopped turning on March 25, 2020. Yes. I am that.fucking.special.
Even my boyfriend T-Rac wished me a happy birthday and I pretty much died and went to Rona heaven (which would be the Mini Manse bed).
I almost burnt down the Mini Manse drunk baking my own gluten-free birthday cake.
Booze, boobs and baking.
While it was not on the top ten (or top 100) sweets I’ve ever tasted, it went down the hatch like a dry, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry charm (I think it was because of all the sprinkles). Yes, I still ate the damn thing.
Look the fuck out Martha Stewart.
This year’s pandemic birthday cake is gonna look different and be waaaaaay easier since I’m not gonna do fuck all with an oven.
Just need a candle.
Last year I wrote – and I quote, “What I want for my birthday wish is for you and your loved ones to be alive, healthy and ready to celebrate your faces off with me on my half birthday bash on September 25, 2020. Until then, stay the fuck home. Let’s make my half birthday party go viral for reasons other than a worldwide pandemic.”
So naive. So innocent.
This year my still-in-a-worldwide-pandemic-but-there-is-a-light-at-the-end-of-the tunnel plans are as follows:
An evening at the Mini Manse theater with a birthday themed film, accompanied with pizza and copious amounts of champs. And a side of extremely cold Diet Coke.
Should I just get a case?
And because dreams do sometimes come true, I’m still alive and kicking after last year (and Rona free!). Typically, I’d head to my treasured watering hole, Dalts (they survived Rona too, woohoo!) to see my fave bartender ever to have eight a Skinny Pirate(s).
Marja + Skinny Pirates = Purrfection
Last year was the first time since I’ve lived in Nashville I didn’t celebrate my arrival into the world with Skinny Pirates and loved ons at Dalts.
Maybe a more crowded party in 2022?!
It may not be post Rona normal yet but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna commemorate my day of birth all weekend and then some. Remember, there are six more days in my birthday month and I intend to celebrate the fuck outta each and every one. Shocker.
See ya in 2022!
Last year celebrating my birthday couldn’t help but feel full of doom and gloom. This year’s vibe is a MOOD called gratitude. Now every one of you start saving your pennies to come par-tay at Dalts with me in 2022.
My beloved Aunt Crazy Pants passed away after a valiant fight against terminal lung cancer (after never smoking a goddamn cigarette in her life). By the time cancer was found through an unrelated surgery, it had already spread everywhere but her brain and she was given six months to a year to live in July of 2016. Well, being a feisty little bitch, she survived with cancer 370 days.
Beat cancer for five extra days. Suck it.
Today is ACP’s heavenly birthday and she would be turning a very young 70. Ever since her passing in September of 2017, we keep celebrating the fuck out of one of our favorite crazy ladies. We always cheers with her fave cocktail – specifically from The Cheesecake Factory – a gin rickey.
Celebrating ACP’s first heavenly birthday together, Mama CBXB and I did what all mother/daughters do to bond. We got tattoos of ACP’s signature. We were the first ones at the tattoo shop that day and acted like we’d never been in a place of permanent ink before.
Totes normal Saturday with static in our hair.
In fact, we’d been several times with ACP to get her tattoos, so we brought her along in pictures.
She was there to witness our ink ups.
The photo I chose was of me holding her hand while she got her first tattoo. It was at the Lake of the Ozarks non-world renowned Tattoo Ted’s after a day of coving out and cocktails.
Mothers and daughters who tattoo together, PARtay together.
We then went to our fave spot on Broadway in Nashville, Robert’s Western World to keep the celebration alive.
We love sharing stories and peeing our pants over shit she would say or do (she literally shit her pants during a shopping trip at Target with her mom once. When ACP shared why she had to rush to the bathroom, Gma might have well been on the store’s loud speaker and announced loudly, “YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS?” For the record, I’ve also shit my pants at Target. Must run in the family….). I just got an eye roll (sorry Gma) and a belly laugh (you’re welcome ACP) from the sky, I’m sure. We’d often witness tears running down her leg from laughing so hard and we have fun remembering the spirit this woman, mother, daughter, sister, crazy fun aunt and loyal friend to countless people sprinkled throughout our lives.
To say there’s a hole in my soul doesn’t do it justice, as my aunt was like a mother to me and I take after her in many lovely ways.
I carry the torch for her klutziness (I fell into her closet after getting out of her bed – still in my emerald green stilettos and funeral dress – the day after her funeral).
Humor helps klutzy broads.
We also can ruin phones like nobody’s business. She would constantly drop hers in a toilet, I run my over with cars. It’s a special talent.
I carry her ability to get tongue tied at any given moment (I asked a male co-worker at a new job if “these are the size of rubbers you wanted” – I forgot the word band after rubber). She constantly called my boyfriends the wrong name. I once dated a guy named John for a few years. He answered the phone when she called once and, for whatever reason at a loss, she said, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh GARY?!”
Quite the combo.
I have the ease of her unabashed bluntness and no fear of confrontation (she deemed me the biggest bitch of the family before she passed. I know, so sweet).
Whether ya wanna know the truth or not, ya gonna hear it. Even if we look like ass clowns with delivery.
I will honor her by eating double what I normally do during trips to the Iowa State Fair when this bitch Rona finally gets the fuck outta dodge.
Being a crazy aunt is something I’m already all over.
Or rather, they’re all over me.
I was born with her dramatic flair for life, so that bonfire was lit long ago within me.
Jazz hands for life.
While it’s important to remember that when someone may no longer be among us on earth, our relationship with them can still exist, it’s also important to remember the quality of life given during an especially grueling battle with cancer. ACP’s youngest son R. Nasty made sacrifices I can’t say many young adults his age – let alone any adult – would do to care for his dying mother. I mean before being diagnosed with cancer, she was already the most dramatic woman on the planet (like bitching about “having” to pack to go to Hawaii – or any other fabulous destination…yeah, poor thing), so you can imagine the sheer joy the magnification of her theatrics became.
Flair for fun dramatics.
R. Nasty moved in with his mom (all young men’s dream come true) being closest in proximity and able to make accommodations to do so, while his other brothers and extended family lived further away.
All other Bros and Hos live far away.
He answered every time she hollered with a patient, “yes Mother,” sauntered into her room after every bell ring (a sound that will surely haunt him for the rest of his days), removed an ice cube each time he accidentally put four instead of three into her water and endless other duties that come along with caring for a cancer patient.
The true meaning of ‘got your back’.
My point is, this dude is a fucking saint. Throughout all the treatment routines, doctor’s appointments, therapy, surgeries, etc, ACP’s absolute favorite time was watching The Late Show with Stephen Colbert with R. Nasty every weeknight. Even if she dozed off in the evening as she got more cancer riddled, she wanted to be woken up to watch Stephen Colbert with her son.
Wake me up before you go go.
In the evening on August 31, 2017 my feisty aunt was taken from home hospice to the hospital. That night, as the end was drawing near, the room full of family was clearing out and R. Nasty leaned in and said, “We’re going to watch Stephen Colbert one more time, Mom.” And that they did. She died at 3am on Friday, September 1st, 2017.
While we’ve partied in every way possible in honor of Aunt Crazy Pants’ love of life, I’d like to acknowledge the sacrifices her son made so selflessly. When asked about it he always says (and still does), “it’s my honor to take care of my mother.”
So how can you show a small token of appreciation in return to a son who lost a friend, a mother and a fucking funny lady all rolled into one? Sister CBXB came up with a great idea, reached out to me to execute (why do I have to do all the work?) and with the help of some letter writing, reaching out to every.single.contact I have and making them reach out to every.single.contact they have, magic happened.
Through the efforts of fabulous friends and the help of family, we were able to pull this shit off and I scored two VIP tickets (yeah, you read that right – VIP bitches) to The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. R. Nasty and I graced the Big Apple for a taping of the show, celebrating ACP in NYC.
The start of my 28 hour stay.
R. Nasty flew from Iowa, I flew from Music City and we met at the airport. Sounds like a meet cute except we’re cousins.
Of course I had to document every.single.moment of our celebration trip and ever accommodating, R. Nasty indulged me.
See me? I’m the blonde in center of the row. The guests were Lucy Liu (boring) and Henry Winkler (fun).
Regardless of R.Nasty’s twisted ankle and me accidentally crashing a rapper’s photoshoot in Time’s Square, we had a fabulous trip celebrating ACP’s life with a whopping side of shit show. We were only there for what some would say resembles a long layover but it was worth every second.
Oh I’m sorry, this is a prop for your photoshoot? Sorry. Not sorry.
The deeper the love for someone, the deeper the grief. For grief is the price we pay when someone we love the fuck out of departs us for greater pastures. For me, celebrating their life and what they loved makes me still feel connected. And boy, does the grief still run deep for those of us who loved ACP.
We all miss you something terrible.
Cheers to the craziest fun aunt I got to call mine. I promise to quietly laugh my ass off at memories of you (after probably tripping and falling down some stairs first) forever.
Join me in raising a gin rickey high to the sky tonight in honor of the Aunt Crazy Pants in your life. Throw on a little green (emerald or kelly green to be precise) if you really wanna kiss some ACP ass.
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.
“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.