Before and after “the incident.”

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. He was trying to find out if I’d had any kind of human contact, and somehow it got onto my relationship with Beth and I made a comment in passing that they had really been there for me ever since That Summer.

“What summer?” he asked. I said I was sure that I would’ve told him about this early on, and he started riffling through my file and saying that he didn’t think so. So I explained my creepy boss and my parents’ orders to not rock the boat and not say anything (really not to lose the job no matter what) and that three weeks later there had been a guy who is in his mid 40s and how the RCMP told me he had a record of 4 other women in Canada, even though he was American. Then I said “so I was a virgin… And then I wasn’t.” My psychiatrist exclaimed “You were raped??” Yes, I said, wondering what else I could have possibly meant.

He flipped through my file some more and then said that I had told him I’ve never been sexually abused. I said that I thought sexual abuse and sexual assault were different (that’s why I would have said no to that specific question), and that I’d thought he had known all along. He said that he was abusive and sexual, so it was sexual abuse. I said that I thought sexual abuse was like being molested by somebody who had access to you but but it’s not like I got this definition from the literature or had a really well-thought-out model in my head.

Anyway he acted like it was some kind of big revelation which I guess to him it was, but to me it’s old news. He kept saying stuff like how he was glad I told him, and how that must’ve been a really violent introduction to sexuality, and I said I’ve done a lot of work with my old (retired) counsellor about it, because I didn’t even used to be able to say the word ‘rape.’ I told him straight up that the worst part was that I now know that the only reason that hasn’t happened again is that I haven’t been near a guy who wants to do it. I fought as hard as I could, and got really bruised up for my troubles, but there’s no way that I, in any kind of shape, can counter the upper body strength of a man.

So then he said oh, he gets how I feel vulnerable, and why being alone is such a big deal to me, and he was all outraged that they didn’t make a big court case out of it. Yeah go look up some statistics on the number of cases that go to trial. Or the number of convictions relative to the number of police reports. Or the number of estimated attacks compared to the number of women that actually report it to the police. The numbers are pretty dismal. Anyway, he said that we have to talk more about it and that he was glad I told him (again) and I just sort of felt like it’s not really even something I can connect with here in the present; I dissociated during the attack, and then started drinking, smoking, cutting, and being bulimic for the rest of the summer and then got into drugs the year after that.

It’s as if he thought that I was too fucked up for the history that I had given him, and now he was like oh the pieces all fit together and it all makes sense now. He suggested that I tell the EAP counsellor about it too, and I sort of said that we were basically just focussing on making it from day to day. I don’t know, I’d already been in his office crying for 15 minutes before it came up so it’s hard to tell if I was upset about talking about that specifically or just the whole thing.

I also told him how Depeche Mode were going on tour again in the fall, and how they’re coming to a city much closer than they had on the previous tour (which I had a ticket for and didn’t go because I was laid off because of depression.) or the tour before, where I made a little trip out of it and stayed a few days to explore the city and met up with some fans from the Depeche Mode message board and have been in touch with the one gal ever since. “We are damaged people, drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of” as DM lyrics put it. Instant connection.

Anyway, I don’t have anyone to go see them with which made me just fucking bawl. I assumed I was going to have to go somewhere again and now instead of being happy that they’re close by I am upset. I reminded the psychiatrist how I cried and cried in the hospital about missing Leonard Cohen in concert because I didn’t have anyone to go with, and now he’s dead. The psychiatrist said that it was OK to do things alone, and sometimes he went to the movies alone, but either way it was obviously pretty important to me and I better make it happen. I’ve gone to other concerts alone. I don’t fucking like it. So now I might buy tickets for another city just because I know another Depeche Mode fan there and won’t have to go by myself.

I’ve been crying every day at work at the end of the day and really just feeling like crap. Tonight I had a drink and a piece of hash truffle the minute I got in the door, and I’m sure I can make it to the weekend of the 17th when Depeche Mode’s new album is released. The concert, however, is over 200 days away. and I don’t know. I seriously just don’t know if I’ll be able to hang on that long. It’s always seem to me like before a birthday is an ideal time to die, and once my plans were thwarted in January and I was hospitalized till mid February, it seems reasonable to wait till mid-March. But waiting another seven months is something else.

I’ve been crying every day at the end of work, and sometimes on the bus, and then when I get home, and I just don’t think there’s anything here (in the world) for me. I can’t live seven months for one three hour concert. And then when that’s done I can just wait and work for three or four years for another album or another concert. And that’s the only thing that I can control, is buying albums and going to concerts. I can’t control my migraines, I can’t control losing jobs over migraines or depression. I can’t make other people love me or show up when I need them, and this is like when Beth said that her husband had thought they should come up and spend some time with me. In the moment on the phone I responded with how that would be great anytime, and then I sent them an email saying actually asking them to, explaining that would be really awesome and really helpful because it’s going to suck going back to my apartment alone with all the suicide equipment there. And they didn’t come. There was some reason they couldn’t come the week I asked, and then their son came to visit for a week from another province, and they just sort of haven’t mentioned it again.

I realized that I put up with the creepy boss and serving guys at tables beers literally the day after I’d been raped as a young waitress so that I would never be put in that position again. I never wanted to be put in a position where guys were going to do things to my body without my consent because I couldn’t afford to quit, or I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, or whatever. No, I needed to make sure that I was going to be able to make a living. Never have to call on people like my parents.

I went on a bit of a rant in the psychiatrists office, actually, saying I’d really like to know where the line would’ve been for my parents. If I’m getting felt up over my clothes that’s totally acceptable as long as I’m making my five bucks an hour. Plus tips for being friendly and flirty with the tables of guys with their beers. So what if my boss had felt me up under my clothes, would I be allowed to quit then? Or rubbed up on me with his body? It’s not like my parents said that I should quit  if he did anything worse. They said very clearly not to say anything about it and not to rock the boat. So fuck them, for all time. I got felt up for my $5 an hour and got raped for free.

And now, after going through SO MUCH to put myself through school, I’m underemployed, poor, and had to sell myself out for this job yet again. I just… this isn’t fucking sustainable. I’m going to die by suicide. The question is just when. Things have just gone too far to be redeemed. I can’t go back in time to change anything, and where I am represents trying my best. My very best. And if that’s not good enough to satisfy God or anyone else it’s really too bad. But I don’t see any reason to hope for the future when I don’t expect to perform better than my best in the future

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