Homesickness at 106

I’ve been so homesick lately.  It’s been almost four months since I moved into this new home, and I’m finally getting homesick.

Over the last few days, I’ve been looking around this home, and I realized that nothing about it feels like mine.  Nothing about it feels like the comfort of home.  I don’t see any of the useless trinkets that adorned my last home.  Instead, I see items that belonged to another person in another time.  The sugar bowls above my cabinets.  The ceramic that clutters my counter by the stove.  Inherited, ugly dishwear that we eat off of.  Foreign pots and pans that I prepare food on.

At first, it was like an exciting vacation home.  It was an escape from my ramshackle house that had strings like Pinocchio.  I was a puppet in my own home, and eventually, I was forcibly removed from that home with the final passive-aggressive jabs in a long, relentless series of them.  I had broken free of my failure to launch syndrome and was on the road to becoming a self-sufficient adult.

Now, I feel more helpless than ever before.  In my hometown, I could free myself of the bondage of my house whenever I felt like it.  There was a wealth of places I could go and see.  Here, I am trapped at the end of a beautiful, scenic private driveway in an idyllic little town.  To get off of this mountainous terrain, it’s a mile’s walk straight down a series of steep hills.  And even if I were to make it into town, there is nothing to do and nowhere to go.

I don’t miss the cramped nature of 511, with junk brimming from every tiny storage area there was.  But, now, I feel that there is no place of solace for me.  My bedroom was my bedroom.  All of my stuff was comforting, and my space was adorned with knicknacks of years past.  It was a representation of me.  I feel like this place is completely devoid of that.  This place feels devoid of me, and I’m beginning to feel lost.  I’m beginning to feel like I’m losing myself, instead of finding a place where I could discover myself once again.

There’s too many negative memories attached to that house.  So many, that they actually outweigh the positive ones.  In that house, I lived with Avi, without heat, in the most brutal winter I can recall.  I lived out of boxes, surrounded by piles of garbage and junk.  I was estranged from that house in warmer months as a means of escape.  I hit the bottom of the barrel with a miserable labor job, a serious drinking problem, and a completely hopeless future.

It was in that house that I was coerced into having immoral sex with Simon in a sick, twisted threesome.  I hardly remember it.  Most of what I can recall from the situation has a haze over it.

There were good things.  It was the place where Xan was partially unconscious in my lap on New Years’ Eve, and I fed him a special New Years’ Eve pretzel I made in the bakery at work.  It was the place where I first realized that I loved him.  That was the house where Xan and I first lived together as a couple.  It was the first place we made love.

That was the place where we started our life together.  It was the place we went back to after our wedding.  It was the house that our child was conceived in.  We brought our little bundle of joy home there, and slept on the living room floor next to his bassinet for the first month.  There, our son took his first steps, said his first words, and grew from a baby to a child.

Again, there was the bad and even the ugly.  Too much violence happened there, both physical, verbal, and self-inflicted.  It was a breeding ground for negativity.  Xan and I used to have these knock-down, no-hold-barred fights there.  I recall too many moments where I stormed up the stairs to escape him.  The whole last four months of our residence in that home was a complete disaster in our marriage.

In essence, I escaped that place.  But, is the devil you don’t know worse than the devil you do?

Positives.  Think of the positives.

This house has the potential to become my lifetime home.  Maybe I am just homesick because I spent six years in the last house, and only four months here.

This house is located in a safe area for my son, and provides a calm, free environment for him.  In addition, it has a better school district and provides better learning opportunities and support for him.

This house has additional space.  I don’t feel as cramped and caged, even if I do feel lonely and secluded.

Even though this house contains a lot of foreign items, it won’t forever.  I will acquire more items to replace the old ones that feel more like me.  It will become more familiar as time passes.

This house is not a money pit.  It is in good condition and was well built.  I do not spend a large amount of money on utilities, and there is hardly a threat that I will ever be without.

I will never be threatened to be evicted from this home.  There are no strings attached and the owner is very hands-off.  I will never find myself threatened or harassed over this house.

Xan and Beast are happy here.

It is easy to clean and requires little maintenance.  It might be a little more overwhelming, since it’s a bit bigger than the other house.  But, I don’t have to look at torn out walls and feel a sense of hopelessness and fear toward the condition.

I can be happy here.  I have been happy here.  Summers are far more temperate and beautiful here.  Autumn is gorgeous with all of the foliage.  Winter might even be nice with fresh white snow covering the yard and the woods.

It’s quiet.  I can think.

And one day, I’ll be able to get around on my own.  Even if there is really nowhere to go.  I’ll be less lost and I’ll understand the area a little better.

I’ll find my place here.  I know I will.  It’s just going to take some time.

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Little Shades of Grey – Domestic Sexual Assault

Trigger Warning:  This post may contain triggers that would be hazardous for readers who have a history with sexual assault and crimes of that nature.  It is strongly advised that children under the age of 13 and those that may suffer adverse affects from this post take care and use caution while reading,.  Reader discretion is advised.

In the previous post, Little Shades of Grey – Sexual Assault by a Lover, there was a representation of statistics and a personal account concerning sexual assault and rape.  Unfortunately, that incident was not a sole occurrence.  In fact, it was just the first.

Some women are still stuck in the old mentality that there are just some things you have to do to please and keep your man.  I grew up with the idea that sometimes, I would have to perform sexual acts I did not want to participate in, or I’d have to engage in intercourse when the mood and / or time was not right for me.  It was the nature of being a woman.

Dozens of grey rapes, my mind came to put a term to it, so I wouldn’t actually have to relive it. It was the attempt to free myself from the haunting memories. But, it wasn’t enough. Dozens of times I said no. Many times he reminded me that if he wasn’t “gettin’ it from you, then I’ll get it somewhere else”. Bullied into it, by a man who preyed on my deepest vulnerabilities.

How many times had I thought we had a fantastic night only to wake up to a surly, dismissive, apathetic day?

I started to realize that there were no fantastic nights. There was cheap booze, little white lies, and completely carnal fucking.

The first instance with Avi was not even a full year after the incident with Beck.  It didn’t register, because it was just so subtle.  He lovingly and eagerly asked.  I was too ashamed to tell him the truth about what happened.  I was anxious at the idea of disappointing him, and I went along with it.  It was just that one time, right?  I could satisfy him and then say no.

Then, there is the mentality that no doesn’t really mean no.  For many women, myself included, there is a disconnect between mind and body.  While my mind may be shouting, “NO!”, my body may not be complying.  It’s confusing for a woman, and encouraging for a man.  Men, but societal rules, are accustomed to the chase.  Often times, men get the wrong signals.  And for a predator, that is a perfect excuse for inexcusable, despicable behavior.

To some men, no doesn’t mean no.  No means, coerce me.  No means, harass me.  And that’s exactly what I experienced.  There was no changing my mind, or else I was a tease of a girlfriend who deprived my boyfriend of sexual gratification for my own kicks.  There was no saying no, or my will would be broken down in one way or another.  Finally, not complying with his wishes was grounds for threats and dismissal.

“If you don’t do it by choice, then I’ll just have to take it by force.  But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  I shiver and tremble at that phrase.  In my mind, there was nothing worse than losing control of my situation.  What I didn’t realize was that sex and sexual acts were no longer my own choice.  I was, for all intensive purposes, a victim of continual sexual assault and grey rape.

Sex is often a mechanism for control.  And seeing as how I was also both a victim and abuser in other ways, it was the perfect arena for him to gain back control.  Though I would disagree, and I would put up a fight, he would always eventually win.  Nothing scared me more than another full on assault.  Maybe I thought I had the control by consenting.  It’s tricky to know.  I described a bit of it in Decent into Hell.

Just say yes, you little masochist.  

Addictions leave you little choice.

Help me tighten these chains.  Is that my voice?  My mind screamed to be released, for me to take the free ticket to ride and go.  But my heart without it’s limbs could not be freed from it’s vice.

The pleasant memories melted into the form of nightmares.  There was a double edged sword, turning the pleasurable jabs into horrific stabs.  My monologue’s narrator was raspy and exhausted.  Playful smiles turned to sinister grins just as loving chuckles morphed into maniacal laughter.  The blaze pushed forward, engulfing everything in sight.  It seared my flesh, leaving nothing but brittle bone.

In a domestic relationship, it becomes harder to define rape. It becomes even harder to convince others that the sexual contact was not consensual. Worse, is the probability that one will have to face their assailant in the wreckage of the aftermath of reporting.  And that’s possibly why so many sexual assaults and rapes go unreported in those situations.

There are deviant sexual acts I was forced to participate in that I am still ashamed of.  I recall my first threesome.  I consented to it under the pretense of defensive sex.

For those of you that are unfamiliar with defensive sex, it is a sexual response to an emotional manipulation playing on the insecurities of sexual performance and satisfaction.  It is an attempt to avoid abandonment and ease fears for some.  I recognize the manipulation in my own mind now.  And I realize that I had engaged in this behavior and played into his own hand.

The focus of the threesome shifted to a twosome, only involving me as a third party observer.  And I recall watching, thinking I had been tricked into watching my ex sexually gratify himself as a show of force.  As if he was proving to me that other women wanted him, and I was apt to lose him at any time.  I was ashamed at the manipulation.  Later, when my friend and I lost touch over it, I realized it was also an isolation mechanism, enabling all forms of abuse by removing me from third outsiders.

I could have never seen it coming.  Like other forms of abuse, it creeps up and becomes the new “norm”.  Also, it has devastating effects on emotional, sexual, and romantic dynamics in future relationships, again, like other forms of abuse.  This is just as real and horrifying as any other form of abuse, though it is far less recognized.  However, it should be recognized for what it is, and women should be educated and informed about the possibility of this type of hidden abuse.