Tag: on the BL

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Seven Years Ago Tonight I Was Raped For the Last Time

RaeAnna

Sitting in my favorite spot in my favorite coffee shop in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood, I’m working on a listicle for tomorrow. Lacking in motivation and inspiration, I’m lackadaisically mocking up something mildly interesting, but decide to procrastinate by scrolling through Facebook to see just what I was up to on this day over the years. My eye catches on a specific yet vague post that only means something to me, and I’m reminded that seven years ago, a few hours from now, I will be raped for the last time.

I don’t drink anymore, which has nothing to do with the events of that night, but I still love a pretty mocktail.

I’m not sure if I want to write about the rape or if I want to write about the role social media plays in recovery, trauma, triggers, and moving on. Probably not either. I’m not actually ready to dive into the feelings of that rape. I don’t feel moved to write on social media either. Both are important, so I should pick one. Or trash this altogether and pretend I’m not crying in a coffee shop because of course my period is deciding to show up and be an emotional one. Then again, I might just be crying in a coffee shop because I was raped seven years ago and it is one of the harder stories I have to write. Partially because it’s the only one I don’t really remember. It is also the most stereotypical and statistically probable rape stories I have. Mostly it is still so fucking painful. Part of me wants to protect him and his family because I deeply care for them still. Even as I write this, I’m censoring every feeling and desire to talk about it because I do not want to give away any identifying information, but at the same time…. He fucking raped me. Then again, the role social media plays in this precise moment is something I have talked about and found fascinating every time a depressing memory pops up in my “On This Day” page or Timehop. 

I’m heading out to dinner with one of my good friends, so I can press pause on writing this and figure out what I want to do while pretending I’m completely fine with my friend. Write this? Don’t write this? Stop here, press publish, and call it good. Or continue on by diving into the trauma or the social media. Or find a whole other angle and write on that.  

Okay, I’m back. I decided to write…. I hate me. This job is terrible sometimes. Can someone please sponsor me or hire me to write a column so I can get paid for the pain I’m dredging up to create a little bit of good out of the craphole I call my past.

I’m choosing to kind of go in the rape direction but with a different angle because I literally threw up thinking about diving into that and I can’t stop shaking. I’m going to pretend the shakes are from the americano even though it very much is the anxiety.

Being the rape survivor I am, the kind of rape that was cyclical and repetitive. So many rapes. Too many to count. So many rapists. I think I know how many, but I’m not completely certain how many were involved in the gang rape, so it’s an estimate. At some point it all blurs together in a sweeping memory of the fact these things happened and were a daily part of my existence. Only the extraordinary instances stand apart from the others.  

I was drunk seven years ago, which for most people would not be unusual. I rarely drank and refused to get drunk with anyone but my partner. That night, I was with my best friend, a friend I’d had for a very long time, a friend I trusted completely. We drank. I drank a lot. I don’t remember what happened. I remember what came after. I remember being willing to look past it. To forgive. To move on. Chalk it up to a drunken night between friends. An oops we could laugh about later. But the truth is… I was way too far gone to give consent. I truly don’t remember anything, to this day, but I do know what happened. All I asked was to keep that night between us until I figured out how I felt. Instead, he told all our friends I was a bad lay. No shit. I was incompacitated. It also wasn’t sex. It was rape.    

Seven years ago was hard in an unexpected way. Being raped and recovering from that was not new and had become a routine part of my life. As shitty as it sounds, I know how to recover from rape, get my head on straight, pick myself back up, claim it, and keep trudging along. The act of getting over being raped seven years ago tonight wasn’t really that hard. I’d done it many times before; I half expected to do it again—most days I still do. What was hard was knowing my best friend did it to me. My best friend who knew everything did it to me. What was hard about that night and the aftermath wasn’t getting raped; though it was awful. It is always awful. It was and is the grief. 

Grief is a bitch. I have lost people in so many ways. Some from death, some from growing apart, some because they were cruel. Yes, I had lost people I was close to because they raped me. This was different. I grieved in a way I never had before. I recovered from being raped, but seven years later I still miss my best friend. He was family. He was a pillar in my life. He knew everything about me, and I lost him. I lost one of three people I thought I would be able to count on forever. The only person who had never made my faith in him and us waiver. He rocked the foundation of my soul because I lost faith in my own ability to trust people. I had let him into the darkest recesses of my soul for well over a decade. He knew things about me not a single other human knew. I let myself lean on him and depend on him in a way I haven’t been able to before or since. We went through so many things. We grew up together. We loved each other. We were as inseparable as two people could be while living in neighboring states. I legitimately thought of marrying him because the idea of spending my life with my best friend seemed awesome. 

He raped me, and I lost him. I lost his family who made me their family. I can’t scroll through my life from 13 to 23 without him playing some role in each memory. Even if he wasn’t physically present, he was always on the other end of a text conversation or phone call. 

As I write this, the grief is overwhelming. I remember him so starkly as the man I could count on. Not being able to remember the actual raping makes all of this harder. If I could remember, I could hate him. But I can’t. I don’t get to hold on to the terror or how unsafe I felt or my confusion or the moment I knew what was happening and accepted my fate or the stomach curdling touch of his hands on my body or any of the other things I know happened. The moments that would turn all of those happy memories sour so I could stop missing him, stop loving him. The one time I decided to drink with him, he raped me. Alcohol took the memories of those horrific moments away from me. Some have called it a blessing, but I don’t. I’m left grappling with the knowledge of what he did and the aftermath juxtaposed against ten years of trust, joy, laughter, history, and intimacy only people who experienced adolescence together have. There are two competing versions of this fundamental human in my mind and neither sit well. I grieve because I don’t have the man who was once so important in my life’s story, who knew me so well. I grieve because I don’t have the closure of being able to hate him so I can let go of that hate and move on. 

Alcohol can complicate things.

Whether I’ve thought about it or not, that moment rocked my trust in male friendship. I have always been a guys’ girl. I’ve always felt more comfortable with men than women. There’s an easy camaraderie between us. My dude friendships always outnumbered my lady friendships significantly. Sure dude friends had raped me before. Sure it was awful. None of them had been all that close. None of them really even came as much of a surprise when I put clothes on and climbed out of whatever spot they chose to rape me. I had never been hurt in that way by someone so close to me, someone I considered to be my person. I slowly let every dude friend in my life fade away. It took me five years to let another man come close to being my friend. I’m still working on allowing myself to trust the men I have in my life.

This is not a cautionary tale telling women and girls to not drink or they’ll be raped. Hell, I have hundreds of stories where I was stone cold sober getting raped. Rape is never the raped’s fault. Fault lies completely in the hands of the rapist. Don’t fucking rape people. If there is too much alcohol, don’t fucking touch them. Even if they beg. Err on the side of let’s enthusiastically and soberly consent to this. Like fucking adults. 

This is the story of life after. For those who say it gets easier. If it gets easier for you, I’m super duper happy for you, but that’s your story. Mine does not get easier. Fourteen years after the first time I was raped, I’m still broken. It’s livably difficult. There are new waves and new obstacles and new grievances. I am always processing and growing and figuring out how to deal with the consequences of men’s violence. Social media is full of reminders and triggers. Am I fine? Yes. I sure am. I’m sitting in a coffee shop, getting this out. Yes, there are tears. Yes, I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and doubled over hyperventilating. Yes, I will post this, then get up and walk to my car like nothing happened. I am a survivor, and it fucking sucks. I’m finally getting to the point where good things and bad things happen and I don’t instinctively want to call my rapist of a best friend. I have learned to live without him, but I miss him every day, which makes me sad because now I’m the person who misses her rapist. But I don’t miss the rapist, I miss the man he was before. So here I am. Pissed off, on my period, emotional, hyped up on caffeine, in public, and in desperate need of a hug. 

Happy Sunday. I was raped seven years ago tonight for the most recent time. I don’t know if I’m going to sleep tonight.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Past Me Would Be So Disappointed In Present Me

RaeAnna

I am not okay. 

Making struggling look chic since 1991.

I am, but I’m not. Life is always an adventure and a bit of an uphill battle. Yet I find myself struggling even more than usual as things like health issues, insecurities of freelancing, home upheavals, desire, and the overall current chaotic status quo of life and the world are ever looming in the back and even foreground of daily existence. What a time to be alive. 

The predictable New Year, New Me posts are running around the internet as we enter the third week of 2022. The usual ten year challenge is circulating with side by side pictures from 2012 and 2022 to show their glow ups. I may include my own, but I have not decided yet. Motivational posts are even more prevalent than usual in my feed, which is saying something considering the majority of women in my life are positive-look-how-far-you’ve-come-manifesting people. I am very much not that. 

There are lots of motivational things that really grate my soul, but the current, and so far longest lasting, motivational mantra that makes me want to move to the wilderness and quit all human interaction is any and all renditions of the following variations on:

“Think about how proud your past self would be if they could see you now.”
“Your past self would be so proud of you right now.”
“There is a past version of you that is so proud of how far you have come.” 
“If the version of you from five years ago could see you right now, they’d be so proud.” 

Gack! Absolute pukerific. 

Maybe one day, I can get on board. But at thirty, knowing who I was at fifteen, twenty, twenty-five… hate to tell these motivational humans: Past me would be soooo disappointed. There are past me’s who would be angry with the woman writing this. Even twenty-nine year old me would be a bit confused by the choices I made over the last year. I don’t think these posts are directed at high achievers who were absolutely gutted by some unfortunate tragedies of existing. In my youth, I had high hopes, big dreams, and a certain lack of empathy for seeing how life exists in shades of grey. At fifteen, I knew exactly what I wanted for my future and fell prey to the belief that with enough hard work and dedication, success is guaranteed… Call me a cynic, but that’s just not how life and success (which is highly personal and not at all one size fits all) works; privilege, opportunity, education, health, society, connection, gender, race, a bit of luck are all important details the American Dream conveniently leaves out. I digress. At twenty, I saw the same future for myself but with a far greater understanding of life’s grey scale. At twenty-five, my envisioned future started aligning more with my actual passions and abilities rather than a future I decided to want based on what had been deemed worthy according to societal pressures and my own desire to stick it to men. 

I decided to do a ten years later side-by-side. Kind of fun. 20 v. 30

Future I Wanted at 15-23
I wanted to have a power house career in the corporate world. Suits and heels. Sitting at a desk in a high rise with a view. Making so much money I could buy a Burberry purse and wear Louboutins—not everyday but, you know, have them in my closet. Sipping martinis at a swanky bar with my fellow powerful business lady friends after work. Going home to my quirky yet very classy one bedroom apartment and dog and settling into silk jammies and drinking wine on the couch as I read. Hopping on planes to go on adventures in five star hotels around the world. Maybe meet a person who likes the same things and never wants to get married or have children.

Future I Wanted at 25 
Basically the same except change the corporate America bit to be a successful memoirist, freelance writer, and stand up comic with goals of being a writer for film and TV working mostly from my home office except when remarkably cool projects took me onsight somewhere. Also my swanky apartment would need to have a study because fuck working in an office.

Present
I’m going to be far more transparent about my life as it is than I care to be, but I would be a terrible writer if I turned away from things that scare me.

At 23, I was on a path to make my future a reality. I ended up in a job that I was very good at which would lead to financial prosperity, in part because I was on track to make six figures before 25 combined with the fact my car was paid off and I had no debt. Burberry and red bottoms were almost tangible at 23. After two months, I realized I was fucking miserable. Being great at a job does not guarantee happiness. Before I turned 24, I knew I was going to walk out of the door because I was not a suit up for work kind of woman the way I had thought and hoped I was. I willingly and happily walked away from the future I had worked incredibly hard for to be poor and change the world… Okay be poor and try to change the world. 

My health is fucking shit. There were two years where I spent a lot of money seeing specialists trying to figure out how to get better. I gave up. There’s only so much “You’re fine” a person can hear when things are clearly not fine. I have spent months at a time stuck at home unable to leave because I’m debilitated. It’s hard to write or even find work when I’m so weak walking to the bathroom is almost impossible. I would be lying if I said there weren’t days where I would make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets in the bathroom with water and books because I was unable to go from couch to bathroom quick enough. Oh chronic illness. I’ve been enjoying a fairly tame period, so knock on wood, yay. 

Financially… I hate life. I love my job. I would love my job more if I made money. I make money, but COVID fucked it all up. I was really on my way to doing quite well when COVID showed up. I had niched myself as a freelance writer for women, creatives, and travel. Three areas that were hit incredibly hard by COVID? Yes. When my clients’ lives are thrown for a loop, my income falters. I am not in a financial spot where I can support myself. I also have this really awful problem of letting people take advantage of me financially… To the point it has put me in a not great spot. Like actually really bad. Only took me thirty and a half years to get here, but I’m working on setting some firm boundaries, but I’m terrible at it. Upside, I know why I’m like this, but it’s a long story, and I don’t care to share. 

Saying this always feels very self-indulgent, but it’s objectively not untrue. I was dealt a rough hand when it comes to life. Growing up in a house steeped in toxicity and abuse, I was not set up for success on a personal level; though it did push me to succeed academically so I could get the fuck out. Hey, did that at least. All of this was quickly followed by years of rape and abuse at the hands of men. I spent my twenties emotionally coming to terms and owning just how fucked up and unstable I am and then learning how to cope with it all. I’m stable, but I’m also a gigantic dumpster fire below the surface. My saving grace is my hyper self-awareness that lets me publicly own the fact I’m the homeless person riding in the back of the struggle bus so no one can shame me or leave me under the pretense of hiding it. I also need to add in my depression, PTSD, and occasionally crippling anxiety.

Also I have six dogs, own a house, and live in the United States with a man. I very much did not want to have a lot of dogs, own property, live in the U.S., or live with a man. These were things I very much wanted to avoid. Yet here I am.

The only reason I have been able to survive and live the life I lead as a young freelancer with serious health problems is because I’ve made exceptionally great decisions even under duress, I’m fantastic with money (when I make/have it and when I don’t), I took my clothes off in college and therefore have minimal debt. I chose a partner who gave me a place to collapse when my health was [is] poor and as my freelancing career took off and then stalled. I do not want to admit this, but I’m going to because I’m not the only human in this position. I hate being dependent on anyone ever for anything. Yet, I have had to be dependent on my best friend over the last five years for short and long periods of time. From picking me up from the bathroom floor to taking care of our mortgage, he has consistently been my partner. I hate, hate, hate that I’m financially dependent on him. It gives me so much anxiety. It keeps me up at night. It is the one thing I always wanted to avoid and successfully did for years. If you look at the future I wanted, it never included a partner or being dependent on anyone. I have deep seeded issues with avoiding dependence of any kind. If I’m not 100% completely independent, I feel like I’m failing. I like being the successful one, the one with money, the one who’s got it all figured out, but I am not that right now. 

I like the way my life looks in pictures because it completely glosses over the fact I’m a disaster.

Boy, oh boy, do I feel like a failure. I stood in my kitchen an hour ago sobbing because I feel like I have done nothing and am a complete waste of oxygen. Hell, I can’t even support myself and my dogs without assistance. I am struggling mentally more than I have in a long time. I have not made a difference. I make shit for money. I’m exhausted, in pain, and a giant mess. I have failed in every sense to accomplish any of the things I wanted to accomplish. I am so mentally and emotionally depleted that for the last two years, the thought of writing anything meaningful makes me want to disappear. Actually the thought of disappearing makes me feel better.

When people tell me they’re jealous of my life, job, travels, whatever, my immediate thought is what the fuck is wrong with you? There is nothing to be jealous of. I should be a cautionary tale rather than inspire jealousy. My current life shituation makes my skin crawl.

Looking at my life in comparison to the things I wanted for myself five, ten, fifteen years ago… Well, I have absolutely failed. Achieved zero things. I think the only thing twenty year old me would be proud of is the fact I’m not dead. Although the fifteen and twenty-five year old me’s might be disappointed in that fact. Suicide has been a prevalent part of my life’s story. I am not dead. I am probably not even a failure. 

Life is not black and white, it is all shades of grey. I’m thirty having achieved nothing that I want to. That’s okay. Thirty is not where life ends, though society leads us to believe it to be so. Maybe I have a long life ahead of me. Maybe I don’t. What I do know is that I’ve lived a hard life. I had to take a good chunk of time off from achieving things other than not dying and keeping the dogs alive. Putting myself back together was more of a priority than chasing bylines or writing books or advocating for change. I can’t do those things if I’m dying inside. 

Future I Want Now 
My idea of success is vastly different than it was even five years ago. Part of that is because I’ve welcomed my gay identity with open arms and can embrace a future I never imagined for myself. I would love to be financially successful enough to buy a lighthouse in Scotland to write and relax and have a cute house in Houston’s Heights or Montrose neighborhood. But I’ll be content if I can take care of myself, my dogs, and travel here and there. More than anything, I’m chasing happiness. I want to be happy and surround myself with humans who challenge and inspire me. I want to fall in love and stay in love. I want to change the world and create a safe space for people to exist as they are. I want to laugh and cry and be vulnerable. I want to be a source of love and kindness and acceptance in the world. I want things that cannot be quantifiably measured. 

My life is not where I want it to be. That goes for all past versions of myself and me as I write this. This is not the life I want for myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m disappointed in the life I’m living. I am old enough to know everything I have done and all the choices I’ve made were best given the circumstances. I’m doing what I have to as I figure out how to survive, get through, and maybe even have a future that doesn’t include an excess of poverty. I do not regret a single thing in my life. I am a culmination of everything I have experienced, and I don’t hate me. I like who I am. I’m even kind of proud of this woman. I’m still alive, and, for me, that’s an achievement. So I’m going to keep trying, being who I am, and I will get to a point where I’m proud of where I am. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., In My Own Words, Lifestyle

11… Tidbits of Life I Avoid At All Costs

RaeAnna

Writing is about cracking into one’s soul and extracting truth. It’s a raw and often painful process. Especially when one’s chosen genre is memoir or creative nonfiction, like mine. Fiction has never called to me; not that I don’t or can’t. Creativity is not my talent, and I’ve lived an interesting enough life to provide a good amount of therapy, I mean, content to write on for a good long time to come. 

Sometimes I feel like I should just be a hermit in the wilderness I avoid so many essentially human things.

The genre is an interesting choice because I’m an intensely private person. What a conundrum. From a very young age, I realized if I shared enough seemingly personal things, I wouldn’t have to share anything of actual importance. As a writer who puts words into the world about my life and story for the purpose of starting conversations to change the world for the better, I have been able to find an incredibly delicate balance. My writing is far more honest than I am in person. Face-to-face, I have a tendency to undershare through rose colored glasses. 

During the four years I was a stripper, coworkers, who I had spent thousands of hours with naked, never knew I had been raped until one my rapist walked up to my stage on my second to last night. Suffice to say, I lost my shit. I’d been hit and abused in front of these men and women for years, and they’d never seen me cry or even lose a smile. I am a well curated façade allowing people to see only what I choose, except under the most remarkable circumstances. 

My ability to share an overview of my abused past or even the gory details of certain events without allowing people to know me is, honestly, exceptional. People feel like I’m letting them in, but, in reality, all they would have to do is google me to find out far more. It’s my way of testing the waters; seeing if they can and want to handle it; but I’ve done it so many times over the years, it’s just one of many stories to tell in the “This is who I am, who are you?” dance we do with new people. 

As a coping mechanism to keep people at a distance there are so many things I don’t do or won’t talk about or avoid in general. Never were these choices I made consciously. Habits developed over time from experience, callousness, pain, or goodness knows. I have always held people at arms distance, only letting them get so close, only showing so much, sidestepping vulnerability in favor of mock intimacy. As you can imagine, this is detrimental to relationships of all kinds. More often than not, it has helped me survive. But I am consciously trying to move forward differently because I’m not trying to just survive anymore. 

Sometimes I feel like I live in isolation surrounded by humans.
  1. Feelings Having them. Talking about them. Other people’s feelings are welcome, valid, heard, honored. Mine… I’m sorry. What feelings? I’m just happy, rainbow, sprinkles, sunshine lady all the time, forever. I spent a very good chunk of my life ignoring the fact that feelings outside of happiness existed. When I went to college and met someone who made me confront those feelings, it wasn’t pretty. There’s a strong history of disassociating from all feelings outside of a very compact zone of happy because the moment too much joy, an inkling of sadness, a smidgen of discontent crept into that zone, I did not know how to handle it and would absolutely crumble. I’m better. I’m not great. Feelings are still hard because they’re a gnarly, interconnected yarn ball with a potential to unravel if a random string is pulled a little too much.    
  2. Being Held Touch is integral to my relationships, platonic and romantic. I’m a very touchy human. I love cuddling. I’m realizing by cuddling, I mean holding someone because I can hold people without a problem. Turn that around, not so much. Being held is hard for me. Really, really difficult. I don’t let people hold me much. If ever. Or very long. Hugs. Being the one cocooned in a cuddle. Little spoon. There’s a time limit that my body reaches where I have to let go, become the one doing the holding. I would rather stand sobbing in my kitchen with someone watching me at arms distance than be held. For me, it feels so vulnerable and intimate. There’s a sense of depending on someone, letting them take the weight of me and my pain, a transference or sharing of emotion. If I’m crying and someone holds me, I may not stop. I have this innate need to suck it up. Do it alone. Being held feels like my independence is being taken away because I’m letting someone in. Just a calm night on the couch with no drama or anything other contentedness, if I’m the one being held, I could tear up because I get overwhelmed feeling connected to someone. Even typing this, the thought of someone holding me for too long makes me antsy. I get this is problematic and that I likely need more human touch than I’m getting. Also I should learn to be vulnerable with people, but I had a really bad habit of choosing all the wrong humans to be vulnerable around, so I compensated by never leaning into people. I guess quite literally.
  3. Attachment Getting attached to people sucks because there’s feelings, and I think I’ve been very clear on how I feel about feelings. Many people in my life have turned out to be… abusive. To put it bluntly and a bit lightly. When parents, close friends, and romantic partners are highly abusive, it makes forming attachments with new people even just as friends incredibly hard. There are some trust issues here. Staying detached makes it hurt less when I get treated like shit or they leave or they leave after treating me like shit.  
  4. Sex with Lights Off I can’t. I don’t like. In the dark, I can’t see my partner. With my past of rapeyness, I have some lingering issues. Sex with the lights on allows me to feel safe and comfortable. The likelihood I lose my shit is much lower. Fluorescent, stage lighting, super bright isn’t necessary, but I do need some light.  
  5. Crying I hate crying. This feels self-explanatory. I don’t like crying in general. But crying in front of people. Whew. No. Way too vulnerable. We’re very far outside my compact zone of happy, and I am not happy about it. If you see me cry: a) I’m really in my feelings. b) I trust you. b alternative) I might be really angry, so this is not a trust you moment. c) I am hating it while it is happening and will do everything in my emotional wheelhouse to stop immediately.
  6. Hope This is a depressing one. I am an optimistic person for other people. When it comes to myself, I take realism to an extreme. I expect the worst, prepare for the worst, and don’t dare to hope for anything except the worst. The few times I have allowed myself to even contemplate things might be turning around… the things I was optimistic about turn out to be pretty insurmountable obstacles. I have surmounted them but always at great cost. Hope has led me to dark and even dangerous places. I just don’t. I tend to take each day, each moment as it comes, as it is. I keep going not out of hope but out of obligation, necessity, the fact others need me to. 
  7. Mixing Public and Private There are clear divisions in my life. A whole lot of compartmentalization. My home and what goes on inside it is very much a private place. Very few people know what is going on in my family. Maybe one day, I will feel like opening up more about the relationships in my life, but I keep them private. For as much as I share on social media, I keep it very much in its own lane. Whether people realize it or not, there are very clear boundaries maintained at all times. Part of this is because it’s nice having things just for me. Partially out of respect for my family and friends’ privacy. Honestly, mostly, it’s for self-preservation. Until things are cemented, I don’t write or talk about them. I DO NOT LIKE CHANGE OR EXPLAINING THINGS THAT ARE NOT AS CERTAIN AS LIFE CAN BE CERTAIN. There are three relationships I will write about with a degree of freedom, and those are my three people. One of which I spent many years romantically entwined with; the other two have always been strictly my closest friends. These relationships are going nowhere, probably. I can write about them honestly and openly because I know they love me, support me, and are stuck with me because I know too damn much. 
  8. Silence I love silence, but I have to be incredibly comfortable with someone to be in silence with them. Normally, if there is silence, I will fill it by asking lots of questions. Get the conversation moving… as far away from me as possible. Or I’ll start dancing like the uninhibited human I am for a laugh. The only time I’m really comfortable with silence is when I’m letting questions or statements sink in, allowing my conversation partner time to think and open up more than they would otherwise. I like hearing people’s stories, and silence makes other people just as uncomfortable so they fill it with all sorts of interesting tidbits. I don’t like silence because it gives people time to read me or come up with prying questions. I have a great poker face, but I don’t like to bank on it. 
  9. Prolonged Eye Contact I think most people avoid this. Eyes are telling. It’s cliché but true. This is a double edged sword. Like silence, I love good eye contact because it allows me to really see people, but it also allows them to see me. Abuse and stripping taught me to veil my eyes, but some people are good at seeing through it, calling bullshit. I rarely look at someone with unguarded eyes. One of the most interesting compliments was from a gay man in the strip club. I was 21 and tired after ten hours on my feet with four more to go. We sat and chatted for a while when he said, “You have Marilyn Monroe eyes.” Obviously I said thank you, but he continued, “You’re both beautiful. Her eyes were sad in the way your eyes are sad. It’s not a fleeting sorrow. The kind that killed her. You both guard your souls because all you’ve known is pain. It’s hard to see, but it’s there.” I felt so seen. I hated it. A stranger called me out, on the job. No thank you. It hasn’t happened since. 
  10. Confrontation This isn’t even the angry kind of confrontation; I can handle that, even if I don’t love it. I avoid confrontation in the being confronted kind of way. I find people fairly predictable. They ask the same questions in different but similar fashions. My life story and what I do isn’t exactly run of the mill, so when people find some things out, they tend to ask questions. I have no problems with questions. I love them. It allows me to share my passion with people and learn from them at the same time. Due to severe anxiety, I have tons of canned responses to an array of common questions. This makes me sound smarter than I am and doesn’t require thinking on my feet. I hate being flustered and having to come up with cohesive and interesting answers representing my truest feelings, opinions, or facts on the matter is very stressful and not something I’m naturally gifted at. It’s rare that I find someone who asks new, interesting, and nuanced questions. I have unfortunately found one of those humans recently, and she’s full of smart people questions. It’s throwing me off my game, and I’m realizing just how much I rely on these go-to answers. I say unfortunately but actually it’s fascinating the questions she asks because it makes me think and forces me to articulate things I do not usually disclose or even formulate into cohesive ideas outside of the thought clouds in my brain. I end up sounding like a bumbling stream of consciousness rather than the tenacious writer I pretend to be. I am a writer not a speaker. I can edit words on a page. I cannot go back three days later and say, “Hey, remember that miniscule conversation we had twelve days ago in passing? No? Well, I can’t stop thinking about it, so here is my dissertation on it anyway.” I HATE, HATE, HATE not being clear or concise. Being misunderstood is one of my great fears in life, and being confronted ups the chances I will be misunderstood.  
  11. Women Weird since I’m very gay, but also why it’s taken me so long to just be very gay. This is kind of a culmination of this entire list. Men and women are different. (The feminist in me feels the need to state that does not imply women are undeserving of equality/equity.) Men trend towards surface level interactions for much longer than women. Even after years with men, the conversations, questions, interactions are more surface level and less intrusive than with women. I’ve covered more on a first hangout with a woman than I have after a year with a man. This is terrifying when you’re a very private person with a shit ton of baggage and trauma who also has a chronic problem glossing over all of these things. Opening up about all of these things ever let alone quickly is intimate, intimidating, and rough for me and, oftentimes, for them. Women are excellent at all of the things on this list that I avoid, whether that’s biological or environmental—I’ll let scientists fight over that. Women, on average, are exceptional at creating deep bonds quickly, which I avoid… always. Making it difficult to have and keep women in my life as friends or whatever. I’ve been doing a lot of work on this since moving to Houston. I’m getting better. I’m intimidated. It’s great. I’m fine. 

I’m done now. This list caused a lot more emotions than I thought it would. I only cried twice. A few more things I need to work on have been identified. Shocking I have friends or people in my life. I’m a dumpster fire. God help me. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

Shop the Post
[show_shopthepost_widget id=”4670172″]

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I’ve Lost My Christmas Spirit

RaeAnna

I love Christmas. It is, without a doubt, my favorite holiday because it is a season. Yes I am usually that human who starts playing Christmas music around midnight on November 1st. I could give Buddy the Elf a run for his Christmas cheer, and our likeness this time of year has been referenced more than a few times. 

I really did dress up just for this picture. I was not feeling it at all… and actually cried a fair bit of today.

Normally I bake like I’m Mrs. Claus trying to take on world hunger. I fill my Instagram feed with all the Christmassy things I’m dragging everyone in my circle to do. I dress in ridiculously over the top red and green ensembles for a month straight. I read and review all the latest Christmas rom-coms. All the new and cringey Hallmark movies are watched, along with Netflix and Hulu. I am not normally the gooey romantic type, but at Christmas I become a trope steeped in tradition and sentimentality. 

Today is Christmas Day, and I’m sitting in a Starbucks watching the sun rise writing this. Christmas has always been that one time of year that I could not be stopped… But over the last few years, I have been not so slowly losing my Christmas spirit. To the point that this year the only reason I even have a tree in the house is because of my pawtner. I don’t think I would have bothered to get one. The reason my office tree is set up is because he brought it into the house and stuck it in my way until I decorated it. Very few Christmas cookies were baked. I have watched all of five Christmas movies, zero Hallmark, and only because of other people. I have taken a total of none Christmassy pictures. I’ve posted zero Christmas book reviews. I didn’t even do anything for Christmas Eve yesterday. My person is in town, who I have spent eleven years of my life with, and all we did was lay on the couch and watch movies and order Chinese. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?!?

Depression. Anxiety. PTSD.

I hate using these things as crutches or excuses, but I’m finally to a point where I can/have to admit: They have been seriously affecting my life. I have been in survival mode for so fucking long. Doing what I can to get by and make everyone around me feel better. Things had to go. Pieces of my soul, life, person, career, heart have been left behind bit by bit.. So much in my life has been sacrificed to maintain the status quo, to make it through, to keep existing. The struggle to not give in to the parts of me that just wants to call it quits. I have too many dogs who depend on me for that bullshit. Although, it’s not just depression, anxiety, and PTSD, there are outside factors that have been exacerbating and contributing to my current less than optimal mental status. I spent 2020 being a mess at the heart of puppy chaos. 2021 has been spent figuring out what needs to go, what needs to change, and what I want. 2022 will be the year I get the hell out of this dark pit I’ve called home for about 30 and a half years. I think I know who I am again… for once. If I don’t, I’m at least heading in a direction I don’t gutterally hate. 

It’s Christmas. People always use the New Year or birthdays as a starting over point, but Christmas has always been my time to shine. It’s always been a starting and end point. The place where the year ends and I can begin looking forward to next year. I doubt this will make sense to anyone, but it’s what works for me. I’m using today as my reset button. Things have to change. I need to get back to me. I want to love Christmas again. Next year, I will. 

I let Christmas go this year; it’s what I needed to do. I took it easy and posted nothing. I celebrated a little with the people I care about most. Today, the day of, will be a good day. It’s a simple day. I get to spend it with the people I want to, and those who I don’t get to see, I’ll call. I’ll cook, watch movies, drink hot cocoa, and go see Christmas lights. I’m healthy. The dogs are fed and happy. I have a home. I’m not where I want to be, but I think I’m on my way. I’m starting to do things for me again… for the first time? I’m tired, but I am looking forward to what the next year will bring. I’m going to put my head down and work, work, work to get to where I need to be for myself, for my dogs, for those I love. 

It may not feel like Christmas for me now, but a lot can change in 365 days.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Books, Fiction

The Twelve Dates of Christmas by Jenny Bayliss

RaeAnna

Worth A Read Eh
Length 340
Quick Review Single and independent Kate is coerced into a dating service consisting of twelve dates with twelve men by her best friend in Blexford, England. 

I really don’t know what I’m doing, but whatever!

It’s a cute yet predictable story—I feel like I will probably say that a few times over the course of my Christmas book reviews this year and for the rest of eternity because I have yet to find a revolutionary one. Anyways, The Twelve Dates of Christmas is cute. Frankly, give me anything set in England and I’ll like it more than I would if it’s set in the U.S.

Kate is an artist. Having moved to her hometown of Blexford to be with her father, she’s been single in a small town for a good bit. She’s a smart and sassy sweetheart with a fierce independence that makes it hard for her to find a partner. Though Kate has all but given up on a happily ever after, her best friend, Laura, has not and convinces her to join a dating agency that will send her on twelve dates with twelve different men spanning the Christmas season. At the age of 34, Kate has very much decided she’s not searching for passion but compatibility. Throughout the Christmas season, she spends her time with her best friend Matt, Laura, and all the vibrant characters decorating the town. 

Like all romance novels, the characters are ridiculously over the top, but I personally enjoyed “The Knitting Sex Kittens were a formidable group of women, all over age sixty and all single, by either design, divorce, or death.” The town and characters are saturated in Christmas joy and cheer, and, let’s be honest, that is the only reason I read this or any Christmas novel at all. I’m here for the Christmas spirit. 

Kate is an ambitious woman with lots to give but she ends up having many conversations along the lines of: ““I’m not looking for sparkle, Dad,” said Kate. “I am on a grown-up-woman mission to find a suitable, sensible partner who has no improper pride and is perfectly amiable.”” As a single woman in my thirties, I can, in some ways, identify with the want to search out compatibility over passion, but, and luckily Kate does figure it out, both is an option and the best option. 

The biggest problem I had with The Twelve Dates of Christmas were the grammatical errors and typos. I’m not even going to blame Bayliss for this because the copy editor should have caught it. For me it was distracting, but the average reader probably won’t even pick up on it. I’m going to call this: editor problems. As in most rom-com books, the character development is lack luster at best, but it’s a fun, easy read to take our minds off the holiday stresses. 

You can put this one on your holiday reading list to enjoy. 

Memorable Quotes
“Kate had to admit that her regime of pajamas, toast, and telly by seven thirty every night was not conducive to establishing a satisfying sex life.”
“But for her, contentment waned quite quickly to become a faint questioning, which bloomed into nagging doubt and ultimately wholehearted assuredness that it wasn’t right. Laura called it self-sabotage. Kate called it gut instinct.”

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Title: The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Author: Jenny Bayliss
Publisher: Putnam 
Copyright: 2020
ISBN: 9780593085387

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Am Not Trauma Bonding

RaeAnna

I am not trauma bonding. 

I’m incredibly open about my past, which was basically 24 years of constant trauma. (The last six have seen their trauma, but nowhere near the first two and a half decades of the hellscape I called home.) So fun! It’s a huge part of my life and led to my career in social justice and writing and depression (kidding?). If I could separate me the person from me the traumatized, I fucking would. But I can’t. It is ever present. A character in my story. It comes up. In my stories and especially in my humor. If you don’t like dark humor at my own expense… I’m probably not for you. To be in my life is to have some familiarity with my trauma. Don’t confuse that with bonding or asking others to take it on. I’ll carry that weight; I’ve got this; it’s not new. My pain is a familiar companion. 

My trauma solidified my existence as a raging intersectional feminist in search of knowledge.

When a new person starts to enter my life in a non-surface relationship, I tend to give the ten minute run down. Friends, dating, whatever. The rundown will happen sooner rather than later.

I am not trauma bonding.

Sharing the events that made me is as necessary as where I’m from and who my siblings are. I am a writer who specializes in memoir work. One of the biggest reasons I give the rundown is because I want a person to find out from me what happened to me. It’s a heads up. A hey, I’m okay. I don’t want them to find out all the really violent and awful things that were my daily life through an Instagram post, an article on Medium, through my blog, on Facebook, or worse a 280 character tweet. I’m not about to do that to a person cause that just feels shitty to me. I wouldn’t want to find out someone I care about even a teensy bit was gang raped at nineteen. I want people to know I’m okay; I’m not a sploot on the surface of the Earth. I’m a broken, thriving human. 

I am not trauma bonding.

My story opens the door for people to tell me their own stories. Or not. It’s up to them. I’m not trying to have a good cathartic cry and feel my feelings with someone. No one gets that. Tears and devastation are left for solo road trips and hot showers. I’m not looking to be raw and open. I’m looking to change the world, even if it’s just in small ways. My story is not new, but it has had an impact on people’s lives; helped them find their own voice; not feel so alone; know someone somewhere sees their pain and cares. My story is in the world because I want to end the stigma for survivors, for those who did not survive, for those who have yet to survive. Maybe my story will stop someone from going too far and creating another survivor. I don’t know. Do we ever really know the impact of our existence in the world? All I know is that I have a voice. I have a past. I will use my voice to do as much good in the world as I can.   

I can be broken and strong, femme and capable, vulnerable and resilient, traumatized and healthy.

I am not trauma bonding.

I am simply preparing people for what the reality of being in my life is. To stand by my side in any significant capacity is to bear witness to pain that was, is, and will be. Though the events of my past are solidly in my past, the consequences and pain are ever evolving. I’m constantly reconciling and healing. Honestly, I’m also testing the waters to see if this new person can handle it. Out of sheer self-preservation, I’m not going to let myself become emotionally involved with someone who will flee when the hard stories start coming up. Let alone if they invest a lot of time and get to the point where they may see the consequences of another’s actions in the form of my anxiety, PTSD, depression, and OCD. The truth is, I am a bit of a mess. My life and mental health is really in a good place considering, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days. I want to know I can potentially show a side of me that is not completely together and capable. I don’t want to hide integral pieces of myself. Fuck, I’m not going to stop writing, talking, and fighting for change because someone is uncomfortable with my past; I’ve been there too many times to do it again. I take pen to paper, fingers to keys, putting that pain on display for the world to see and hopefully feel. This is my job. This is my purpose.

I am not trauma bonding. 

Silence was my protector for so long. I refuse to be silent. I refuse to be a well behaved woman. I am strong. I am broken. I am clumsy. I am kind. I am funny. I am sad. I like to think I’m smart. I am multitudes. But I am traumatized. I am not asking a single person to take that trauma on. It is just a story among many stories of my life. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna