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Emotional consequences.
X is Alexander Munce. For ease he is X in this blog, for readers?
Know: Alexander Munce is a rapist. He raped and molested me for years on a daily basis. There I said it. This is the first time I said it to a potential lover.
Emotional consciousness or consequences? Such as spending Friday night getting wasted in the city and spilling your secrets to someone fundamentally untrustworthy.
I was so drunk. The kind of legless intoxication that was a frequent companion in my youth. I did not drink for a year, and now I am trying to teach myself to moderate alcohol, but this is impossible when you take everything to excess like I do. Inhibitions are annihilated, and self control lost. At one stage I pulled out a joint and smoked it, the boy I was with was astounded. Apparently I don’t look like the kind of girl who smokes weed. Or takes pills. Or who overindulges frequently in prescription pills and cheap neurotic thrills.
I felt the need to justify myself to him.
“Do you want to know why I smoke weed?
It helps my PTSD.”
There I said it. That sordid abyss that rots my soul, fiber optic lametations prying into the vortex of my being. Cancerous inciniration of truth crawling across the table, a shred of vulnerability shrouded. I spat the gangrene connotation across the conversational spectrum, and hurled it in his face.
I am no longer an enigma to him. He knows one of my filthiest burdens.
I elaborated on the tedious dynamic that lingers between my rapist and I, a transient stockholm syndrome that resides. I can not let it go. The lacerating mental callouses seeth with a ferveng flame. The betrayal was so fucking immense. My soul dissolves in agony at the mention of that event. Every time I tell someone the honest truth about what X did to me, their jaws drop and their eyes fill with livid rage.
“How fucking dare he, that sick twisted motherfucker” they spit, pulsating venomous disdain into the air.
And in that moment I am reassured that what I endured was valid, and I cannot he sewn and silenced.
I seek to destroy X for his transgressions. He will pay the price for the animalistic and sadistic persistence he bombarded me with. He would only ever ejaculate when I cried and screamed in terror, begging him to stop.
No other man I have been with before has behaved as such a brute, lust filled beast as X did. I would pass out on antipsychotics, and wake up to him standing over me, his penis in hand, and he masturbated and rubbed his dick in my face, halfheartedly fondling my breasts while begging me to suck it as I slept.
What bugged me was when I said no, he persisted. He would not stop. And if he couldn’t get me to suck him, fuck him or give him a handjob, he would ejaculate over me as I lay, paralyzed in a seroquel slumber and then rub his semen over my bare flesh, and occasionally I would find out later he would take photos of my ass or pussy when I was asleep, covered with his cum. Without my consent, of course.
Yet the whole time this was happening, X tried to make me out to be abnormal for not enjoying these advances of his…
and still to this day, I doubt the legitimacy of the abuse although I was crying and screaming and he pinned me down as I was yelling no, please stop, because X is an extremely charismatic man and has a way of making me feel sorry for him.
I still need others to reaffirm what he did was wrong.
I cannot let what he did go. I will not let him get away with the pain he has inflicted.
