Trauma or attraction

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The key to my lock

I don't wanna post this on tumblr cause this feels a bit too dark and gruesome, too personal and too private. But I need to vent it just the same, so I put it here. It also led me to yet another important realisation.

I really wish I hadn't been raped. It fills me with such sadness today. I'm still turned on by fantasies of random men raping me, and it makes me feel so horrible. Like the fantasies themselves make me wanna crawl out of my skin, cry and go to sleep. They gross me out, scare me and make me nauseous. And they give me the saddest orgasms. I don't know how to break that chain. I don't wanna cum from those fantasies, I don't want them in my head.

It takes more and more effort to even make myself masturbate when those fantasies rape my mind. And those orgasms come almost right away, within a couple of minutes. But they make me feel like shit.

This time I was out for a smoke on my balcony when one of those intrusive fantasies popped up. I've had similar ones before, but not very recently. It's a dystopic future fantasy of a society where it's been decided that everyone has to offer sex to anyone who wants to fuck them, by law, as in no form of discrimination is legal, including sexual. And of course a lot of unwanted, creepy, straight men start going after all the women they want to fuck. And the women can't say no. Of course then one of those sleezy guys comes up to me and demands sex. And I'm repulsed, both in the fantasy and in real life, but at the same time extremely turned on.

I finished the cigarette when the guy in my fantasy tells me I have to take him to my bedroom and he tells me to undress. In reality I lied down on my bed and slipped down my pants, reached for my vibrator and positioned it. In the fantasy the guy again tells me to undress while my entire being tells him to stop. I do not want this. But I undress for him in my mind, reluctantly, and lie down on my back on a bed. He tells me to masturbate until I'm wet, then asks me if I'm wet. I checked with my fingers in reality and tell him yes as I reached for my dildo. He lies on top of me in my mind and the dildo is his dick as I push it inside myself. I came within half a minute, but remained in the bed just lying like that for a few minutes, struggling to get back up again.

It feels like depression right after that kind of orgasm. It feels like I'm suddenly completely dead inside. It feels like I am being raped by my own mind, and I can't excape it.

Yes, realising I'm a lesbian changed everything. And I'm not too happy about it. I can't pretend to like these fantasies anymore. I can pretend that I invited them into my mind freely, when it's so obvious now that they break down the door and take me by force. When I finally started saying no but they don't care. That's when it started to really affect me badly. Cause I started resisting them but they don't take no for an answer. The horniess I feel for them feels like my body betraying me. I hate the fantasies, the men in them gross me out, I don't want to look at them, I don't want them to touch me or fuck me.

But take me, I'm their whore and slave, I guess. All I can do is keep spreading my legs cause it won't stop. But it's affecting me worse and worse. I don't know what it will lead to, eventually.

I feel like my rapist took my lesbianism away from me. And not even now that I finally know I'm gay, not even now, can I have it. Cause I'm being forced to fuck men in my fantasies. The terror and pain he created within me is repeating itself like a nightmare stuck on a loop, again and again, that I can't wake up from, and it's slowly turning me into stone.

Cause it doesn't matter what I think or do, or how much I'd rather think about some cute and sexy woman playing with my pussy and me playing with her pussy instead. Or just sit on a pack of ice until I can't feel my aroused pussy anymore. It almost makes me wanna die. When I get so horny from such an intrusive fantasy that just keeps playing in my head and I get so aroused I can't stop myself from getting rid of the feeling by masturbating to orgasm. It makes me almost want to die when I cum from that. Like it sucks the life force out of me and I struggle to move, think or feel anything at all.

And I'm just lying there. One minute longer for each time, cause I feel so empty I might as well just be a shell.

I would never be turned on like that, or at all, by a man in real life. I never have been. And I don't at all get turned on by "healthy sex" fantasies of men. It's only the rape (and mutilation) fantasies, and they carve out my will to live, cause I feel like my own mind has just raped me. And I know it's because I was raped in reality, all those years ago, cause I know that feeling by experience. What it feels like to have just been raped. I felt like my body had been turned inside out, numb yet hurting, moderately dissociating and extremely disconnected fromy my body. As if I didn't even have a body but just a head floating around in the air. It reminds me of an audiobook I have and listened to a few times. It's about a girl who's a victim of sex trafficking and gets involved in a series of crimes that some detectives try to solve. Sometime in the beginning of the book the writer describes how she, and her friend who's also stuck in the same kind of life (they're "colleagues" I guess), deal with the sex they have with the clients who pay for them. The main character girl describes it as that she "doesn't have a body" but is just a head, and her friend desacribes it as that she "only has a body" but it's not real what's happening. And sadly, both of those describe really well how I've handled my entire sex life.

My dysphoria, that I used to have, of course also confused me in my "attraction" to men. I thought it was because of my dysphoria that I dissociated during sex. It wasn't. That was also because I wasn't into the men and cause I was actually grossed out by being fucked by them. I thought it was my own body that grossed me out, when in fact it was their bodies that did.

I never had any such dark sexual fantasies before the rape. I'm yet again in a phase of being angry at my rapist for having done that to me, and slightly hating him for it. I try not to hate him, to not fuel that fire. Cause it only leads to more pain. I gain nothing from hating him. But I do hate him, cause it feels like he ruined my sex life and took my lesbianism away from me. Well he did, in a sense, didn't he? Like he lit a small flame in a fire stove, but the flames spread and burned down the entire house. My home.

I wanna rip his guts out for it, and choke him with them. But I know not even that would be enough, nothing would, and that's why revenge just never is an a good idea. But fuck I still hate him for ruining my life, and it makes me want to ruin his. But justice is an illusion. It will never feel fair for me, no matter what I could conceivably put him through. It wouldn't solve a damn thing.

But for all its worth... I think he just made me even gayer. Cause he gave me quite a strong distaste for men, making me properly disgusted by even just the thought of sex with men, while the thought of sex with other women, and romance, stands out like a beautiful garden amidst a war torn landscape. That's how I see what I feel women versus what I feel for men, sexually and romantically. It's that strong of a contrast. But just to clarify that I don't idealise my love for women: beautiful gardens do tend to have some sharp thorns, nasty bugs and weeds too. But it also feels like I'm trying to grow that garden with my love for women and wanting to heal my sex life, on what is currently a war torn landscape. But I have to bury the remains of fallen soldiers, collect the broken weapons and landmines, and wash the blood from the ground first. Right now I can't make anything grow there.

Of course I can't know what it would have been like if I had never crossed paths with my rapist, but I don't think I would have been quite this fucked up if I had never been raped. For every single guy I had sex with, it was trying to find my rapist in them. But none of them were even close to as bad as him. None of them cruel enough to treat me like he did... to my utter disappointment.

Something just hit me... Oh my god, I never thought it was an important detail but fuck I've been wrong... When I was raped, he didn't actually quite manage to get his dick inside me, cause my pussy locked up or spasmed or something. It does that sometimes when I'm tense and scared, and it did that during that evening with him. But he kept trying and and pushing his dick against the opening of my vagina until I started bleeding. It hurt really bad and it was clearly against my will, and I had given him my complete lack of consent. But no, he didn't actually manage to get inside me.

But that's good, right? No... it wasn't.

I always felt like it "wasn't actual rape" cause he didn't get it inside me, so I always went with the slightly altered story that he did get it in. But why is that important, all of a sudden? Because for every guy after him... I wanted for it to be my rapist finishing his job, of actually penetrating and cumming inside me, which he never did. Because that's what I had decided would have been "real rape" and it fucked with me. On all possibly imaginable levels.

It's important because I just realised I wasn't trying to repeat the rape... I was trying to finish it.

Cause on some fucked up level I felt ashamed that my vagina locked up for him, that it wasn't "real" rape because of that, but almost. Very, very almost. And that "almost" pissed me off, it dragged me to hell and beyond hell. In my world things just have to be either or and fit into a category, and if I can't fit something into any category, I take the closest fit and shove it in with brute force, crying and screaming that it has to work. I was trying to "finish" the rape with other men so that it would fit into the category of rape. Somehow. I dunno what the hell went completely short circuit in my brain there, but yeah... that's what I did. I couldn't undo the rape, obviously, so I tried to finish it for him with other men instead, fill in the gap... Okay, that pun was not intended. (What the hell, brain?)

And that's what became of my entire sex life, for the past 12 years. The longest trauma I've ever endured so far. He started it. I continued from where he left off.

So that little detail that I kept deliberately leaving out cause of shame... of course that's the key itself. The key I've kept trying to unlock my vagina with. That metaphor... it fits too perfectly to be true. It gives me chills. It all just makes me so sad. And that I missed out on my lesbianism almost entirely cause I was so obsessed with literally trying to fulfill my rapist's desire! Cause I guess in my mind he would have wanted to fuck me until he'd cum inside me... and I've kept wishing he had done that. Cause I'm haunted by that it wasn't enough to count as rape and that I shouldn't feel so hurt by it cause it was "less serious" than the "real rape" I've always claimed it to be. I still wish he had raped me properly. What does that say about me, my damaged mind? I think it just means that I'm craving, yearning, dying for... closure.

I think that's why I've kept fantasising about having consensual sex with him, and why I keep wanting to reunite with him. I think I want for him to rape me again, but properly this time. Or I mean if I'd actually seek him out and want sex with him, it wouldn't technically be rape, but as I'm not even remotely into him, and I'd only want it because he once raped me and I want closure from that... it's in a category of its own beyond consensual and rape and anything in between. It's not attraction, love, care or pleasure that pulls me towards him sexually, but something else entirely.

Could I possibly get pleasure from fucking him though? Well I guess hypothetically that would be possible if he or I would stimulate the right spots and I'd be able to relax enough, but somehow I think I'd be filled with too much fear and disgust to enjoy it much. But as I said, it's not pleasure that pulls me towards him, but closure. I think what I really want with that... is to make peace with him, as well as with myself. Cause it feels like I'm in a constant state of being unable to sleep the night after a fight. And thus, I want to go back to him and settle the argument. It might be a little bit unorthodox... and very dangerous... but I actually believe that it could work, in the sense that it could give some kind of closure to go to bed with him freely, not forced. The thought of it makes me feel a glimpse of relief.

Hmm... it appears I still enjoy my sexual fantasies about him, and that I'm not particularly disgusted by his image in my mind. Not even his dick. I did just masturbate to a fantasy of him, and I didn't feel much of that mortal dread after orgasming. Just a bit of sadness and a bit of emptiness, but not so bad. Cause I also felt some relief. And like... I can allow myself that, if I want to. He seems to be the only man that I like fantasising about and that I don't feel bad about thinking of that way. It is consensual with him in my fantasies, often me taking the initiative and even leading him during the sex, so it feels like I'm in control. But there's no lust or attraction, and I think that's why I'm fine with it. I don't have any other reason to possibly want to fuck any other man, like why would I? But him, I have a special connection to in my mind, which makes him the only exception. And I think I'm still gay despite that exception, cause I'm not into him, or any other man. Cause he's the only guy I'd wanna fuck despite not being attracted. Because he once raped me, and no other guy ever has.

But about that rape in general, I think I'm just so desperately trying to heal a wound that I've resorted to aggressively stabbing it, only making it worse and then screaming at it "why won't you fucking heal?!" so yeah that's going great.

But for all those years I couldn't find him again and didn't dare to call or text that number he once gave me... so I reached for other men. But I kept thinking it had to be him again for it to work. He is the only man who holds the key to my locked up pussy. Because he was the one to lock it. Does that make sense, somehow? I'm not attracted to him, I clearly don't love him in any capacity, but I yearn for him. Like that string of blood in that poem, I feel a certain connection towards him that I can't quite manage to describe. Because I do not understand that connection. What it means, what it wants, or even what it is. Perhaps... it's some kind of Stockholm Syndrome that I've developed for him.

Well he was my abuser. And ever since I left him I've kept clinging to my memory of him, and my altered versions of it. But the more time that passes, the more honest and truthful the story I tell becomes. As I bit by bit let go of my shame and dare to look myself in the eye. There's so much about that one evening that I've struggled to admit happened, that I've felt ashamed by, that I've kept to myself for years before daring to mention, that I've altered to something I think fits the story better to then years later alter back to what actually happened, and so on. Because it was probably the longest evening of my life, packed with details which seemed insignificant at the time but turned out to all have their own very important meanings.

Perhaps I still on some fucked up level want to have sex with him. Even though I'm not into him that way. My trauma bleeds for him. Like a broken cyborg running back to its creator to get fixed, but it was the creator that broke the cyborg. But the cyborg is programmed to always run back to its creator whenever it's been damaged. I feel like my rapist is my creator and that I need to run back to him to get fixed. But because it was him who broke me, I can't trust he could fix me, cause he might just damage me even more.

I feel drawn to the very source of my issues. My mind has decided that's the solution that I need, even though it's irrational and would probably be very dangerous to actually try to do. He could hurt me badly if I'd actually approach him in real life. Cause I have a sensation that he would recognise me, at least subconsciously and react emotionally to my presense, even if he wouldn't recognise me by my looks. I'm not sure I would recognise him by his looks. I can't remember his face anymore, but I do remember his body language, his scent and his laughter. But those things alone might not be enough to catch him in a crowd. If I will actually do it, though? I don't know. Gotta find him first.

I both hate him and I want him. He ruined my life and I want to give him my body. Should I really reward him for that, ahaha... yeah, perhaps I should... thank him, for something. Something I don't quite know what it is, but something within me nods at the idea of thanking him. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but that's just the nature of trauma.

But I found the key. What I've been looking for, what I've been trying to accomplish with all my unhealthy sex with men I never wanted. I figured it had a lot to do with the rape, more so than the other of my traumas, but I didn't know it was entirely because of the rape. Well, now I know.

One last thing: I didn't betray myself by having sex with men. I shouldn't blame myself for the tragedy that my rapist created. Even though he only created that tragedy indirectly. I would not have done that if he hadn't raped me. I did it because of him.

Child of trauma (poem)

That's where it all began, a child of trauma uncertain of her place
trapped in the echoes of a pain that she couldn't face
and it all mattered in the end
all the wounds I couldn't comprehend

A checkered blue dress that I only wore once
became riddled with a shame that fear outruns
and my silence began to trap the hurt
like flies gathering around excrements and dirt

And all my tragedies coincide
with my tears of treason and the comfort that I was denied
That's where I wanted to hide
in my reluctance to deal with what I pushed aside

My fears exceed what I am fearing
my body conceals what I am wearing
Half here, half there, my hands don't feel like my own
am I still the child that never became fully grown

Stunted by a deep belief that I was someone else
man or woman, there's something other that compels
my journey to be a tragedy; back to square one
now stop and stare at my own deformed creation, but don't run

My mind split by agony, and I'm distorted to defy
everything that I never needed to rectify
and my denial is my release
shattering me, piece by piece

Cause that's where it all began
in the breaking of everything better than
a child of trauma who couldn't find her place
trapped in her pain that I now must face

The sullen and the sublime

This is a very long entry mostly about my own womanhood, tits, and my messy attraction to other women. Some short, random, mildly sexual lesbian fantasies might have slipped out of me into this text here and there as well.

I was just listening to one of Chase Ross's podcasts on youtube. One about detransitioning, of course. He told a story about a trans woman who had been talked into detransitioning by some shitty priest, like talked into having her breasts removed... and hearing that just iced my freaking blood. Like it didn't just strike a chord in me, the entire string fucking broke. He said she wanted to transition again, after that.

I know my own situation is very different from that of trans women's. Because I did have full femaleness, once upon a time, but got rid of a lot of it. So my pain is different. I mourn something I've lost. They never had it to begin with but yearn for something they feel they should have had to begin with. That is different. I think my situation is in that case more similar to cis women with PCOS (excess testosterone) and women who've had bilateral mastectomies. But I didn't even have a medical reason for any of that. Just my own god damn fucking stupidity. Or what to even call that. My willful ignorance and thinking the grass really was greener on the other side but then realising it wasn't and now I'm fighting to get back home again.

I'm struggling to find any kind of comparison. I still think that my first thought when I had realised all of this is the only thing that can put it into words. It was simply the word "fuck".

Then Chase talked about regaining nipple sensation after being 4 years post op (podcast vid is 1 year old) and that touched a nerve in me as well, when he talked to Aaron about that them getting their nipples stimulated sexually reminds them of that they used to have breasts. That's kind of a bittersweet thing for me now though. I think I can actually... if I close my eyes and don't look down, while someone else is touching/kissing my nipples... kinda imagine in my mind that there are actual breasts under them. That soothes me. But of course getting such stimulation doesn't feel much physically and I hate myself for having ruined my nipple sensation now as well. That can't ever come back. However I do have a tiny bit of sensation left in them, like maybe 1-2% of what I had originally, so maybe if I'd try to pinch or squeeze them really really hard I could actually feel it. I could experiment with that on myself and see if it might actually feel good even. And the bitter side of course is that getting such stimulation reminds me of that I'm flat now and how much I miss the tits.

My sexual fantasies have started to include tits on me 100% now. Rather big ones. It makes me feel super comfortable and soothed and turned on imagining I have actual tits (that are not just a padded bra, but my real skin expanded my implants) that others can touch, squeeze and play with. I wonder how that will feel like with implants, compared to the natural ones I used to have. They'd likely have a firmness that I'd not be used to feeling, but I think they'd be cuddly anyway. And fuck yeah, I'd cuddle my own tits night and day! I can only imagine how extremely happy I'll be waking up from that surgery. Of course I'll likely be numb from morphine, anesthesia and what not, and all wrapped up in bandages, but I'm sure it would be bulging on my chest and that alone would be extremely satisfying.

At this point I'm wearing a padded bra almost 24/7. I usually take it off for sleeping, but not always. Sometimes I need that comfort when trying to fall asleep. If I have it off while in bed, literally the first thing I do when waking up is putting it back on again. Otherwise of course I take it off for showering, but that's about it.

It's another day, but I keep writing here. Still have more to say.

I just wrote a reply to a thread on Susan's about sexuality messed up by trauma. It was in the ftm section of the forum but I thought I had two cents to give about it cause the guy posting the thread had issues quite similar to mine, about attraction to women. While I wrote that I kinda had a bit of a realisation. Or rather I connected a couple of dots, but it wasn't an extreme or particularly heavy realisation. First, I noted that I've been sexually abused by both guys and girls, and more by guys but that I still feel safer with them. I also noted that I have some form of internalised misogyny going on and a tad bit of... well, lesbophobia.

That there's something about the female-female dynamic that simply rubs me the wrong way. That I subconsciously think that sex between two girls isn't quite "real sex" which is a thought I really hate that I have. I don't want to think that way, it's wrong and hurtful. It's unfair too, and ridiculous. I also really don't like the word "lesbian" like it just sounds gross to me somehow. There's also a lot about lesbian culture that I don't particularly like either. Like there are so many crazy lesbians out there that I in no fucking way would ever want to be associated with... Like "terf's" for example, and any kind of extremely radical feminist lesbians, and also something really fucked up that is called "political lesbianism" which is women who literally "choose" to "become" lesbians (but they're actually straight or bi) because they've simply decided that men are bad cause of patriarchy, and then there's of course all the god damned man-hating in general... So ugh, I really have a lot of hangups about that side of myself.

Furthermore I noted that society's shitty view on that female on female sexual abuse isn't a "real thing" that can actually happen has made me doubt the validity of my experiences. And then it clicked. What I did when I was 9, to that other girl. I'm sure that must be why I've always had such a hard time trying to put myself in a consensual female-female sexual relationship. Why I never even dared to pursue it. It was never because of my own gender, was ever anything? How little gender matters to me, now that I detransition. It's like I was obsessed with everything gender for most of my life and now it's like I'm shaking myself like a wet dog to release myself from that obsession. How about I'm just gonna be a person, or try to be? Does it matter, does it really matter?

I stuffed my bisexuality into a garbage bag because of my fear to get "that close" to any other woman. Yet I dreamed about it happening. Wanted it, craved it. And I stuffed my womanhood into another garbage bag, poisoned it and cut it up... yet I needed it and craved it. All those times in the past that I dressed up in drag... it was because I kept craving being a woman and wanting to look like one, but when I dressed up that way, it scared me and made me feel sick. I've been in the closet about being cis. And I had cis denial. It's actually funny when I think about it that way, cause it's true but it's so reverse to how it is for trans people. They're born into a closet they have to come out of. I created a closet that I wasn't born into, that I then had to come out of. So, my joke about "coming out as cis" has a lot more depth to it than I first could see. Accepting myself as a woman has been a life-long struggle, but here I am now, embracing it and unwilling to let go of it.

I don't think I specifically "identify" as a woman though, or a man or any gender. What makes me think of myself as a woman is really just my emotional connection to my female sex traits and to female sex traits in general, and my aversion male sex traits on myself. And that I'm fine with being gendered as female, with such terms and words. That I want to look like a woman and be seen as one by others. I don't know what being a woman "feels like" in the sense that I simply don't feel gender. And gender is not something I would use as an identity. It's not an identity. It's just a state of being. So I haven't and never would say that I "identify as a woman" cause I simply don't. I just am one. I just wanted to clarify that.

But about my bisexuality at least that closet I was born into, and even though I came out as bi at 15 years old, which was a damn long time ago, I always kept one foot in it. As I kept dithering between saying/thinking I was only into men and into both genders. And cause I kept avoiding dating women, mostly subconsciously, I'm probably mostly perceived as someone who's only into men. That I was seen as a gay man previously and now (presumably) as a straight woman.

I don't want to keep one foot in that closet anymore, and I don't want to keep avoiding dating women. I want to work through my million hangups on that point and not let my attraction be stopped by my fears. If I'd fall for another woman and it's mutual, I don't want to miss out on that chance cause of my fears telling me not to go there. What if she's a soulmate of mine, or even my twin flame?

I know that "twin flame" is not a particularly known concept and I might have forgotten most of what it entails, but I can give you the gist of it. There's a belief that each person has their own soul, and those souls can be connected to each other on a spiritual level, like maybe you've known them in a past life. Then that's generally what a "soul mate" is. However, a "twin flame" goes deeper than that. A twin flame is someone who's soul used to be part of yours, but split off somewhere on your journey, and became its own person. This is not a DID thing, I'm talking about two actual people, with both their own bodies and all, but in another incarnation likely very very long ago, they used to be the same person.

Twin flames, if they find each other, are generally literally made to be together. They can clash, but will always find ways to bounce back and strengthen each other, and have a very tight, spiritual bond. I think the concept of twin flames is absolutely beautiful. It's a belief mostly held by people who are very into spiritualism, like "new age" stuff, reincarnation, some ancient Eastern religions, paganism and such. I've tapped into such spiritualism many times before, and much of my wisdom aligns with that, and I even considered choosing the path of Taoism before I went for Satanism instead. However, I learned about the concept of twin flames specifically, from Y when I was with him. We thought for some time that we might be twin flames. And I tend to think of Caspian as my twin flame. Y thought he might be an incarnation of Caspian, but I always felt a very strong doubt in my gut about that.

Now I don't know if Caspian was ever real. It's still too painfil for me to go there. I've held onto him through every heartbreak and rejection ever since I was... I don't know how young but under 10 years old. Maybe 5 or 6. He's been my one and only dream I've always held onto. He's been the one person who'd always love and desire me in a romantic way. He's been my comforting blanket that always holds me warm, and he's been the knife in my always broken heart, at the same time. I've felt like I've missed him beyond what I can bear. And like I've loved him with my entire soul, not just my heart. Like he's not just the love of my life, but the love of my existence, that has lasted over several incarnations. You don't just toss that aside with the explanation it was only a delusion. You just don't or you might shatter irreparably. But this was not what I intended to write about. I digressed into my spiritual beliefs and broken dreams.

Let's get back on track. My point was that "my Caspian" whether that dream was actually real or not, could actually be a woman. And I don't think I'm crazy to not wanna miss out on that chance, of finding and connecting with my "one true love" just because that person might so happen to be of the same sex as me. I really do plan on working through my fears and hangups, but also I really just want to experiment. Try to find a girl to hook up with for sex. Like be completely honest about everything with her, like my transition history and dithering about if I'm really into women or not, but like there's a lot I'm really wanting to try sexually but have never been with any woman before.

So like... I'll probably be very nervous, but I don't think I would back out or regret it afterwards. I know I'll be especially nervous about pussy-licking, but then that's what I desire to try the most, so obviously I wouldn't exactly say no to that. More like "hell yes" to that. It would be so amazing if I could at some point make a girl cum in my mouth... like, oh god what a turn on! And yes of course I'd want to do it as a girl myself. That excites me. I could never even imagine having sex with a woman as a man myself, but with me as a woman... that intrigues me a lot. I guess that's kinda gay. And yeah, by the way, I don't mind hairy pussy, that is also sexy. I might prefer it trimmed or shaven, as I prefer my own to be, but it's hardly a requirement on others. Just a preference.

I know I've been extremely picky with women I'd find attractive before, but I don't think I'm quite as picky anymore. With men I can be with just about anyone, like looks don't matter at all. In fact the uglier ones tend to turn me on more. But it's different with women for me. That's more like a "normal" attraction, I guess. That the more beautiful the more they tend to turn me on, but the more average looking ones can definitely get me going as well. But the uglier ones I really struggle to get turned on by at all. I have some preferances and some "wouldn't tap that" -limits, but in general I don't think I'm all that picky about stuff like height, weight, body shape, style, hair length, etc. Although I guess my preferences are kinda thin to slightly overweight, no height preference but being able to reach for a kiss is nice, long hair will always be the best regardless of gender or style, feminine is hotter than masculine but androgynous is hot too, age span of around 20 to 50, etc.

I'm just brainstorming, I don't actually really know any of this for sure. I'm just having fun playing with this thought, of what kind of women I might be into or not, so maybe don't take it too seriously. All I really know is that I want to have sex with another woman. Then who, how or what she should look or be like, matters a whole lot less at this point. The experience itself, and simply making it happen at all, is what matters. And yeah, that she's not a total douchebag. But anything beyond that is really just fluff. So there's that, I think.

As I'm kinda used to hooking up with men for sex by now, I don't think it should be quite that big of a leap for me to go hooking up with a woman for sex. I mean, I'm sure the dynamic will be different and I'll be a nervous heap of... I don't know what, but my point is that hookups are still hookups, regardless of the genders involved, and I'm generally familiar with that kind of culture. So I don't think it's too extreme of a move for me to make. Especially considering I know this is something I've wanted for a very, very long time but just haven't dared to. It's not like I found out about my attraction to women yesterday. More 14 years ago. I just can't help but thinking it's about god damn time I get my ass out there on the lesbian meat market and try to score some pussy. Like come on, 14 years?!

Would I like a relationship with another woman, as in a girlfriend? Well I'm open to the idea, but let's just take it one step at a time, okay. I have loads of emotional issues with dating in general, and then with this kind of internalised lesbophobia being added onto it if I'd get a girlfriend... let's just say I should be taking it very, very carefully, if or when that might happen. It's not something I should just jump right into haphazardly, cause it's exciting or I'm in love, or other forms of sheer stupidity. If I'll fall for another girl, I'll take that then and there. I don't want to worry about it too much now. So I'll just say if it happens it happens and I'll try to not either just jump right into it nor run away scared shitless in the opposite direction cause my own feefees upset and confuse me.

Talking to my therapist about this might be good too. As this is some form of internalised homophobia that is tied to my trauma, it's probably legit enough to rant to my therapist about. Like I'd feel it's legit enough for me to bring up, I mean. But yeah again I've no idea how I'd even phrase myself, cause I'd like to avoid for the discussion about it to not be too explicitly sexual, if possible. That makes me so uncomfortable, to talk about anything sexual with her. I don't think I'd really "repeat old patterns" of my abuse history if I'd end up being sexual with other women, or get a girlfriend, I mean that is a fear I have but it's rather mild and mostly nagging in the background. At the front though, is my feelings that it's "wrong" for me to be sexual with women because of that trauma stuff that involved females. Like I'm somehow "not allowed" to desire that because I once sexually abused another girl when I was a kid. I know it's fucked up that I think/feel like that, which is why I think I should talk to a therapist about it.

But I mean, it's not like I think lesbianism in itself is wrong, it's that I think me, specifically, liking and being in lesbian relations would be wrong cause of my specific past. That I shouldn't be allowed to gently love or consensually touch other women because I once touched a girl without her consent. Like I'm somehow asking to be given what I once stole. It feels morally wrong, pretty much. It doesn't really have anything, or much at all, to do with it being gay. It feels complicated and confusing, but I'm trying to sort out that mess of feelings in me and put them into words. It's mostly fear, guilt, like I'm not supposed to, like I'm not allowed, like I'm tainted, that I hated being a woman so much that it made me dislike women in general despite subconsciously still liking them and thus my transition hurt my sexuality as well, feeling like it's not a "real" thing due to some of what the crappy society says (I wish that didn't affect me but it just does) like about what it means to lose your virginity completely excludes lesbians but does include gay men, and so on.

But what exactly it is that I fear around it I'm not sure. Maybe it's just my own reactions that I fear. Well that I know I can handle. My defense mechanisms are starting to become obsolete at this point. Like they're not necessary or useful anymore. So I should probably focus more on those other feelings I listed after "fear" instead. I think there's a lot of depth going on in those things. That if I'd pursue being with women it would both feel like I'm somehow committing a crime (but it's actually legal) and like it's not even real, at the same time. It's kind of a contradiction, cause if it's not real it can't be a crime and if it's a crime it's most certainly real, just to follow the "logic" of my own feelings. But they don't logic and they bite their own tails. My feelings usually work in that sort of pattern though, so it's hardly a surprise for me that they (again) contradict each other. That's called being confused, in simple terms, I guess.

Random thought of the day: I wonder if snakes who accidentally start swallowing their own tails, which dooms them to death cause they can't vomit or spit out what they've started to eat, so they have to keep swallowing, actually are committing suicide on purpose.

I kinda knew I'd find a reason to keep my Qruiser account around and to use it, even now detransitioning. Like I'm not entirely cishet. But I'll keep calling myself "more or less straight" until I know for sure if I'm really bi or not. I suppose I am bisexual, but I want to be sure. And I need experiences to get sure. When I fantasise about having sex with other women, it does turn me on greatly, but it can't quite get me all the way to orgasm unless I include a guy in my fantasies as well. I'm not sure if that's my hangups preventing me from fully enjoying it, or my lack of experiences preventing me from fully imagining it realistically enough, or my attraction not being quite "there", or even my body with its total lack of tits upsetting and interrupting my fantasies.

I really want to have tits that I could squeeze against another girl's tits in a tight, naked hug. That just seems totally amazing. One day though, one day I'll be able to do that, and feel it.

I dreamed about tits last night. That I had gotten the prostethic's bra that I recently ordered but have not yet gotten in real life, and that it was huge but looked great on me and was super comfortable. Then in another dream or another part of the same dream I had new tits that I had gotten surgically and they were amazing. Like I could feel their weight, bounciness, squishiness and it just... fulfilled me. And filled me with such joy and comfort and like really a total "I'm home now" feeling in my body. That exact completeness I thought I'd reach by removing my original tits.

I didn't even know I was wrong about that, but this dream about how I'd feel getting new tits, definitely tells me that I was not actually happy about getting a mastectomy. I was upset about my flat chest for an entire year after the surgery, until I started to "learn" to be fine with it. Doesn't sound like I was all that pleased with it, does it? It shocked me back then, and the first time I saw my post-op chest at home in the shower, I very nearly passed out from the shock, but I couldn't figure out why I felt so upset about it. Well, until now. Now I understand.

It's not your fault

You're shattered on the surface
bleeding and aching to gain control
but you forget what really matters
that there's more to life than this

All these years by your side
it was never about me
cause all we have been through
was on your behalf

You drink and you take pills
to dull my endless rantings in your mind
I hold you and I taunt you
but it doesn't matter what you think of me

You say that I'm not real
thanks a lot but how can you know
maybe it's you who's not real
maybe nothing is what it seems

I'm not that cruel just trying to get by
after all I have nowhere else to go
I know what you have sacrificed
to make the life of ours easier

All the lies and all the declines
through heartbreak and insanity
we were never just one person
never just a human being

I can tell you all you want to know
all that you blocked out or tried to forget
but I can't let you suffer on my behalf
cause I only exist so that you can survive



(Anna's poem that she wrote to me, July 2013.)

Blinded by our sight

Within the sorrow of a hidden path
that breaks and twists before it suddenly splits in half
My silent inhale, her breathless shout
that capture all my fears I can't let out

Once we were one, now I am two
we each take a path; between us the pain we can't undo
One part given, one part taken
our nails carving into each other's palms, our friendship forsaken

Is she dark, am I light
or both blended to madness, two wrongs making a right?
I carry my wounds in tears, she carries hers in hate
chased by our desperate dance in a cruel twist of fate

She harms what she means to heal
as I cry: you are not even real
My invisible companion, carrying half my mind as her own
and the other half, is all I've ever truly shown

The farther we walk, the more the distance between us rip
holding our bleeding hands harder in our slipping grip
The pain between us takes its hold on our split soul
and forces the halves together as they clash in our loss of control

And we find ourselves walking the same path
our hands fused together, rinsed in the blood of our aftermath
Between us a love unmistakenly gleamed
and with crooked smiles, our friendship is redeemed



(poem I wrote about me and Anna, our journey together)

The brighter side of a Hell

I'm not sure where they came from, those mental changes I got last year. And as I think about it more, it feels a bit weird to me that I took that personality change with such ease and acceptance, as if it wasn't a big deal at all. I can't say for sure how big part of me that changed, but can only vaguely say I think it was somewhere between 50% and 75% of it. Possibly more, possibly less, and I have no way of truly knowing as that kind of thing can't really be accurately measured. But I just shrugged at it and continued on. I could barely make sense of the unfamiliar words that came out of my mouth and hands, I hurt people, I lost old friends and gained new ones, changed my style rather drastically to match my new self, started trolling and shitposting and posted inflammatory comments online, got into politics, laughed at my darkness in chorus with Anna as I had become much more like her.

But maybe that is why I wasn't so very alarmed by it, cause it wasn't that unfamiliar... I had known it, by my side, forever... from Anna. I reflected her darkness and looking at her from then on, finally felt like I was looking at another aspect of myself. Like the distorted mirror between us had straightened itself out a bit. And I saw, not an enemy, but a hurting friend. A familiar face with emotion in her eyes as she too... felt something. It wasn't just me, or my half of us, that changed, cause she changed too. She having always been the darker, abusive, cold-hearted but protective ice queen of us two — and me having always been the over-sensitive, highly emotional, hurting and self-destructive bleeder of us two — of course I had to become a worse person and she become a better person for us to both get closer to the other and meet halfway. Almost so close that we would blend in with each other, but I know that partially we did. And I know that when we both looked at each other, right after that shift, we both saw ourselves in the other like never before.

We traded and adopted aspects of each others' personalities, but we are both me, technically, so did I actually change? Now that's quite a philosophical question to bite into, isn't it? I've always had the feeling that the person that is me is somehow much bigger and far more complex than I could ever possibly grasp. I don't think I would have learned as much about myself, who I am, had I not split into two halves as a kid. Cause you can't see the core of a fruit unless you cut it in half first. Perhaps there's more truth in that analogy than I realise. Because splitting in two, and meeting a side of myself as though it was another person, really shifted the dynamic between... er, myself and myself? It gave me an objective perspective of the highly subjective. And that, is a learning experience too vast to possibly not be grateful for. No matter how painful it was to endure.

It's been like looking into a distorted mirror not knowing if it was the mirror that was distorted or me. But it was the mirror, at least for the most part, but of course I'm distorted too. Cause now that most of the mirror has somehow been restored again, I recognise that face in the mirror again and it's with both sorrow and euphoria that I embrace myself. Perhaps sorrow mostly for the years that I got lost in darkness, a darkness of literally torturing myself for almost two decades. It is bittersweet to come out of that kind of darkness, it has to be. Cause I can't help but feeling awful for all the harm I more or less put myself through, although I was as Anna then and I have no memories of ever being Anna. But now I know what she felt like, what she was thinking, what drove her to that darkness, and I want to smack myself in the face for never having understood until I partially became her, yet I also want to embrace her cause I see her pain now. I know that the abused child became an abuser. I just couldn't accept that it was me.

But I do have one memory of being Anna, cause I just realised something. Why did it never hit me before? When I abused her, that other child when I was 9, which caused my split, I've lately felt as though it was Anna who did it but that it was me who saw the world through her eyes, somehow. Like a very intense "shift" but like I was her. Like I had her consciousness, for that short moment in time that changed everything forever. But what I never saw before, no matter how ridiculously obvious... was that I've always been Anna and the perspective doesn't make me less her or her less me. But now I really think that was the start, her creation, the actual split. Right in that very moment. That I, with my own consciousness, acted out a darkness so horrifying and extremely powerful, that I literally created an alter from that one experience, which in turn was created by the abuse I was put through before that, as I couldn't accept the fact that it was me who did that horrible thing to her... whom I was supposed to protect, and me whom she was supposed to be able to trust. Of all other kids in the entire world, it was me she was supposed to be able to trust.

I couldn't bear the burden of what I had done and gone through myself just a month or so earlier. The silence and the eroding emotions I kept locked up within me until my adulthood. It wrecked me apart. It tore my young mind into two distinct halves that saw each other as separate people sharing the same body. I still struggle to grasp that just that one experience, those few minutes, literally split my mind in two and changed my life forever. The far beyond immense power that must have had on me. I just can't grasp it. But the most mind boggling thing about it though, is that even though that is my most painful memory, I also think it's the most important one I have, but at the same time, it might never have happened. That makes it difficult to sort out, to understand it, to analyse it, when it's so paper thin it might as well be transparent and melts like snow in my hands. Did it ever happen? I worry I might never know. That it's gonna nag at me forever and keep carving in my soul, scared that bringing it up out in public could ruin my family that I love so dearly for that one horrible thing I may or may not have done 20 fucking years ago.

If it wasn't even real... then what the fuck would my family think of me to even come up with such a story? They'd be beyond mad at me. But then, if it turns out to be true... I have far worse to worry about than them just being angry at me. I can't even, don't even want to, imagine what an emotional hell we'd all go through then. Is it worth bringing it up and digging up such a horrible and horrifying old memory? Would it bring closure? Would them knowing ever be worth the pain? Could I ever put my family through that and do I even have the heart to? Or would I take it with me to the grave? Cause I don't think she has the memory that I do, which makes me even more uncertain of the truth behind it. Maybe it is just my fucked up brain playing the cruelest tricks imaginable on me? At least I can't imagine anything could be more cruel of my brain to do, than giving me such a memory then having it be proven to be false. Knowing that might split me into three.

Yet I want for it to be false, cause I don't want to have caused such damage. And I'd rather have it be me being damaged than her, especially if it was by my hands. I think the damage to my mind might be irreparable either way. It will always have a badly half-healed, still oozing wound there. Whether it actually happened or not. But the thing is I think it did, cause I don't think it would have affected me quite this badly, had it been false all along. And the tension between her and me can't just be for nothing. It's like an electrically charged power field of a no-go-zone between us. It can't be for nothing. Scared to even sit next to her on the same couch, and when she hugs me I feel like I'm breaking. That amount of remorse, you could form into a planet and call it Jupiter, and it still wouldn't be enough.

I feel like I'm hurting her by just continuing to existing. Like I should be executed for what I did to her. Not celebrate birthdays with her or joke about her weird taste in clothing while she jokes about mine. I feel the hissing within me, hear chalks against a chalkboard, and I'm unable to move. Wanting to do the impossible, undo what I cannot. But even though I don't think she remembers it, I can still see that it affects her in ways she probably can't find an explanation to. Like she probably wonders about things she struggles with that most others do not. But... would giving her an answer be "nice" or the most awful thing I could possibly ever do to her, next to what I have already done?

My question is simply, is ignorance bliss, or is the truth, no matter how cruel, always better? Cause here I stand between the choices of letting her keep having that ignorance of what she can't remember — or reveal to her a memory more horrible than I think she'd ever want to know. But then, if I take it with me to my grave, I worry that I could be depriving her of her chance to heal from it. But I also know, that regressive memories are really, really not something to toy around with. Perhaps that choice should not be up to me, no matter how responsible I feel over what happened, perhaps it would be better to leave that decision up to a professional. Of course it's still my burden to carry, but I do think that on that particular point, some actual expert advice would probably be a good idea, before I do another thing that can't be undone.

If only I had the right words when I needed them, and not just randomly like this.

I feel as though I've come a long way with Anna just this past year, as we partially merged, and finally stood face to face as equals. And saw not just what the other had done, but also knew why. It brought us together, and I cannot think that was a negative thing to happen, cause I feel down into my soul that it was extremely necessary. Without it, I think finding peace of mind in any conceivable future would have been impossible. Cause you can't find peace when you're in a constant war with yourself, truce or not. And you can't shake hands and agree with your enemy before you've seen what they've seen and felt what they've felt, and they have done the same about you. That, I think, was a very important step for me and Anna in finding peace within our shared mind. Of course, I cannot possibly find peace if she can't, and the reverse goes for her, because we are connected and dependent on each other. We both dance the same tango.

I have no clear vision of the future, but I think we will mostly continue to more and more become one again. How it can be possible without any therapy, any medication for that issue, and so few to talk to about it, I don't know. But maybe even the most horrible wounds can also self heal, for whatever reasons I'm not aware of. But regardless of how or why it's started to happen, it's now, at least somewhat clear to me, that me and Anna are slowly but quite surely, becoming one whole person again. I both fear it, and look forward too it with much anticipation. What would I be like? I haven't seen that me... well, probably ever. Cause even before that split, I had so many issues I can't rightfully call child me "whole", but more so call that a ticking bomb just waiting to implode. I do not think I was ever really whole in this life, except from possibly when I was a toddler.

I don't think I really was born broken, but rather just very fragile, and that I started breaking very early on. But I don't see that as only negative, no matter how bitter that melody may sound, cause I think it was all the breaking that eventually made me tough and hard, which I always wished I could be. Of course, as a child wishing that, I didn't know there was such a heavy and longlasting agonising price for that toughness, but still somehow worth it. It is and it is not. Cause how can I feel such deep, soul-cutting remorse for what I did, yet somehow consider it "worth it"? I don't think I used the right words. I see that even that had and still has a purpose, and very important lessons to teach. I just wish it didn't have to be at the cost of someone else. Someone that I love.

Listen carefully if you really want to know

Maybe I did start hating myself around the age of 10, after those things happened. They ruined me, I ruined me, forever. Such wounds never really heal. I swore an oath to myself, to never tell a living soul, and sometimes I'm okay with that. Other times it's killing me. When I look at myself and what I did that one time, all I see is a monster. It was such an inhuman act, such a horrible crime. And it's eating away at me.

When I first found out what really happened, when I dug too deep into my mind during the summer of 2013, the thought of ending my life was stuck in my head. People have killed themselves for much lesser remorse. Do I even feel remorse? Sometimes, sometimes not. Because I didn't know that what I did was wrong in any sense, I was way too young to comprehend any such matters.

I've hinted at the nature of the crime, in times when I didn't care much about anyone's reactions. Not many have confronted me about what I've written about it, and I've never really spoken about it. At least, never into such detail as I tend to in my blog here. Or in poems. My poems always, always tend to go into more detail than I'm actually comfortable with.

It was a sex crime. Can I even say that much? Maybe now that I've abandoned most people who matter to me, and I guess I've in a way, also abandoned their opinions. Maybe now that I no longer care what people could think of me. I've said it was horrid, I've said I was too young to know what I was doing. 9 years old and committed a sex crime? Maybe now you can understand.

Just how fucked up I am, in that area, and how much it's been fucking me up. Perhaps, no I'm pretty sure, that is also a reason why sex is so repulsive to me now. It has ruined way too much. Way too much. It has crawled into the very essence of my soul and stained it from the inside and out. I know that the sexual assault I went through not long before led me to commit a very similar act myself, but my crime was worse. In the eyes of the beholder, or in the eyes of my victim, or in my own eyes, how can I know for sure what was worse? I can't, but it's my interpretation. They let me go almost instantly, of what I can remember, while I wasn't too fond of letting my victim go. I was stubborn for reasons unknown.

I was more fucked up right afterwards than I was able to remember for 15 years. I thought it was an innocent game up until the summer of 2013, until it revealed to me what I actually had done. How can I even live with myself? That question does pop up from time to time, to which I answer that I simply don't know, I just do. It's been by far the hardest thing I've had to deal with, worse than what I went through, worse than the rape when I was 17, worse than anything.

I'm calm right now, telling you this, although my hands are riddled with cold sweat and it's like I've got some kind of tunnel vision. It's all I can think about. Somehow I picture myself, two years ago, standing outside of my apartment, smoking a cigarette and not knowing what I should do. I remember when I desperately googled everything I could find, on if it was possible I could get imprisoned for that crime if it somehow slipped out of me what I had done.

I knew I had to take it with me to the grave, exactly what it was, and to whom. All I'm saying now is that it was of sexual nature and similar to what happened to me right before. You'll never know to whom it was, no one ever will. I suppose it's the one and only secret I'll keep no matter what, but I do know it's just to save my own skin, if anything could potentially happen if it did come out.

It doesn't keep me up at night since obviously I'm sleeping quite a lot these days, but it is gnawing at my conscience. That it took me so many years to truly remember, that it ruined me so much. Perhaps my sex life truly is permanently dead after that discovery, I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be capable of having normal sex with a normal view on it after realising what I did. Damaged to asexuality, and that's the truth. I damaged myself so completely and I can't even imagine how much I ruined that other person. Although, I do know.

All it took was a tumblr post this time and I'm drowning in the darkest corner of my mind again. How much darker can it get? Would I even want to know...? And that's why I'm sure, that if there is a Hell, other than this place, I will go there. I believe, like so many others, that sex offenders would get one of the worst spots in that place.

And it's all so fucked up, you know, cause half the time I don't know which side I'm really on. The victim, or the offender? The world is so far from being black and white, it's never fucking simple. And I go into cases of some kind of mortal fear every time I see things online related to rapists and what literally everyone thinks society should do with them. So kill me, so hang me or shoot me in the head. Cause once it comes down to it, I do want to die anyway.

And I think you should know, I think you have the right to, finally know what kind of monster has been hiding in the person you view as your friend, for all this time. And I know, that for being the offender I sure as hell am putting a lot of blame somewhere else. It was my decision, my choice to do what I did, yet it's like I blame it on something or someone else. Those that attacked me, cause I'm pretty sure it never would have happened otherwise. What a hell hole Alunda must have been, what were we kids really up to before our age had reached to double digits even?

Or maybe all schools were that horrible, what do I know, I only have that one to compare with and it's not much, but it's everything. I've heard other stories around, and maybe the ones I really should blame are the adults, the teachers, for never teaching us kids what was wrong or right? Were we just suppose to know? How?

Wasn't my victim even someone I was suppose to protect? Oh, that hurts even more. But it's true. There are no lies in this entry, it's as close to the truth as I'll ever let you, so listen carefully if you really ever wanted to know.

In my autobiography I don't include this much of what happened, but more on how fucked up I was the following years, ages 10 through 13. How I was dealing with Anna, other voices, dissociation, self harm and how I revolted against my bullies in fairly strange but effective ways. Right now, I barely understand how I even survived.

There's a diary, somewhere in my collection, I can't even remember what colour it is, where everything is written down. Everything except from who my victim was. Just in case anyone would find and read it. It's maybe obviously, written June or July 2013 when my memories came back. No, I don't even remember which month it was. I just let it be there in my book shelf, completely on display, cause why would anyone get the idea to read all of them through?

I was beyond myself, far beyond myself when I wrote that down in that diary. Just had to get it out, somehow, somewhere. I still haven't accepted it, I don't think I ever will. It's by far the most awful thing I've ever done, but not the only awful thing. I did something else, much later, but entirely different and definitely not in the same category. For some reason that's an even better kept secret of mine.

Wow, those dark corners of my mind really haunt me tonight. No rest for the wicked. So yes, I really am a criminal but I guess I just hide it well. Not so strange why I suddenly realised why being around cops has always made me feel uneasy for back then to me unknown reasons. Perhaps afraid that they would one day just look me in the eye and just know. I don't know, maybe I'm being irrational again. For crying out loud I need another cigarette...

There are so many layers of me, from dark to darker and the saint most new people see when they first meet me is just a surface that I don't know why they always see cause it's not even there. But yeah, of course there's so much more to me than this. But not really a part that would never hurt a soul. Maybe I just am one of those tragically hurt people that became an offender myself. Only once though, or technically twice but yeah.

So maybe my surface has been cracking lately, as I lie to people I really do care about and it hurts them and I try to repair it but then I lie again. Cause I can't deal with the truth, any truth, anymore. And I care less and less about other people's feelings. It's like instead of healing with time I just break more and more until there's just nothing left to break. It's the only way I can describe it, to me everything is either moving on or going under and there's nothing else. Perhaps you've noticed, I don't know.

In my world, all I see is degrees of pain and darkness, or possibly the lack of it. Cause I'm not always drowning, not always wanting to die. Just that most of the time I am, and I do often get that kind of tunnel vision. It's hard to break out of, especially when I isolate and only have my own thoughts. And it's not like I think I would feel up for discussing this either, I'd probably just state it was a one time thing and that I'll never go down here again, but knowing myself, I probably will. Some day.

But right now, it's just important that I get all of this out of me, all these thoughts and feelings that won't stop spreading like the plague inside my stressed out mind. I can't stop chain smoking, can't stop thinking. Eventually I'll have to stop this vicious circle and do something else, something safe, like playing WoW or whatever. And I'm too disgusted with myself to be able to eat even though I'm hungry as hell.

Hell... maybe I made my own hell that day when I was 9. Maybe that is my curse, defiling everything inside me. I think I'll stop now, I just have to.