I had the strangest dream last night. A boyfriend from the summer had decided to stalk my friends from online, in real life. He had followed them to a clothing store where they were gossiping about my sex life. Of course what he overheard he blew out of proportion. Afterwards he came into my house and started ranting and raving asking me how I could be so callous telling my friends private things about him (which I hadnt, my friends had been talking about someone else in my life). But he wouldnt take that for an answer. He continued to accuse me of telling everyone I knew of his proclivities and even got violent at times. Somehow I got him out of my house…

You have no idea how close this is to the actual truth. Minus the violence this is all pretty much accurate and I am curious as to why my brain decided that today was the day it was going to bring this up.

My rape was framed as BDSM. We had been texting for two or three weeks, about hooking up, and what types of sex we enjoyed. Eventually the topic of BDSM came up and we chatted about what BDSM meant to us, and what our limits were within hooking up & BDSM. Like many people who live with in the experiences of BDSM, the things I do with hookups and the things I do with longterm partners vary drastically. He introduced some topics that I quickly vetoed as being off limits for a hook up.

He came over immediately after bootcamp, he had texted me instructing me to start drinking before he got there. Am I ever glad I do not respond to authority well. Out of playful spite I did not start drinking. The up side to being sober is that I remember everything. The down side to being sober is that I remember everything. And these memories crop up at the worst times, even three years later.

Afterwards, men that I confided in & considered friends had the nerve to pose the question “Had it just been BDSM gone wrong?” or “Hadnt I asked for it?” (for the record, I never asked to be punched in the back of the head – or suffocated under pillows). These same men wondered why women would just shut down mid conversation about these topics. Broaching a difficult topic and being told that maybe we just have it all wrong, or having our friends play the “devils advocate” with our psychological well being isnt exactly something that will make us bare our hearts.

It took me a long time to feel angry. Feeling hurt happened almost immediately, but anger took a while. Anger felt like a luxury, as the guys had mentioned – Hadnt I invited this? No. I hadnt. I did not invite someone to take violent liberties with my body. I had invited someone to take pleasure in my body within a set of limits that I had set. Those limits were not only tested but broken. In that moment it became a non-consensual act. It became rape. Rape. RAPE. Does that word make you uncomfortable? Good. Being raped made me incredibly uncomfortable.

I want to start a dialogue about mental illness. As someone who has dealt with mental health issues for a better part of their life all of this ‘discussion’ revolving around Robin Williams death is a bit frustrating. Almost all of the people who are talking about it are people who have never had life long depression, or who have had one anxiety attack in their life and have become ‘experts’ over night on the topic.

Ive always known that there was something missing. I do remember being happy as a child, but it was always a wary happiness. I did not come from a family that abused me, nothing traumatic happened to me, for all intent and purpose I have no ‘reason’ to have depression. It is just the way that I am wired. When I turned 12 my grandmother passed away and it acted as a trigger to send me into 7 years of inconsolable depression. My best friend (ten years later) still teases me that I owe him a new wardrobe because I bleached all of his black tshirts with my tears (#epicgothtears). I would have commit suicide. But I chose not to.

People who are accusing Robin Williams of being selfish have a very limited view of mental health issues, or have never come in contact with people who are continually plagued by depression. He spent 63 years choosing life. He spent 63 years being selfless. He gave us so many reasons to laugh while he was plagued by an emptiness that so many people cant even begin to comprehend. If he decided to end his life, we have no right to even start judging him. The argument that he didn’t have choice because he had depression is also upsetting. Sometimes after you have tried everything else (medication, self medication, escapism, therapy) it becomes the only choice you can make after deciding for so long to live for other people. And trust me there is nothing emptier than living for other people when you can’t even be motivated to live for yourself. This isn’t to say that he didn’t love his children or partner, but sometimes it just isn’t enough. You can be filled with love for other people but there is still a hole in an integral space in your heart.

There are still days that I chose to be functional over debilitated by empitness, but most days I no longer need to think about it. Most days are better than others. Any one who knows me will tell you that I always have a hesitant reaction to any situation. People talking to me, it takes me several minutes to register which emotion I should display for other people. There are even people who I have stopped playing this game with. I just say words and they lack emotion because it is less stressful on my heart to be me. To be void. To exist in the way that makes me comfortable, and I am lucky to have people who accept that sometimes I will just be this way.

Did you ever look at Robins face? His smile always seemed hesitant, or like it was in on a secret that we would never understand. When my parents told me that he had a drug/alcohol problem when I was a child, it didnt make me want to avoid his comedy but instead I felt empathy for him in the way that you can identify with that person.

The Academy’s tweet “Genie you are free” has come under fire by Suicide Prevention groups. When someone is suffering through cancer or  another terminal illness we say sweet things like this. Robin Williams depression was obviously all consuming enough to be terminal so why shouldnt we have some compassion about it. That tweet doesn’t Romanticise suicide but it does allow us for a moment a glimpse of what depression can feel like, and my depression has never felt romantic so I cant imagine anyone else’s feels that way.

I am currently dating someone who has actively chosen life over suicide. I know every morning when I wake up that he could change his mind in the middle of the night and I will walk to his house to find police. Choosing life isn’t just that easy. It is an active choice every morning when you wake up. It is an active choice at every intersection in traffic. It is an active choice every time you go out drinking with friends. It is constantly being aware of your intentions. It isnt an easy thing. I am proud of my boyfriend for  being an active force in his own life. I am proud that he chooses to talk to me about the void, that he chooses to confront it. And if there is ever a morning where I wake up to a phone call that I do not want to get regarding him, I will be proud that he tried. I will not be mad at him. I will not consider him selfish or weak. He tried. If you have never had to try to want to live you have no right to call someone weak or selfish.


To say that I have been crafting this post for the better part of a month is an understatement, and to be quite honest I cut everything out of it. It was too blathery.

I chose yesterday to get tattooed, for a very real reason. I chose Cobr’abs for the artist because we share similar myth mentalities. He understands the symbols, although he may not have understood why I had them installed.

Two years ago (today) I was raped. It feels strange to say. At the same time it feels all too far away, as well as all too recently. But this is the nail in the coffin. I am done feeling bad about this. These tattoos are reminders that it does not define me. That ideas, forced stereotypes, or archaic beliefs of how people who’ve been raped should be represented, do not actually speak for me.


Today should have been the day that drove me over the edge. Today should have been the day that I lost my mind.

Being back in Nova  Scotia is always hard on me. However this time I have prepared myself. I have wonderful lovers & friends waiting for my return. I have amazing friends here in the province giving me moral support. I am free of all this winter drama for a few weeks, no one sticking their nose into my healing business.

But as it goes I still have to visit with family. I managed to politely tell my father to go fuck himself when he tried to guilt me into doing something I wasnt emotionally prepared for. I did not blow up at my mother for talking to thin air, which is a miracle because I hate it when she does that.

Then my rapist contacted me. It has been 1yr 51wks since the rape. I told him what I thought of him. He apologized for giving me vaginosis but not for raping me,… Small. Angry. Steps.

But then Kitten needed me. He was having a rough 24hrs. And all of that other shit, well it was was just that other shit compared to Kitten needing someone to talk to. All of my anger towards my parents disappeared. All of the hurt my rapist caused fell away. This winter, never happened. Why? because someone needed my attention.

It sounds dependant, it sounds hollow. The truth is, for most of my life Ive been looking for people to take care of, and to take care of me. I love to take care of people in some small way. Not because I want them to be dependant on me, but because I want them to have one less thing to worry about when they close their eyes at night. It is just too bad so many people in this era seem to think that is somehow a bad thing, an unwanted trait in another person… Fuck them.