That Was Abuse? (was it?)

    I've been watching this Instagram account, "Healingbythenumbers", she has a series detailing her complex escape from her abusive ex-husband. Before the videos, I had an inkling that my ex was abusive, but the feeling grows stronger each time she details her relationship with her own abuser.

    I have a habit of invalidating my experiences, though. He never beat me, but he did use every opportunity to make me feel small, to belittle me and take away my identity. Funny part, I was never his girlfriend, on my own accord. because it was such a short-lived fling, its hard to definitively say it was abuse. There are some facts I adhere to, though, as pointing me in that direction. He accused me of cheating, constantly, if I was out with my friends too long, I'd get a message like "hope you're not coming over my house later with a hickey." and it was exhausting. The constant battle to prove my loyalty drained me. Every time I heard that text tone, it was enough to make my stomach turn. 

    I felt stupid afterwards, I heard the stories my mother had told me about her first husband, who read her diary, cheated on her but accused her of the same daily. I knew he ramped up in their four year marriage and turned her into a borderline agoraphobic. All of the signs were there and it wasn't until my ex started cheating on me that I finally said enough. 

    Maru always talked about how I didn't open up, how there wasn't clear communication, but every time I tried to be honest somehow I would say the wrong thing. He would storm off or hang the phone up, refusing to talk to me. He wasn't the first person to hurt me and when I would express my disdain for the similarities in our relationship and the relationship I shared with my rapist he would shut down, accuse me of hating him, wanting to make him into the bad guy, into a rapist. When I would get fed up enough and all my friends would get through to me enough that I felt like I was ready to leave him, he would miraculously have a revelation. Suddenly, he was sorry for all the things that he "had never done", the things that I had accused him of because I'm "bipolar and avoidant". He could be so sweet and make all of it feel so real that I would crawl back in bed with him and offer to take him to dinner. I told myself that he wasn't taking advantage of me, there was no power imbalance. To be fair, I have a bad habit of distasteful age gaps in relationships and Maru was only a year older than me, the youngest guy I had dated since, well, ever. 

    Maru didn't have to do very much heavy lifting in the manipulation department, I dug him so much and he convinced me that we were soulmates, twin flames, meant to be. I could overlook things because "relationships aren't always easy, but it doesn't mean they aren't worth it." When he read my diary, I didn't tell anyone. The entries went back a while, when I was writing about the boy that I slept with in my freshman year of high school. He quoted a bit of the entry to me, something similar to "no one is as special to me as him and I look for him in everyone." It made me sick. Everything he did made me sick. Yet, I loved him like I had loved no other. I saw a future with us, living abroad, learning languages, being in the stands when he is awarded his PhD. Although all of it was a child-like fantasy, I saw it with him. I saw his deep-seated rage and short temper fading away and only the kind, in-touch with his feelings, thoughtful guy I had fallen for being left behind. 

    The funny thing about abuse is the way that you can convince yourself that the version of them you met, the idealized, best behavior, goal-oriented individual is the real one and the anger and violence is temporary. That its just a hiccup in your relationship and they'll eventually snap back into who they once were. The hard truth is that "who they once were", was only an illusion to make you drop your guard and that the intense person you have known for so much more of the relationship is who they are when they drop their guard. Regardless, when they sense you are slipping from the control, you get a glimpse of the beautiful person you fell in love with and all the eggshells you have walked on seem to have purpose now. "He's going through a lot right now, he's under a lot of stress, I shouldn't have said that, I crossed a line." You can excuse the behavior and cut them seemingly infinite slack. 

    I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the good days, or that no one seems to scratch the itch of understanding that I thought Maru did. It wouldn't be truthful to say I don't think about him running his hands through my hair, or sitting on the beach with him, quietly smiling at one another. But I am trying to find purpose in the boring life without the extremes that I had with him. I don't ever want to be scared of the look someone has in their eyes again when I say the wrong thing talking about feelings. I don't want someone's hand to be raised and cower waiting for it to come down ever again. If passion means violence and fear, I'm no longer interested, or at least I'm trying not to be. 

    At the end of the day, if he had known I had a blog where I spill my guts on the worldwide web, he probably would have hit me. Something so intimate shared so publicly, so much individual being showcased. If he knew how strong of a sense of self that I had, he probably would die, because that means he failed. I like to think he failed, his ego and fragile confidence would crumble at the idea that he didn't ruin me, that he couldn't shrink me and keep me wrapped around his finger forever. I feel proud that not only do I hold power over myself, but now over him as well. Farewell, Maru, I hope no one else lets you treat them how you treated me, I hope no one else ever fears you.

Getting cheated on (was the best thing that ever happened to me)   

Getting Cheated On (was the best thing that ever happened to me)

​Getting cheated on was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Look, I’ve been pretty susceptible to abuse and controlling relationships before. I grew up in chaos, then in neglect in my teen years and found myself appreciating someone “caring” about me. 

I told myself after my first abusive relationship that I would never let that happen to me again. 

3 years later, though, I ignored every dog whistle I had studied and practiced in preparation for the next person ready to take my independence away. 

There is something so chilling about the way some people seek out the particularly independent women to crush them down for entertainment - for control, I should say. 

There he was, though, a half inch gap in his teeth that I used to jokingly pretend to put coins through (very early in our relationship). He was charming, funny, smart. He liked to tell me about psychology. 

It started with him talking an overview about a new condition he was learning in college. It grew and grew until it was “Flora, I’m learning about this disorder, and you have it… textbook signs.” 

I told him no, no, I don’t, you’re mistaking my OCD for something that its not. 

“Well no, I don’t think you have OCD, it was a misdiagnosis. You have autism, Bipolar (whatever else he felt like throwing in, BPD, sometimes a fake one like MPDGD-manic pixie dream girl disorder). I have never once seen you do a routine or have to repeat something, and you’ve never kept me waiting for you to do something OCD-like.” 

Then he added in his jealousy. I was, as previously decided, crazy, and also cold. This meant I can’t be trusted alone. 

I remember my college orientation (he was a year older than me and we met in my senior year of high school). I had to spend a night at my college. Every hour he was texting, asking what I was doing.

To preface this next part, I am attending an engineering school with a primarily male population. I had one other girl in my orientation group, she had a huge hibiscus print on her shirt and her nails, that she told me she had carefully coordinated for the occasion. The occasion was sitting in a circle on the quad and sharing our name, major and one fact about ourselves. We didn’t have much in common. 

I had fallen into a group within my orientation group with three guys, we all liked Modest Mouse and Black Country, New Road. I kept their genders a mystery to my ex, keeping it vague and saying things like “my new friends …” or “they are …”. He knew. He said not to come back with a new boyfriend. 

I watched a movie with them in one of the dorms. There was no furniture, I had my finger on the trigger of my pepper spray the entire time. One of the boys touched my leg and I left. I didn’t tell my ex, Maru. I shared with him that I had an early night: I watched Spirited Away and went to sleep in the loft bed of my double.

I stayed up that whole night filled with guilt, I called my mom for guidance. She didn’t seem to believe me because my level of guilt didn’t match what I said happened. 

The next morning I was calling my best friend when Maru started to spam-call me, not giving up and whining that I don’t have time for him anymore on the account of my brand new college boyfriend. I added him to the call and he immediately started accusing me of having a hickey on my neck and calling me a slut in front of my friend. 

We talked it over later that day and I apologized for getting upset at him and making him jealous. It wasn’t his fault, after all, nothing ever was. 

He told me I was too detached from my emotions and thats why I’m not feeling guilty enough about what I did. 

I remember he would get this terrifying look in his eyes when I did something wrong. 

I was always tensed and ready for him to hit me. 

Three months after that orientation, I finally connected the dots on why he had been spending so much time with his coworker, Elizabeth, instead of me. He would blow me off for her, compare us and bring her up right after we had sex. I was jealous, of course I was, who wouldn’t be. I still was accused on the daily of seeing someone new and my past failures of loyalty (e.g. the orientation) were constantly splattered in my face. The final straw was that he wouldnt let me meet her. We “just wouldn’t get along”. 

I dumped him the day that they got matching piercings together when it was supposed to be our date night. He told me I was jealous, insecure, and crazy. I called him every Friday night for months afterward, leaving voicemails begging to try again. 

Looking back though, all I can think about is just how grateful I am that he cheated on me. The demeaning, the jealousy, the controlling, none of it was enough for me to end it, but the cheating was, and for that, I am so glad. 

I don’t know where I would be now if I didn’t end things. Sometimes its so scary to think about, I can’t breathe. I loved him endlessly, and I would bend to his will in an instant. But understanding now that he never truly loved me, instead got joy out of bending me, scares me that I was so easily able to fall right back into abuse. 

Although he never hit me, he never went through my phone or watched me shower, he did weaponize my secrets. He read my diary while I wasn’t around and shamed me for it. I fell right back into the palm of an abuser’s hand and I wasn’t going to leave until he cheated. So at least he did. 

Door Dash in a Snowstorm

    Its snowing, hard. Allen is at my house and we are sitting in bed waiting for the food to arrive. Someone should be posting our faces on social media, grilling us for making the 'minorities drive in the snow', like the Instagram reels say, half-joking.

    Boards of Canada's "roygbiv" floods my pumice-stone-colored walls, I feel seventeen again. 

    Allen is a kind person. I like when he sits next to me, even now, silent, focused on using ChatGPT to do his school work. Its cute, endearing. He says his college encourages AI use, I'm not convinced. 

    My purple, velvety comforter pushes back against my feet while I'm tapping my toes to the beat. I'm supposed to be doing my physics homework. Instead, I write. Normal force, Newton's first law of forces, force of gravity, centripetal force. 

    I just learned that centrifugal force isn't something that I haven't learned about yet (like I have assumed since I heard it in Frank Zappa's song), but that it doesn't truly exist. It's an imaginary force caused by a true centripetal force.

    I wonder what Allen is learning.

    Sometimes I wonder what I would be learning if I went to a different school... If I had applied to Northeastern, would I have gotten in? 

I'm so nineteen. That's what my best friend's roommate makes a point to tell him every single time I'm over the apartment. God I love Jamaica Plain. How different it is from Allston. I have never felt such opposite ways about two places so geographically close.

    Allston and I have an ambivalent-to-enemy relationship. I used to date a drummer who lived in Allston. He once asked me if I would walk to North Station from his apartment so he didn't have to drive me.(See how long of a walk here (it was 9PM in the middle of November)).On our first date, at Cafe Mirror in Brighton, a girl I would soon learn existed walked in, I took note of her pink hair and her striking tattoos. I read her most recent blog post before starting my writing tonight. I have a bit of a friend-crush on her. But, I also learned to steer clear of anyone residing in Allston-Brighton. 

    Allen gets upset when my friends and I mention that drummer, Fern. I'm not really sure why. We went out for three weeks total, he had erectile dysfunction, and the inability to make me laugh. I hope Allen knows how much I like him, and how much I generally just didn't care for Fern. 

    Our Door Dash arrived, after 35 minutes. I grabbed it and there was just a dusting of new snow on my stairs. 

    I love when it snows at night, the sky glows and it's just quiet, everywhere. Allen appreciates the quiet and I appreciate him. Boards of Canada is quiet music, I think. 

    I also like a lot of the not-so-quiet music, though and I think that's where Allen and I differ.

    I went to the Sue album release show yesterday and bought their new merch. Truthfully, I like their EP and singles a lot more than Northeast Emo. 

    Allen wasn't invited, I knew Fern would be there and Nick (from hinge) and our old friend. I also know that even though we met at a Told Not to Worry show, that he doesn't know a single song that isn't made by or affiliated with Drain Gang or Haunted Mound. I think its cute, how sheltered he is, music-wise.

    I don't like the scenesters. They're rude, egotistical, masochists, at least that I have found. I used to hope to meet the one different scenester. Yet, the only ones that are "different" are also posers when you really talk to them. They live in Allston and call themselves punk while their mothers pay their $2k/month rent. They work part-time, or not at all, because they need time to practice with their bands. The worst of it all is that they don't know anything. You try to talk to them about Gaza and all they can say is Free Palestine/End Genocide and not a word more. They don't truly know any details, because life is too fun to learn. 

    This is why I feel like a poser when I prefer the company of people like Allen, people that don't listen to the music, but at least can hold a conversation about Epstein's atrocities. 

So we sit on my purple comforter, I feel guilty for Door Dashing in the snow, I feel guilty that we use ChatGPT for homework, I feel guilty that Allen drives an hour and a half each way to see me, and I feel guilty, most crucially, because I can't name a single Boards of Canada song and I think all of it makes me just as much of a poser as the rest of them.

My Rapist’s Best Friend (Ziggy Stardust)

*trigger warning: this post features mentions of rape and the invalidation of a victim*

​Two days ago was the four year anniversary of my sexual assault.

Now, it’s been four years, and they have been extremely turbulent and chaotic in terms of healing. Every year has been characterized by becoming a crazed maniac for the whole month of February, having panic attacks in the middle of stores or when I smell something that reminds me, and, most killer: nightmares. Cold-sweats, wake-up-shaking, Can’t-go-back-to-sleep nightmares. 

Every year (up until this one) that had been true. I went into hypomania for a week or two starting February first this year, but it ceased. I started to think that I was safe and this was going to be the year that I was all healed up. 

Then it happened, the night of February 19, the day before the anniversary.

I closed my eyes and there it began: I took out my phone and saw a text, Ziggy. Ziggy is my rapist’s best friend, someone who, when they heard my story told me “I don’t want to be caught in the middle of you two’s drama.” Their denial hurt, in the moment, about as much as being violated in the first place. 

The message read “Hey Flora, I’m thinking about you, I know it’s been forever. I took the train today from Reading into North Station and it reminded me of you! Anyway, I started a band and I think you might like it. [insert stupid hair metal band name Spotify link here].” 

Of course dream-Flora opened the link. It was Ziggy, my rapist, my rapist’s new girlfriend and someone else all decked out in hair metal gear, leather and fringe. Ziggy was holding a bass, which I never knew them to play. It was bizarre. I woke up with a pit in my stomach and by then it had been four whole years. 

Music Elitism and the Search for God

    So I start by saying that I had an old friend that started dating a bassist in a semi well known local screamo band and went Hollywood on us! In the aftermath of the friend breakup, one of our shared friends revealed some things she said about me behind closed doors. What was the silliest was the direct quote “I love Flora but, god, she is such a poser.” And after getting got like that I feel as if I need to issue a public notes app apology on my Instagram. Holy crap. One of my favorite things about her was when I would put on one of my playlists she would look at me with this majorly maternal look in her eyes and say, “wow you like all the music I liked in the sixth grade!”… We are nineteen. 

    So the funny thing is:

I have never listened to emo music until, I'm not sure, October of last year? So I have probably 4 months of emo music under my belt. Before then, it was new wave, cold wave, dark wave, goth rock, death rock, and then some indie, alternative, and classic heavy metal. Now I haven’t forsaken my past, but I will say I have strayed pretty far. I was upfront with Ms. emo about the fact that I am new to the whole sub genre and asked her if she wanted to give me any recommendations, I would be just freaking overjoyed. Not once did I get a song or band from her, probably because she didn't want a poser infiltrating her new, awesome boyfriend’s band. 

    I mean I knew music elitists existed before her but I don't think I've really ever encountered any, (except for a chronic one-upper of a freshman I knew in my senior year of high school). And it wasn't like I was walking around wearing Orchid T-shirts or Dystopia patches, or even more stealthily, in local merch of bands that I don't know. I wore a Told Not to Worry wristband that I bought at the second show of theirs I saw. Every time she spotted it, she would show me hers, a much older, thinner-banded, black wrist band and compare it to my 4-month-old lime green one. 

    Anyway, although it may sound like I'm justifying or defending myself, I'm not! I'm doing my best to paint a picture. Is that girl a poser? Abso-Fruit-Ly not. But… is she insufferable to anyone forced to talk about music with her? Yes. 

    I had her and her little musician boo thing over my house just after the new year and I had Silk playing. Suddenly, I hear Ms. emo say “This song is ruined by the screams she does.” Which doesn't even make any sense! It would be a completely different song if they weren’t in it! (it was Amber Welts by Silk). I heard her say this from the other room and when I came back, they were chatting and the whole reason she said this, was because he had said first that he doesn't like the band much.

 

    I just have a hard time understanding what makes me a poser when she the one who folds in half and forgets her so-called “elite” music takes when a stupid bassist says a band isn't good. 

    What was ironic was that I always said “I love her but, god, she smokes too much weed." behind her back.

    Ultimately I think that's the explanation to elitism. It comes from a lack of a life. I’m not saying this from being bitter, either. This girl is nineteen, out of school, lives with parents, doesn’t work, and doesn’t have hobbies (besides going to shows). I think that has the ability to drive just about anyone a little insane. She enjoys sitting around, smoking weed, and assuming herself superior to her peers for listening to her bands with 500 monthly streamers. In this godless time, what are we supposed to do except find places where we excel. And no, I was never offended when she would make the comments about my liking of her middle school music, or when she would offer me the Oso Oso merch from when she saw them in the eighth grade, even though I can confidently say now that it was meant to demean me. Maybe I am a poser because I am not insecure about the fact that I don't really know anything about emo, I made fun of it for years before I got my heart broken enough to start to understand it. 

    What I have begun to understand even more is the fact that the most punk-rock, emo motherfuckers that you know go home to their condos with gardens in the heart of the city, and get mad that their step-moms don't let them smoke weed inside. 

    

    A lack of understanding sneaks up on us, all of us. We have lost our ability to empathize with one another. Yes, she's wealthy and I am not, yes, she lives with her dad and I do not, but also yes, I love myself and she does not. I have a hard time cutting her slack because of her economic position, because what is more punk rock than having daddy's credit card and no job? But ultimately, she is just as lost as you and I. Except I don't really feel lost at all and I haven't since maybe 16? So I guess she is more lost than you and I.

    And because of this, I have the ultimate privilege, much more than financial success, much more than freaking elite music taste. And I was still talking behind her back, too. At the end of the day, it’s not like either of us were saying things that weren't true.