Seeds of Destruction.

I left home after my father strangled me, wrapped his hands around my neck after I asked to go out to watch a movie. I didn’t ask for money, I had a weekend job, I just wanted to go out with my friend. Let’s call her Naomi. Naomi was a sweet girl from a nice family, and we were going out to watch a silly rom com. I had finished exams, I had time on my hands, by this brute of a man who was not the man who biologically contributed to my existence, jumped on me on my bed, wrapped his hands round my throat and shook the life out of me screaming that he thought I was going out to fuck boys. He was jealous, considering his favorite past time, I suppose.

I was not going out to fuck boys – I only had girlfriends at that point. I was in a sexual relationship with a female, who was not Naomi. Anyway, what right had he over my 17 year old body? He felt he had the right to choke the life out of it. My mother stood at the door bleating pathetically at him to stop, whilst not raising a finger. She was not really my mother either. My real mother was a disaster apparently. I’ll never forgive her for not keeping me, or dying before I had the chance to tell her how much I needed to get to know her.

Of course I ran away shortly after. I ran out the house with no shoes on, with only my pocket book and a purse and the clothes on my back. I ran to a place where I could hide with friends. My girlfriend died shortly after. I loved her. I still think about her. I wish that hadn’t happened, I think I would have carried on down a different path, she grounded me. Poor, darling Juliette.

The next man to hit me smothered me with a pillow. It was a drug thing, primarily. He was a terrible fragile like a bomb human being. I tried to be straight. I tried and tried and tried to be attracted to boys. He put my arm between the frame and the door, angry ‘his’ bag had disappeared. He slammed it shut on my shoulder and wrist time and time again, breaking and dislocating it. I limped into the street dazed, and a passer by called an ambulance. I tracked this guy down recently online. He seems to have had a normal life. I wonder if his wife knows he used to do drugs and beat up women. I don’t expect so. I bet he hits her too. At least he was right, I had taken the bag…which I had earnt too, it makes me feel better to know it was not in vain…but rather in vein… The bastard.

“When she takes speed they stop and ask her, what is in her mind?” Lou in tears, choked up over his Caroline. He must have seen this shit in the circles he ran in, he couldn’t have failed to. For every woman-pimping beating asshole there is a ‘Lou” in that scene. Unfortunately the good guys don’t ever do anything apart from mind their own business and write pretty songs. I still like Lou. Heck, I still want to be him. Billy was much the same – all drugs went to him, he was happy to take, and not really abusive, just useless. My big brother.

My relationships with women were much happier. I had funny, hip, cool sexy sweet girlfriends that made me smile, and fussed over my new piercings in bathrooms of bars, before walking home with me in the rain. I wish I knew why I kept trying to be straight. I guess I just wanted to fit in. I was scared of what society would do to me if I was not straight. I kept trying to have a relationship with my homophobic parents. In the end I told myself I just had to find a guy who would be busy with other things, a man that I could mostly ignore. What an idiot I was. I wasted my youth on a series of unhappy flings with abusive men. I used to cry and cry after sleeping with men, wracked with a sense of disgust. I never ever got anything out of it. It was just what I felt I had to do, I suppose.

I really can’t take male aggression. I just can’t. So what is the remedy? I enjoy blogging. I love writing. It helps me, but this occasional attack in my online home has shaken me up.

I joined a lesbian book group. I think that will help. I need to try to live life I want, in the way I need to. I want one good relationship with a woman who loves me too. It’s that or give up on happiness entirely.

I guess I was not really ever like Caroline: I was always afraid to die, and they called me Detroit not Alaska…