Today I am ranting

I woke up aggravated this morning...and tearful, which only makes everything more aggravating.

I went to dinner with an old friend last week. We talked--well, she talked. Finally, she asked me to tell her about my current life. I told her about the normal stuff...work, performances, kids...then she asked about my frequent trips to Utah that Darrin had mentioned to her. So I though about making something up, because sometimes I do see clients, or attend workshops, or perform, or teach. But then I decided to just tell the truth. So I did. I told her I was seeing a therapist because I was raped when I was eleven by a cousin who lived with us at the time. She asked a couple of questions which revealed that my parents weren't told until three years ago, and that things were going fairly well. Then suddenly, the dinner was over. She paid for her meal, got up and said good-bye.

I know it's shocking and upsetting to learn things like this. I understand it's not "nice" dinner conversation. But this is something that affects me every day of my life. I would like it to be otherwise. It's not. I don't know if it ever will be. I don't talk about it constantly. Ask Ambrosia--I stay with her when I'm in Utah. Rape of Samantha is not a popular topic in my repertoire of conversation. However, it's important to me to let people know, at least, people who are close to me--those who consider themselves my friends. 

A friend asked me this weekend why it matters. Why do I have to tell people. I could have had a lovely dinner with an old friend, gotten a hug good-bye, and she would have left feeling that our time together was something to treasure. Instead, she left feeling uncomfortable and distanced from me. I told him it matters. That's all. I let clients leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. I don't allow students to feel discomfort about me.  But if you love or care about me, this will matter to you, as well. In the past eight months flashbacks have been triggered by a multitude of random things. My life has become structured around avoiding the things that might bring a flashback, and only going into those situations when I have to (like seeing the doctor or dentist). And it sucks. 

Someone I love to spend time with invited me to go to a concert with him recently. I declined. Because the noise, and the crowds, and the fact that I would be attending right after a therapy session pretty much guaranteed that I would have a fairly intense flashback and all the lovely accompanying after-effects. And the truth is--I love spending time with him--I love him! And I hate the fact that my stupid past reaches out and bites me in the rear a million years later.

Why do I have to tell people? Because it still hurts! Because it's never going away! Because if you love me, you'll care about this, you won't worry that it's uncomfortable or shocking. You might even let me know that you don't think I'm a freak because I can't do something as normal as going to a concert with a friend. You might tell me I'm okay and we're still friends even if I've experienced treatment most people don't think about. And then, probably, I won't talk about it much anymore, because you'll understand why I take the stairs instead of the elevator, why the texture of meat in my mouth sometimes makes me nauseated, why I avoid some movies, why I'm afraid to go some places alone, why I just feel sad every once in awhile, why I get stressed when people approach me from behind or touch me when I'm not expecting it. 

But it might be too much to ask. I've always thought it was, but some people told me it wasn't--and I believed them. 

I'm a pretty nice person, actually. And sometimes it just feels like this STUFF is undeserved and too big for me to deal with. 

Okay. Finished complaining. Time to go run.