“Yes. Coffee, public place, twenty minutes tops. I have to give him back the clothes I borrowed.” Closing my laptop, I stand up and grab my clothes from the chair.
“I still cannot believe that you woke up in his bed!”
“Don’t even,” I grunt, popping her on loudspeaker while I get dressed. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“So,” she continues, “how did it go with Cillian? Did you end up in his bed?”
“No thanks.” Why do they make skinny jeans so fucking tight? The zip finally goes up with a struggle: “I’m finally at a place where I’m happy by myself; I’m not looking for anything serious right now.” I grab my shoes from the rack at the end of the bed and slip them on. “Besides,” I add, slightly out of breath from the acrobatics needed to get into these poxy jeans. “I’m broken, remember?”
I’ve been called it on more than one occasion by more than one person. It’s probably why it stung so much when Aiden said it to me in his kitchen. Someone who doesn’t even know me can see the damage I try to hide.
Brokenis the word previous lovers have called me. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a relationship—not a proper one, at least. Nothing ever lasted longer than six weeks before they glimpsed the cracks in my facade and decided I was too damaged to handle. Good for a fuck, but not for anything more.
I’m broken because I get attached too quickly. I later found out after I was diagnosed with ADHD that that’s a common trait. I’m jittery and quick to anger, and my psychologist is still on the fence about whether it’s caused by CPTSD or ADHD. I’d say it’s a lovely blend of both.
I’ve got rejection-sensitive dysphoria, which means that I tend to take rejection very personally, and it affects me deeply. I wanted to pack in being a cover designer because one girl left me a scathing review. It didn’t matter that I have hundreds of positive reviews; that one negative comment hit me hard.
There are a lot of ways in which I’m damaged; I get that. But the broken thing I’m referring to is about sexual trauma that I experienced in the past.
I can get myself off as much as I want, but as soon as a partner is involved, my body just refuses to cooperate. No matter how much I want it, I just can’t reach an orgasm with another person.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that after several partner changes, I was the problem and a bitch for not stroking their ego and faking it, so yeah, there’s that.
The thought of having another person come into my life to point an accusatory finger at me and try to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me because I can’t achieve orgasm with them is terrifying.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to communicate my struggles; I really have. I told one of my partners about it—someone I thought cared for me, someone I foolishly trusted. I told him that I had been raped at fifteen; I didn’t even divulge the rest of the sordid details, and do you want to know what his advice was?
Get over it.
I wonder if he’d tell me to get over it if I added that I was forced into giving someone oral when I was a child. It’s funny how I can’t remember what age I was; I can’t remember how we went from watching TV in my sitting room to the act itself. I can’t remember a lot about that incident or most of my childhood, but it’s the details I do remember that have my eyes stinging with angry tears, my throat constricting, and my palms trembling at the memory.
My dad was drunk as usual and talking on the house phone just outside the door to my granddad. I remember beingfucking terrified that he’d walk in, and I’d be on the arse end of a hiding. I remember the back of my head being forced down, the weight of his hand pressing against my skull, and the tears streaming down my face.
I don’t remember how long it lasted or what happened next; I simply don’t recall anything after that moment. The fear and pain consumed me, leaving a blank void in my memory as a defence mechanism against the trauma.
Is it cold in here, or is it just me?
“Don’t listen to those arseholes!” Maria’s voice rings out over the phone.
I’m on the landing; I don’t remember coming out here. I’m fucking freezing. My teeth begin to chatter, and my hands shake uncontrollably. Fuck. I can’t go out like this.
I’ve triggered myself again.
I’ll have to text Aiden and cancel.
Oh my God, I’m going to throw up!
“I won’t,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. I could tell her what’s going on, but I don’t want her to worry about me. I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just text Aiden to cancel, get into bed, and wrap myself in a cocoon of blankets. That usually does the trick. Hiding from the world is what I do best.
“Are you alright?”
Of course she can tell something’s wrong.
“Yeah, I’m just, eh, not feeling great; I think I’m getting a migraine,” I fib. “I’m going to text Aiden to cancel and head to bed for a bit.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No, I’ll be fine once I get into a dark room and take an Imigran,” I reassure her, hoping she won’t press further. She doesn’t, thankfully. I promise to call her later and end thecall.
