TW: slut shaming. anxiety attacks. depression. It's a rough one, but a shorter one.
Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. I lean forward toward the mirror in the bathroom, putting too much of my weight on my arms, but I can't be bothered to care. I stare intensely at the dull eyes looking back at me in the mirror. Their blue color is tinted silver like it always is when I cry.
Whore. Whore. Whore. "whore." I whisper at the girl in the mirror. She's heard it a million times before, when I yell it at her inside my head. Sometimes, like today, I tell her out loud. I tell her what she is. I remind that girl staring back at me with those dead eyes that she is indeed a whore.
She has been since that fateful night two weeks after leaving Marcus.
Two weeks! Jesus Christ, I couldn't even give it a whole month?
Somewhere in her brain, she's aware that two weeks was fine. Marcus hasn't touched her in months. Hadn't looked at her in even longer. She would cry and beg for him to just touch her. A hand on her cheek, an arm around her waist, anything.
Why didn't he want to touch her anymore? What was wrong with her? Somewhere in her brain she knows that sleeping with that man two weeks after her breakup wasn't that big of a deal. It just felt so good to be wanted. He touched her and she felt like she lit up from within. It was thrilling. So she just kept chasing that feeling.
Chasing that passion and that jolt of electricity that ran through her body when someone wanted her. She'd been deprived of it for so long she didn't know how to stop once she started getting it.
So she slept with a lot of people, in a lot of places. She let herself go wild in Europe and promised herself that when she got to L.A. she would stop and just try actually dating people.
However, when she got to L.A. she realized she wasn't ready to date people yet, she wasn't ready to trust people with an emotional connection. She didn't want to be vulnerable to anyone, she didn't want to be attached to anyone on an emotional level, she didn't trust herself yet.
So she didn't go out very often. She didn't drink outside of her home very often. She kept the few friends she made at a distance, not really allowing them to be close enough to her to see how fucked up she was. She was a very mellow homebody with a great collection of sex toys.
Until September, when she agreed to go out to celebrate a birthday of a friend. She drank with her friends and laughed and danced with strangers, having a great time.
Her friends joined her on the dance floor, all of them dancing together to the provocative music. When Santana's hands found their way to her hips she felt the electricity jolt through her body. When his body moved behind hers she felt her inhibition's slip away from her. When his low, raspy, voice hit her ear she was done for.
I blink slowly at the girl in the mirror, wiping the vomit from my mouth. I stare at her harshly for a few more seconds before I break away long enough to turn the shower on, needing to scrub the memories from my body.
After a shower I spend several minutes scrubbing my teeth and mouth, avoiding eye contact with the mirror. Then I make my way back to my area to get dressed for the day, not really sure what to wear on a day like today where sadness and shame are fighting for their claim over your misery.
I decide on a tight long sleeve shirt that feels like a hug, tucked in to some tapered black trousers. I pair it with a croc print black bootie and a simple gold hoop. I don't bother with eye makeup, just glueing some lashes on before I swipe a red lip on. I straighten my hair so it's sleek and shiny before stepping back to examine my work.
I look great. I look simple but put together, like I have my shit together, which could not be farther from the truth.
Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. My mind loops with the term of endearment, while I shove a granola bar in my mouth. My phone rings, sending me into a slight panic before I see my dad's face light up the screen.
"Hey Dad!" my voice is bright, its clear, it shows no sign of strain.
"How's my best girl doin'? " He responds and it sounds like warmth. I've missed hearing his gravely voice, I should really call more often.
"I'm good Dad, still soaking in some sunshine down here. How are you? Getting packed and ready to abandon your only daughter on Thanksgiving?"
I tease him, hearing him chuckle on the other end.
He laughs like Charlie from Twilight. Actually he basically is Charlie except for the cop thing. "Don't even give me any shit for that, you hate Thanksgiving anyway, always talkin about how we shouldn't be celebrating the start of a genocide."
I shake my head while I respond, "You know I'm right! Why the hell is that a holiday!?"
"I don't know kiddo, but I'll be toasting ya from the boat just the same. I miss you, when are you comin home to visit?" My dad is spending two weeks on a fishing boat in Alaska with a few buddies of his because he is obviously insane.
He's wanted to do it for years but never wanted to be away for the holidays, apparently since I left him he has gotten over that.
"I miss you too dad, I'll see you for Christmas. I gotta go to work, I'm sorry. Talk more soon, okay? Love you dad." I hurry to get my things pulled together after seeing the time on the stove. I hear him say goodbye just before I hang up and go rushing to the front door.
I get into work just fine, greet the staff as usual, take my place up front and start my day like its any other. I get a few questions about where I was but I just tell them I was assisting a shoot that lasted several days and they drop it pretty quickly after I mention it was just a model shoot so there weren't any big names.
I check clients in and out, wishing them a great rest of their day with a bright smile that feels genuine to them. I eat lunch in the back and chat with a few of the stylists. I go get coffee on my break and enjoy it in sunshine. I am having what looks to be a very normal day, a good day even. I even get off work 20 minutes early when the baby boss arrives before her shift.
The door closes in my car and I make the mistake of forgetting for the briefest second. As I buckle my seatbelt my eyes meet their match in the mirror. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.
The chant begins again and this time memories come flooding back with it. I watch my eye twitch while my brain is assaulted with thoughts of dark nightclubs and loud pubs.
It is flooded with the voices of men telling me what a pretty little thing I am, how good I feel under their hands, how soft my hair is as they wrap it around their fingers. The sounds of heavy panting and moans roll through my brain, like waves that can't be stopped, gasps and desperate whimpers, begging for more attention.
In the midst of the storm a record plays on repeat, turning and turning their voices that called me a good little whore, a filthy whore, a dirty slut, a whore in angels clothes, over and over their voices replay amidst the madness in my head.
I feel my heart rate accelerate and I notice my breath becoming shallow so I know its time for some handy dandy grounding practice before I have a full anxiety attack in my car.
5 things I can see. "I can see my shoes. I can see the building. I can see my water bottle. I can see a napkin. I can see my purse."
4 things I can feel. "I can feel my toes in my socks. I can feel my bra on my back. I can feel my button on my pants. I can feel the leather under my fingers."
3 things I can hear. "I can hear the cars passing outside. I can hear the radio in my car. I can hear people talking in the parking lot."
2 things I can smell. "I can smell my perfume in my shirt. I can smell the air freshener in my car."
1 thing I can taste. "I can taste the blood from biting on my the inside of lip too much."
I take a deep breathe to steady myself before opening my eyes again. My heart rate has stabilized some, and I my vision isn't blurry. My breathing is evening out now, I think ill make it home just fine. I pull slowly out of my parking space before making the drive back to the apartment.
Hours later I'm sat in the bathtub, on the phone with Britt. I've spent the last hour walking around the apartment and filling her in on the situation with Santana and the feelings its been dredging up today.
Britt gets it, she was my partner in crime while we stayed with her, finding us cute dates or starting conversations at the bars. She was all for getting my ass laid after hearing me cry over the damage Marcus did to me with his lack of interest.
She was the number one supporter of my "hoe phase." She also witnessed me have a lot of breakdowns about it though.
On multiple occasions I listened to her and Miranda argue about me like I wasn't in the room, Miranda ragging on Britt for encouraging me when it was clearly self destructive behavior, when I clearly didn't feel good about myself afterwards. She claimed I was using sex with strangers almost as a form of punishment now, because I knew I would hate myself afterwards.
Britt hit back with the fact that I was a grown woman and it was not their business to stand in my way of a good time. She agrued that I loved the rush while it was happening and I loved how good it made me feel so why was it their business to stop me? They were there to pick me up every time so why ruin my fun?
They would have these arguments while I sat between them sometimes, or they would do it outside the door like parents who don't want a child to hear.
"Babe you know you aren't a whore. What even is a whore anyways? What is the definition of that god forsaken term? It's just a shit term that men use to make us feel small. You, my dear girl, are not small. You are bright and bold and your presence is big which is why everyone wants to be around you. It's why they take the rejection so harshly when you don't want to date them. They can't handle the loss of you."
I try very hard to soak her words into my brain and into my skin. Hoping they will wash the grimy feeing from my flesh. Hoping they will scrub the walls of my brain to rid it of the torturous thoughts. Hoping they will make room for the rational part of my brain to seep through and remind me that I'm perfectly normal. That having an active, casual, sex life is completely fine. I don't think they're quite doing the job though.
I look down at my screen as it beeps again. Another call from Santana, that's the sixth one today. I stopped counting the texts. I haven't read them. Frankie stopped calling after the fourth time. Nicki hasn't called but she texted me and asked if I wanted her to come home early. I told her no.
I thank Britt for the advice and for listening, promising to call her soon and check in. I let my body slide into the warm bath water, crossing my legs criss cross applesauce style to fit as much of my body inside as possible. I let my neck relax back against the edge of the tub and let my head lull to the side.
The apartment is quiet and still, peaceful really. The sun is setting now and it's filled it with a warm glow. The kind that lights a movie montage of all the fun times had in this space. The montage playing in my head is not movie worthy. It is not clips rolling while an Indie classic plays over like a coming of age film.
No, it's not like that at all.
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Hey, hi, hello,
This chapter feels much different than the chapters before it and I wanted to let you know that that was indeed intentional. I wanted it to feel disconnected and choppy, just like Jo's brain would be telling it to you in this mindset. It's a heavy chapter but it's very important to our story so I'm gonna give you a double update to get back to some good shit now.😁
Thanks for being here💖 -amp