Monday, November 20, 2006

Goodbye To Comics: Epilogue

Goodbye To Comics:

Donovan Paul is sorry, but he cannot help me out with the $15,000 medical bill in the wake of the torn cervix I received when having sex with him.

He has no money, except for the money he uses to buy the high-ticket fanboy items that he brags about recently purchasing only minutes after telling me he has no money.

Implicit in all this is the insinuation that though two people tangoed, since I was the "catcher" it's solely my responsibility.

It's kind of like having an unexpected pregnancy, only there is no baby, just a scar I will never be able to see.

When I first left the hospital, I looked like a Kabuki performer. My face was bloated from all the solution they pumped into my system, and I was literally white as a ghost.

I went home with Donovan. I stayed over his apartment for two weeks. He had washed every last bit of blood from my jeans and I was very impressed. He said my blood was unusually "watery" and that even though it was dried and soaked-in, it came right out.

We had a lovely two weeks. We pretended like the accident wasn't a really big deal, and that it had hardly happened at all.

After the prescribed amount of healing time we tried to have sex. I found that I was completely traumatized regarding sex. But I knew that if I didn't try, I might never do it again. Still, the sensation of being penetrated made me want to be shot in the head. It was that bad. I was just so afraid of going through all that again. And I didn't even have insurance. What if it happened again?

Donovan was very patient. But truthfully, I could never picture a day where I would be able to have wild, unfettered sex with him. He said he didn't care about that, that he just wanted to be with me. But come on.

The second-to-last time I was intimate with Donovan, I tried his suggestion that I use a lambskin condom instead of latex. Both him & my gyno theorized that perhaps I was allergic to the latex, producing pain and discomfort.

For the first time in my life, I experienced what it was like to have sex and not have a sensation like burning acid.

Think about it -- all the other times I had sex in my life, it felt like burning acid, ripping flesh.

But I never complained. I thought it was normal. I thought I had to just "buck up" and take it.

Right before the accident, while having the sex w/Donovan, I was in intense burning pain. But I didn't complain. I didn't say a word. I could have spoke up and prevented an event that almost took my life but I didn't.

Why didn't I speak up?

My lawyer asking me regarding Gilgongo! Comics:
"Why didn't you speak up earlier?"

The therapist I had in my early twenties, regarding my father's abuse:
"Did you tell anyone?"

When asked about what I thought of the "Vicki Victim" rape pages:
"They look great! Great use of drapery!"

It's all because I don't want to "ruin" things, I don't want to assert myself and possibly make one man or another angry. Because look what happened with Dad. And so it continues. And I become "Vicki Victim" herself long after there are any true super-villains to be scared of.

And the problem with being silent and with being compliant and being like "Vicki Victim" is that there is a long, long, long line of predators out there who will target you and will shamelessly exploit you, thinking they can get away with it.

And no, it's not your fault that you're caught up in this cycle of abuse. There is no "fault" here. But there is a need to take responsibility, to take control of your life.

Ok, let's try this again.

No, it's not my fault that I'm caught up in this cycle of abuse. But there is a need to take responsibility for my life -- to take control of my life.

And I wish I could come up with some sort of sentimental, inspirational comic book metaphor to end with.

Suffice it to say that I'm alive, I'm healthy, I'm working and I'm writing.

I've been writing for three days straight, I'm tired and my hair stinks.

I'm going to go now and wash my hair.