So I had some people tell me that they really liked the way I did the abuse rants and that it was helpful…and I just wanted to ask, do you guys find it helpful?

It’s hard to be honest, and scary, but if it helps then I’ll keep doing it. Just lemme know because I’m only cool with being this uncomfortable if it helps people. Otherwise I can go back to my small, emotionless examples if that’s cool with everyone. There’s a lot of things you guys really don’t need to know about me.

Anyhow, for now, let’s pretend you like it and that the honest method works and we’ll talk about: Romanticizing Sexual Assault

I have to call it the "R" word or else Wattpad makes it private. Dammit...this is why we can't be honest. Apparently we can write stories about falling in love with a guy that forces you to have sex with him, but we can't actually talk about the psychological and physical downfall. That's disgusting.

Honestly, I’m pretty sure lots of people are getting the "r" word and rough sex confused.

That’s sad. Actually no. That’s pathetic.

It’s sad that sex is such a huge market and now so is BDSM stuff, so it’s making the “r” word an impossibly popular topic.

There’s nothing wrong with sex. I don’t have a problem with people that are into the BDSM stuff.

But I hate the romanticism.

It is anything but romantic. Like abuse, it will mess you up. It will completely change your life and the person you are and you will never get back to your old self.

Because it takes absolutely everything from you all at once. And that’s one of the most terrifying things you can ever experience.

No one deserves it.

It’s not a joke. It’s not some horrible thing you wish on people that irritate you to an unbelievable extent. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I wouldn’t even wish for the people that make fun of and say someone deserved it. You're sick and twisted if you've ever wished it on someone. I don't care how bad they've been to you.

Obviously, you don't know a thing.

I don’t think people really understand what happens to the victims. They think it’s just “oh I was forced to have rough sex with a stranger. Oh no”.

I’ve never seen a Wattpad story explore the truth. It’s either just some story where a guy saves the poor little girl and she just gets over it or the girl falls in love with her rapist because he’s just “misunderstood”.

They never talk about how much the “r” word takes away from you. Never. It’s just a little subplot. A little drama. A little twist to spice things up.

Well I’m gonna just stop avoiding this and be honest (because we’ve already established that Wattpad lacks honesty).

So many people want to write these beautiful stories? Fine. We’ll talk about the “r” word so everyone can just know how beautiful it is.

When it’s happening you keep thinking that time has stopped. Every second seems to have been stretched into a minute. Every minute feels like it’s been pulled into an hour. And every tiny moment you feel so much without feeling anything at all.

He's heavy. So heavy and you can't breathe, but you don't want to because he stinks. He smells like he hasn't showed in days and his breath is hot and sticky and smelly. And he tastes salty and everything he does to you hurts.

And it's so awful. You want to die. You wish he would just grab something and hit you in the head so hard that you never wake up. You keep struggling and after a while it's not to get free, it's so that he'll make good on his promise and end you.

You pretend you’re not yourself. You pretend that you’re somewhere else. That you’re with someone else. That it’s all just a really bad, really painful dream and you’re gonna wake up and everything is going to be okay.

And you do wake up. But it’s not okay. Nothing is okay and nothing will ever be okay again.

You will never get back the faith and the pride and the dignity you lose. No amount of justice will bring that back.

Because the thing about getting justice is, it takes everything else away from you.

When you go to the hospital, because he hit you so hard when you fought back and beat the shit out of you when you tried to scream, they just keep taking and taking.

For hours, you sit in the waiting room, every ounce of courage you’ve built up on the way there dwindling and withering away until finally you decide that you don’t want them to collect evidence. You don’t want them to call the police. You don’t want justice.

You just want to get your stitches and go home.

But then, after three hours, the nice lady from some help center that you didn’t bother to catch the name because you’re tired and you hurt and you just want to go home comes and she convinces you that it’s best to let them collect evidence. That you could save someone else from going through this trauma.

And you do it. You do it because you’d never wish this upon anyone. Even the people you hate.

The sweet lady asks you your story and your medical history and things you don’t want to answer, but her smile is so nice and so warm that you feel compelled to. You feel like you’re letting her down and being a coward if you don’t so you do.

Then they start the real taking. And they don’t stop until you have nothing left to give.

They take your clothes. They take your favorite blue tee-shirt, the really cute one with the lace at the bottom, and they take the jeans that make your ass look great. They take your gray jacket—the one you’ve worn everywhere since your freshman year of high school—and they take the black boots that you always wear because they’re comfortable. They take the tiny pink underwear and black bra you wore—the ones that make you wonder if you were asking for it—and you never get them back.

They take your hair, your blood, your fingernails. They take pictures and you flinch every time you hear the camera click.

The whole time they take it slow and tell you everything’s going to be okay. And the sweet lady takes your hand when she can and you squeeze hers tightly, glad that it’s soft and warm.

Hours tick by and you want to tell them to stop, but you don’t, because you don’t want to be a coward. As you stand in the cold room, being gawked at by strangers, poked and prodded and violated they take your dignity and your modesty and so you refuse to give them your courage.

But you can’t help feeling so ashamed that every time they pull out another swab and find a new place to put it, you let another salty tear--one that reminds you of his sweat--roll across the bridge of your nose or down your cheek, and your stomach clenches, and you let out a little yelp. And as you do, you know you’re a coward.

You know they have your courage too.

And you have nothing.

And as the sweet lady is holding your hand and telling you that you’re doing great and that you’re so brave you start thinking about how you didn’t have to be here. If you had just fought harder or screamed louder you wouldn’t be standing in the freezing room or laying on some cold, hard exam table letting the doctors and nurses take everything from you.

"Stand right here," they say as they pretent to be a photographer placing you in positions worthy of centerfold.

"Lay down on this," they say as they pat the already crinkling white paper on the gray table and watch your skin shake and quiver as you try to lift yourself up.

"On your stomach," they say and you try to go numb, but they open another envelope and find a new way to make you cry.

"Turn over now, we're almost done," they say and the last part is finally familiar but you hate it. You hate everything.

They won't let you go to the bathroom. They won't let you eat or drink anything and you don't want to, but it's been hours and you figure you probably should.

They won't let you shower or be clean. They just keep looking at you and putting things in you and you want them to stop but you still believe you have a shred of courage and that's the only thing keeping you alive.

That and the constant nagging of how guilty you are. How it's all your fault.

You keep telling yourself that you shouldn’t have been swinging your hips. You shouldn’t have worn the cute top, because it made your boobs look awesome. You shouldn’t have worried about what your ass looked like. You should have worn more sensible shoes so you could have run. It wasn’t like you were planning to get laid anyway. Especially not like that.

You should have done better. And you blame yourself for everything that’s happening.

Then, when they’re finished almost six hours later, they take your privacy as you’re forced to call someone to bring you clothes and take you home.

As you’re leaving, they give you pills and say that you have to come back to see the results of all the tests they’ve done to ensure that you don’t have some sort of god awful disease. That’s going to take your time, but you have to do it.

And you take the pills because you don’t want an STD and you sure don’t want a baby. And all the while, your friend watches you and wishes he knew what you were going through so he could help.

The sweet lady gives you her card and tells you to call her if you need anything, but you throw it away the first chance you get, because all you want is to forget.

But you can’t forget, because everything reminds you of the fact that you have nothing and it’s all your fault.

You can try to rebuild your pride. You can try to get back your courage and your dignity, but they’re just replacements. You’re not whole. You’re not okay. And you never will be. Ever.

And this is just the first day for that forever.

Seriously. What is so romantic about that? Tell me, because I don’t see it. I truly, honestly, do not see it and I hope I never do.

Because finding that romantic is sick and twisted and wrong.

Stop glorifying that. That’s disgusting.

And that's just one truth. There are so many other stories out there.