I didn’t expect that there would be so much conflict from a menstrual cup.

The first time, it was just surprising. The resistance, the awkward fumbling fingers inside myself to get it adjusted. I spent the next few hours in concern, terrified to take it out, worried that a cup of blood might stir up that same dark surprise. But that process was relatively easy, and the second attempt to insert it went much better.

Okay, I thought. I’ve got the hang of this.

Unfortunately, every time since has gotten more and more difficult. I found myself going Far Far Away, into a distant point in the ceiling of my mind in order to be able to get through it. It has been a long time since I felt that kind of blank desperation, coupled with that very specific kind of pain.

I gathered a few tips online and thought, okay. I can figure this out. This is too great an invention for me to miss out on using it.

Unfortunately, even with assistance, it was too much, too difficult, too overwhelming. The pain, the resistance, the groping fingers, the blood. When my lungs began wildly clawing for air, making my chest heave, my brain begging, please please please wait wait wait waitwaitwait, I thought, “A tampon is fine for tonight.”

Quitting is not a thing I do.

While brushing my teeth a few moments later, I had to stop so I could lean with both hands bracing the edge of the sink, the whole world swirling around my head. I had to take deep breaths inthroughmynose outthroughmymouth for a full minute, leaning my head against something solid (was it the open door? was it the doorjamb? I can’t recall) until everything came back into focus.

Today, I realized I’d run out of tampons and if I truly didn’t want to leave the house, I’d have to put the cup back in. In spite of my deep breathing, my coaxing and cajoling, my whispered encouragement, I ended up with my cheek pressed against the bathroom wall, sobbing, as my fingers shoved and my mind screamed.

I got it in, yes, but at what cost?

It will get easier, a voice said softly.

What will get easier? I snapped. Raping myself? Great. Looking forward to it.

When the things that happened to you “never happened,” it’s too easy to pretend that none of it was real. I never had to clean up my own blood. I never had real broken bones. There were no itchy healing stitches. When there are no real living consequences to what has happened, did it actually happen?

I did not think that a menstrual cup would be the thing that would bring it all back, but here we are.

Because it’s more than just the pain, the struggle, the horrified way my mind immediately gasps, waitwait, it hurts wait please. It’s the way I catch flashes of things, new things, things I only remember as these moments are happening. Him leaning against my ear as my cheek presses into the wall. His vile, horrifying whispers.

It is one thing to be raped by a careless person, by a selfish person, by an abusive person. Hate fucked. Having your boundaries pushed out much further than you wanted. Falling into the mute “just get it over with” feeling that virtually every woman I’ve ever met has experienced. I don’t know that I have a single female friend who hasn’t been violated in one or all of these ways at some point in her life.

But to have someone experience genuine glee from violating you? To laugh at your sobs? To echo your wails? To play in your blood? That is truly a different kind of experience. Someone you loved so deeply, the first person in your life in so long that you finally completely trusted and let in, with a completely different level of intimacy than you’ve ever considered was possible… and he takes everything from you. With delight. With arousal.

It was a campaign of war, and it was highly successful. It was a tactic to make me weak, small, a slave, a prisoner. I can’t imagine how much his little flunkies have enjoyed this show. Watching someone like me beg for his affection, play puppy on a leash? A grateful outlet, begging to be plugged. Hilarious.

I could feel that energy around me in 2011 and 2012, after he was exiled. They would come in the night and pull on my toes, breathe on my face, poke my ribs. I’d have half-asleep nightmares of an old woman crouching next to my side of the bed, an inch from my face. Sometimes she would bite my nose clean off.

It was them laughing, taunting. Proud of themselves. Proud of him. Coming to peer and leer at my ruined beach house, to drink in the suffering and terror. We won, we won. The witch is dead.

I have had lives where people knelt at my fucking feet, do you understand? Everyone knows who the fuck I am. I don’t say that to brag. I say it as a statement of fact.

In fact, realizing this was a turning point for me in this life. In 2010, I had no self-esteem, no confidence, no ability to stand up for myself. It was seeing how these people looked at me (or more specifically, at Hermie) that made me wonder if I was wrong.

It’s also why Hermie is so cold-blooded about it all, I’m sure. First of all, she cannot allow anyone to see or know that any damage has been done. It is entirely on brand to shrug it off. Haven’t I also done that in this life? Look what happened today. Look at the invoice due on your denial.

But also, frighteningly enough, I wonder if she doesn’t care because she’s also been this person. How many people have I raped and murdered? How many faces have I laughed into as they screamed and begged for help?

I’m the most sober I’ve been in eight years, and to the surprise of no one, it turns out I was trying to numb my brain all along. Of course I would want to numb my brain from this.

I think about going to therapy and I laugh. I understand there are people out there who are likely spiritual therapists, who would be able to understand and believe me. It is such a hurdle to try to help people to understand I’m not delusional or a liar. But what am I supposed to say?

Some things you just have to carry. Once you get lost in the forest of terror, you never come back the same.

No one ever does.