Megsie

As of last Thursday I have a New and Improved Job, Version 2.0. My previous job was as a barista — although, I never did make any coffee. When I was offered the New and Improved Job, I felt rather badly about quitting, that is until the owner peevishly told me that she had “turned down” someone else for the position and would now have to find someone else, as if it were ALL MY FAULT. Yes, lady, I recognise that it is a hassle for you, but there has not been a BETTER time in the past several decades to be an employer than now! You can hire a college graduate to take out your trash for you, and they’ll just be happy that they actually HAVE A JOB! DON’T WHINE AT ME LADY! I WILL BLOG ABOUT YOU! In yo’ face! [Insert gangstah hand gestures].

My New and Improved Job is as an administrative assistant, which basically means that I am a secretary (well, maybe pre-sexual revolution I would be a secretary: now I think the term is considered sexist. Mostly thanks to Maggie Gyllenhaal). This job is not nearly as glamorous as movies have made it… nor as licentious as pornography would lead one to believe. I answer phones, print off papers, staple stacks of papers, sort papers, un-staple other stacks of papers, sort them, and then re-staple them. I also order things for the company, wait for the things to arrive, and then put them away. It’s all about as exciting as I’m sure it was for you to read about it. That said, I LOVE MY JOB! No, really! For the first time in my life, I’m actually making enough money to not only stop going into greater debt, but to actually start getting out of debt. As a result of this cheery news, I now spend much of my day in a giddy haze of happiness. (Admittedly this mental state is mostly due to sleep deprivation and hunger, and compounded by a nicotine buzz, but I enjoy it nonetheless).

I have spent my entire life floating barely above poverty, and I am so ready to finally start rising above it. I recognise that I have always been very lucky to never have to go hungry or homeless, but that being said, I doubt very many people can relate to the level of psychological trauma of being raised by a fundamentalist Christian father who CHOSE to live off of other’s charity and then complains endlessly of financial woes, who believes that being in debt is a sin against Almighty God, and who repeatedly placed the well-being of the entire family on the behaviour of his children (as in, “if you don’t obey me, I will lose my job [as a Christian minister], and the family will starve”). Thanks, Dad, for helping me to become a functional adult!

(Feel free to psychoanalyse the previous paragraph. I’m sure it will do you good.)

On to my previous weekend adventures: On Saturday, my cousin Jacob got his Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do. This is an awesome accomplishment at any age, but particularly at 13 years old, so everyone is quite proud of him. I was able to see the first half of his test on Friday night, but missed the second half on Saturday morning due to sleeping in too late. I’m blaming my cat for that one: Earnest ran away late on Friday evening, and I spent several worried hours looking for him before giving up and just waiting until he came home at 1am. On Sunday, my cousin Kyle and our friend Emilee went to the gay pride parade in downtown Seattle. It was quite marvelous! Despite the abundance of naked people and drag queens, there was only one thing I was truly surprised by: the number of churches that marched in the parade. I was shocked. I would estimate that about a sixth of the marchers were affiliated with a local church. They carried signs proclaiming God’s love and acceptance with slogans like “For God So Loved THE WORLD,” “Straight, But Not Narrow,” “I Support My Gay Son/Daughter/Bishop” and (my personal favourite) “Jesus Had Two Daddies”. I doubt I’ll ever attend church regularly again, but it certainly warmed my heart to see this public expression of love and acceptance for gays.

I know I said only one thing shocked me, but there were a few other little things that surprised me. And by little, I do mean SMALL. DIMINUTIVE. TEENY WEENY. The naked bikers were… how shall I say this… disappointing? I will admit that I have a very limited experience with male anatomy, and by “limited,” I do mean that my experience mainly has to do with pornography and working on a horse breeding farm… oh, and My Ex, The Rapist. I suppose it is irrational to compare regular men to porn stars and stallions, BUT C’MON! REALLY? I’m sorry to say, I have lost all faith in mankind.

On that tragic and disturbing note, I’m off to bed. Tomorrow is another day at the New and Improved Job, Version 2.0

Note: In general I try to keep this blog upbeat, but every once in a while things happen that I believe justify a more serious tone. I promise to continue my lame attempts at humour in the future.

To my great disgust and sorrow, I recently found out that my ex, the Rapist (whom I have mentioned in previous posts here and here) just got out of jail for rape. According to the account I heard (which was from a mutual friend who spoke with the Rapist himself), he raped his girlfriend while she was asleep. According to the court records (which can be found here. EDIT: I fixed the link. Go to “Name search” and enter Last Name: “Langdon”, First Name: “John”. It is the 8th entry under “City: Moscow”) he plead guilty to battery and was sentenced to a trifling EIGHTEEN DAYS in jail. Excuse me while I vomit.

In the past, I have spoken about my relationship with John (the aforementioned rapist) in flippant tones in an attempt to make light of what was a very bad situation. I believe have I done myself and others a disservice. John is a sociopath and a dangerous person, and I guarantee that 18 days in a county jail has not lead to a change of heart.

Here, in brief, is my history with this person:

John and I had a very strange relationship. We were never officially a couple, but we were, at one point extremely close. We were in the same circle of friends through high school and our first few years of college, and in August 2007 John, myself, my two brothers, and two other guys were roommates. John moved out of the house in October due to financial circumstances and “spiritual concerns” (we weren’t holy enough for him). The two of us remained in contact and ended up becoming physically involved (forgive my semantic awkwardness, I don’t wish to say more than is necessary).

I should clarify that John never raped me (there were, however, at least two other instances I am aware of that skirted the boundaries of date rape, but the girls never pressed charges). On several different occasions he implied that he would rape me, though. One night, he told me that if I fell asleep he “couldn’t be responsible for what he did”. I stayed awake. His most recent ex apparently didn’t get that warning.

John was (is?) deeply religious in the most fundamental and fucked up way imaginable. He believed that all women were subject to male authority. Even though we were never technically in a relationship, John felt that he had the right to tell me how to dress, what I could and could not say, and what to believe. He refused to kiss me because he believed that couples “should not kiss before marriage,” but he was more than willing to do everything else.

He was physically violent, and had no qualms about hitting me, or threatening to hit me to get his way (although, to be perfectly fair, this was not one-sided and I usually struck first if we were arguing). He threatened my life on numerous occasions, and while he usually acted like he was joking, I never doubted this, and I was afraid of him, but fascinated nevertheless. If I argued with him, even when we were in front of other people, he would allude to killing me, but always in a tone that could be taken as a joke. He would often go into great detail about different methods of killing someone and disposing of the body. I believe he was obsessed with the subject.

Despite all this, I adored him. I made excuses for him. I loved him. He was controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive, and yet, I would have followed him anywhere if he had but said the word.

I used to view women in abusive relationships with pity that verged on contempt. How stupid could they be? I wondered. As stupid, it turns out, as I am.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to two very close friends who separately confronted me and begged me to end my twisted relationship with him.

If you are in an abusive relationship, please, please, please, CONFIDE IN SOMEONE. A friend, a family member, counselor, someone. Even if you think aren’t strong enough to end the relationship, let them help you.

If you have a friend who you suspect is being abused, talk to them about it. Being in an abusive relationship twists reality and makes it nearly impossible for a victim to understand what is actually going on. Having a friend stand up and condemn the abuser can sometimes make all the difference in the world. I know it doesn’t always work this way, but please, at the very least, do not be silent!

Thanks for reading.

Me: We should get married.

Him: Bad idea.

Me: Why? You LOVE me!

Him: True, but you’d only be marrying me for my money.

Me: So? You could have affairs on the side, I don’t care. God knows, I’ll have affairs! How am I supposed to have affairs if I don’t have a husband? Otherwise, that’s just dating. Boring.

Him: Right, but it would be just my luck that your boyfriend would turn out to be some psychopath who would hunt me down and kill me.

Me: I would NEVER date a psycho… wait… uh, never mind. Point taken.

My ex the Rapist: doucheface, criminal, and now home-wrecker. Damn him.