Using Self care as a Procrastination Tool: A Science

 A stream of consciousness of General Anxiety Disorder and ADD

by Alison Leaf

    It’s 2:22 PM on Monday. I am unemployed. I just finished a 12:15 12 step group and talked to a friend on facebook. I’m working on a novel, but I haven’t been working on it all week because I just can’t focus. I found out another friend died and now my weekend plans are 2 separate zoom memorials. In a time of COVID-19, my general anxiety disorder has soared to new heights. I’ve always struggled with social anxiety and boundary setting. But now, instead of my usual fears of “Is this person my friend? Should I reach out? What if they don’t get back? Are they mad at me? Do they not like me?” the fears have been replaced with “We are supposed to be keeping our social circles small. I see photos of some of my friend’s hanging out, but maybe they are in a smaller circle. What if I am not in their circle?” 

    I’ve seen exactly 3 friends in person since the pandemic started and my boyfriend, so 4 people in total. I’ve seen countless others through Zoom, but staring at a screen all day leaves me feeling drained and disconnected. A usual mindfuck I have is how to start my day. I don’t need to be anywhere for work so getting out of bed can feel challenging. I have to walk * my dog, but then I should journal 3 pages right? What about yoga? A support group? Meditation? I keep adding things to self-care pile, to the extent where it can make me lose my drive to do the actual thing itself. 

    I sit down to write my novel. Then my ADD kicks in. I should order a selfie stick! I started an event page. Speaking of, I need to order new fairy wings. Tapestries for my room. Fairy lights. New bedding. Shit, I also probably need to do my laundry. Now my dog is barking again….

    FUCK emails, I need to get back to emails. I need to ask people when they can work on a play I’m co-devising. I need to stop watching “lambas in hats” and message the organizer of LitFest on Facebook when I can potentially teach a primal scream and anger release workshop. I need to sign up for youtube red because ads. I need to budget. I need a new bike. I want to sign up for this FLB workshop.  I want to fly to LA to visit my childhood friend because while I’m hiding in my basement because my roommate is throwing another rager and I don’t feel like dealing with the random coked up men in my kitchen, she’s over there posting 3AM selfies on a beach in Malibu, looking like an advertisement for peace and serenity. “Fly up, you can bring Sophia” she says. Tempting. Let me google prices…

    But, what if I can’t afford the bike and FLB course then? I can’t touch the money I have set aside for my Yoga teacher training. I have ZERO income coming in and my disability does not cover my rent. Shit. I should make a dominatrix only fans! But I don’t have a male sub… memories come up on facebook of me 9 years ago,  so young and wafer-thin and modelling and I remember a time when I was less distracted and less depressed. But then I research how people actually make money through OnlyFans and it involves so much time investment and do I really want to spend all day chatting to randos, even if it is in a character? 

     I need to find a NY Psychiatrist because my Psych in Florida won’t prescribe out-of-state anymore and that last one was a scam who saw me once over Whatsapp and then said he could only see me “in person”. Yes during COVID. So now I need to find another one who accepts Medicare because detoxing cold turkey off valium in the middle of a pandemic would be rather awful…my skin rash is back, my neck red and itchy and burning and peeling off. Crawling. 

Commence intrusive thoughts ie; 

My family is helping me with rent and therapy for this month, but what about next month? What about when my father dies and I need to confront my estranged half brother and sister at his funeral? What if they stop believing in me? What if I stop believing in myself?

Calm down. It will be ok. They believe in you. You believe in you. You haven’t taken your meds all day, have you?

    Where I inserted the * earlier is where I paused writing this. I started cleaning my apartment. I swiffered my fucking stairs. I feel like I have gotten better with dealing with grief somehow. In the past, someone dying meant a relapse. Now I am still sober but it’s just really hard for me to focus on my meaningful project (my novel.) I am obsessed with getting the stairs clean. I used to be obsessed with the bones of my body and the fat melting away. Now it’s swiffering. I am going to be one of those “shoes off in house” people, which I hate. There was a reason I am not vegan and usually messy. I am prone to extremes. I am prone to black and white thinking. I am prone to self flagellation. 

    I am re-opening this blog back up because in a time of COVID-19, I have a lot to ponder about. I need a space to post unstructured, raw pieces that don’t really fit the dark polished aesthetic I am aiming for in “Searching for Tara”, things I don’t want published but do want out  there, if only to wonder if other people can relate at all. Or maybe just as an open space to babble. Now the time is 11:51. Since starting this, I have a clean bathroom and stairs and 0 progress on that novel. Oh well. Did I mention I started my period today? No wonder I’m watching Lamba’s in hats. I should reward myself for cleaning at all today with these cramps. I am now going to refer to my period in third person as Carl. Ok, I’m going to finally do yoga for the first time all day now. My once at-least-an-hour a day practice has been reduced to 20 min yoga with Adrienne video’s. Why can I focus so well on my “Medical Muses” book, but can’t get through “Eastern Body, Western Mind?” What is wrong with me? 

    Oh NO. I still haven’t checked out that vocal fry video my friend sent ages ago. I’m scared of another thing to add to my morning routine. I keep thinking about people but then I freeze and I don’t contact them. I should buy more presents for people! But what about budgeting? I am a crappy friend. I am a crappy girlfriend. But, I was here for this person. Maybe I can be a good friend after all. No. Nobody likes me. I’m lonely. I’m anxious and scared and people are scary. I’m tired of worrying about what people think of me. 

We spent last summer falling in love and this summer we are turning into the worst versions of our parents. We went from rescuing butterflies to triggering each other. I interrupt you. You snap at me, a snarling ball of reaction. Like the Dodie song lyrics “Words only get through if they’re sharp.” We mudsling. We bring up the past. And then I crack a joke or you do and we can’t help but smile and our eyes lock and you are so loving, the gentle giant who stole my heart and for that moment everything is right in the world again. 

    It’s really exhausting being me, sometimes. When I get “in the zone” creatively, I can write for hours, really meaningful pieces and I feel so connected and it’s like everything is distilled. I don’t care what people think. I only care about what I am creating. But on some days the grief feels too much for me to bear. I have flashbacks of my father listening to Mozart and burning CD’s and talking about books he would bind. Yelling. Cooking. Very intense flashbacks. Of my friends who died. Who would have guessed I would be spending the weekend going to Zoom memorials? What does this say? I can probably write something polished about virtual grief. But I don’t want to. 

    Right now I just want to do that yoga for PMS with Adrienne video and then maybe binge watch all of Llamas in hats or Gossip Girl. I have a friend coming over to groom Sophia tomorrow and then, thankfully, therapy. I hope I’m not disconnected again. I don’t want to waste the session.

Searching for Tara

I have come up with a new blog!


Email me at with who you are and which articles you would like to access. This is a LOT darker and more candid than anything I ever wrote so passwords will be given on whoever I decide can handle it.

See you on the other side


The different facets of a human

My therapist has said I come into our sessions 3 ways (and therefore, probably come to life 3 ways):

  • Centered
  • Scattered
  • Disconnected completely

Or I suppose, CSD for short. When I feel centered and prepared, or grounded, I am clear and know what I want from the session. When I am scattered it’s sort of half and half. Short attention span. Going from one topic to the next and not following through on ideas. Disconnected completely (or dissociated/depressed…call it what you want) I am shut down. Like no one is home. I remember once being at my ex fiances and starting at a the time on a TV for hours. Not even watching TV. Just seeing “oh…its 2PM” and then it was 7PM or 8PM and I was sober at the time (on drugs I would have been less depressed.) Depression to me feels like that Salvador Dali painting with the melting clocks and I wonder what it says about me that all my favorite artists do things like cut their ears off and give them to sex workers. But look at how well they are preserved in history. My dad used to say of his own hoarder tendencies about how he worked for museums for years and how much stuff there is in the world, and how precious something must be for it to be considered historical.


This photo came up in my Facebook memories today. 8 years ago, after my sexual assault trauma, I played and worked as a dominatrix in London. I almost wrote a memoir about it, but decided it wasn’t the story I wanted to tell at that point (I did use my experiences in fet as inspiration for a dominatrix with superpowers in my post-apocalyptic fantasy novel I am writing currently however) I came across this article in Salon when looking for publications to submit my own work:

“But prior to this litany of indignities, there is the freeze. The room spins and your mind snaps shut. Your limbs grow heavy. He insisted that I follow him into the bathroom. He asked if he could masturbate, and before the question registered, the act was underway. He put his hand inside me, and I didn’t move. This is not the script that any of us agreed upon. Whether in the office, the lecture hall, or the dungeon, we know when the script is being flipped. Sometimes we freeze, and always we must forgive ourselves.”

Natalie West describes just how I feel when I am triggered brilliantly. During sex, right before orgasm, or sometimes it can be something so minute like a song or something not feeling “right” (I have not yet identified all my triggers, only my  major sex-based ones. If I knew all of my triggers I would already know how to best manage them all and live much more comfortably.) After my own multiple rape traumas, which I detail in the blog previous to this one, I turned to dominatrix work/the lifestyle. Looking back at my past, while their was things like alcohol and cocaine involved at times, it was not all the time, and they only served to enhance my state of wanting to be in the one in control.

A large part of me getting into BDSM and being a dominatrix as a lifestyle was to heal trauma I could not verbalize at the time. Both of the times I was raped (that I can currently remember) happened by producers in the film industry who were white wealthy cis men in power. I have had control issues for most of my life, hence being diagnosed with complex PTSD, however it was those particular traumas that led me to seek both pleasure and a paycheck by being the bratty princess/heartless cheerleader bitch/american cold blooded office worker of my clients proverbial wet dreams.

And I enjoyed it. It was refreshing, to say the least, to finally be the one in control after feeling constantly harassed at my places of employment (modelling and club promotion. The club promotion was actually much more brutal as you had to deal with multiple drunken foreign men trying to hustle them into buying shots, but it was also a steadier paycheck when not at lectures, and a decent side job while at University.)

What struck me as a bit odd was recently getting off the phone with a friend who also worked in the adult industry. She didn’t know I was even at University. The same way I expect people I know from University would not know about my sojourns into modelling at BDSM if facebook did not exist back then, and I did not blog about my escapades on the aptly titled (my very first-ever blog I created at 18 was actually titled and is I believe is somehow still up.

It’s pretty pretentious thinking everyone reads your blog just because you post one. Even so, it felt strange to me that this friend did not know about this whole facet of my existence, and one that is a very defining one for me (I write and therefore I am became a personal motto of sorts.)

Another friend knows me primarily as a writer but as my work is so scattered, has never seen my prose blog, and as I posted on this so rarely over the past year, many people probably don’t know about this one either.

I write to clarify, to purify my thoughts almost the way people swear by sage or selonite. I write to stop my obsessive thinking and put to rest my mind of eternal loopings. I write because it is the one thing that makes me feel alive more than anything else.

Sometimes I feel I put too much fear energy into my writing. Into defining myself by that one thing I have a degree in.

If I am a writer, why am I not being paid to do that? Why am I being paid to model or do odd jobs or walk dogs but not what I love and pour my soul into more than anything? I have a friends who are incredibly talented musicians and want to be compensated for that, and hate their “day jobs” of cleaning, modelling, stripping, etc. Or if not hate, wish they could be paid for their other, more creative pursuit.

However, I do know that while I want to go down in history as a writer, same as how I show up CSD, it is not all of me. There is a part of me that is a dominatrix and enjoys it. There is another part of me who is a vegan tree fairy and my kawaii squealish girly early Taylor Swift side/Dodie loving side . There is also my Die Antwood/Rammstein side. Pop/Rock/Metal/Country. Rap. At the end of the day, my personality has many facets.

And I have to accept all of them. And work with all of them to maximize my potential. I am not used to maximizing my potential, after spending years trying to make myself as small as possible. I hid behind my ex who hid behind his job who whose boss hid his affair with another employees wife and on and on.

I started this blog about 2 years ago and newly sober (just starting to go to NA meetings at the time.) I was on a lot of drugs before then. They are listed somewhere else, probably way down 2 years ago when I first started this blog. I don’t feel like listing them again but it was a long list of both prescribed and non prescribed drugs.

I am on none of them anymore. I quit smoking cigarettes too. I do still take a prescribed valium taper (which I think is evil and swear to get off as soon as my root chakra feels remotely stabilized). I also still use CBD oil and indica strains of cannabis occasionally, which is something I always felt weird talking about or bringing up in meetings. NA/AA have this whole thing where if you are “prescribed medication” its sober, but weed is not even though I was prescribed a medical card for cannabis when I used to live in LA a few years ago, and I think it is a healthier alternative to valium when I absolutely need it.

Still something I felt I had to hide and feel shame for. When I started this I was starting NA, I started going to AA meetings out of convenience, and I do believe both fellowships saved my life. They were the first stone, NA then AA and recently I have went to SMART recovery and want to try refugee recovery at some point. But in all honesty while I met wonderful people in both programs, and they saved my life, and I will still go to both if I feel the need–there was a lot I did not like. I do not like how NA bashes AA and AA bashes….well, I obviously am in NO WAY speaking for all of AA but unfortunately a lot of members bash other recovery programs.

I still work intensely with a CBT therapist, but there is now talk of tapering off our sessions. I have come to the realization that recovery looks different for everyone, the same way as I don’t have to look or feel  a certain way all of the time, I don’t have to be a certain way all of the time, I just have to accept and honor where I am and also that there are different parts of me and I am working with each one in the best way I can and that is ok.

And some days I freeze and I can’t focus or I obsess or I detach or I cry but that is ok too. I am a freak and that is ok. If you are also a freak that is ok too.

On Sunday I met a friend for art therapy at a yoga studio and then we wandered around Bushwick Market and I purchased a drawing and I made a tissue paper rose and then later that day I did sister circle with other friends and we all talked about our lives and past and childhoods and I made a ceramic pink and purple striped tiger. That was one of the best days I have had in a long time.

Until Monday, where I went to a 10AM ecstatic dance party and then later met up with a friend at a cafe where we both worked intently: Her on setting up her Patreon, me on looking at submitting something I wrote over the holidays to The New York Times.

Recovery is part of life, and my recovery includes painting, creating, dancing, yoga, going to meetings when I feel the need but other times just getting lost in a really good book.

People have compared my writing to Elizabeth Wurtzel and Sylvia Plath; Instead of asking, why am I depressed, I am now asking, where have they been published?

Fact of the matter is: Anyone can be a writer. Anyone can be an artist, a creative, it’s just about accepting yourself, drive and faith. If not faith in a higher power, faith in yourself and others.

At least, that is what it boils down to for me. And so I am putting this blog on a hiatus, at least for now. I was a newly sober engaged woman living in Jersey City when I started it. Now I am a newly single (probably thanks to the sobriety) woman living in a Basement apartment in Brooklyn.

I now have 3 male roommates, one of whom my friends speculate is an incel and I am fairly sure hates me.  One is this fabulous queer MAC consultant and another is from my home state of Florida. My dog is causing issues but I would so much rather deal with roommates than a fiance who was more like a shield. For the first time in over 5 years, I am building up my own armor.

All that being said; why do I miss being a dominatrix? Quite frankly, I mostly miss a certain sissy maid I had in London. He would clean my studio, I would whip him about. I don’t care for cleaning. Never have. Probably never will. I have tools to help me with this now: Blast music, set timers, make “organized messes” aka throw things into labelled boxes, etc. Sometimes I love cleaning when in a certain “cleaning mindframe” and I am on a roll but other days like today I would much rather be writing, or dressing up and whipping someone around while they clean. It’s how I completed my dissertation at University after all.

However, we can’t always get what we want, and the cleaning slave I vetted on fetlife could not come to clean today due to snow, and honestly maybe it was the experience in London I missed more than anything. So I am going to clean my own damn apartment, keep applying for more work, and tomorrow pick up that selenite and sage when I am done with the physical cleaning/unpacking to cleanse the place spiritually as well.

I am going to start setting alarms and set my own routine. I am going to submit (polished pieces) to publication after publication and am also going to also start a new darker blog about my single sober adventures, the next chapter of a woman living, working and dating with complex PTSD in Brooklyn.

My new blog will be darker, more condensed and surreal. It will be more graphic and go into more adult content. I won’t allow certain people to see it for personal reasons.

Still, I have a certain fondness for this blog. My blog of pondering, or awakening. However one must be awake in order to transition. And I feel like for the first time in years, I finally am.

Awake. Transitioning. Blossoming.

I would end some of these the way Cassie ended her blog, with “over and out”, as a way to keep her memory alive. But I know now I need to accept she is gone, I need to let her go along with so many other skins holding me back.


My father dying

Jason and Joanna

Rip rip rip

And I am not saying I will not run back to the forest but I have a hammer this time to chip away at the black dense fog, and a flashlight to show me the way.

As for genre? They say it’s your readers who choose the genre for your creation. So I suppose that is up to you. For perhaps the final time here, though forever pondering

Over and Out,





What I want is for you to write “fuck me” on your chest. Write it, do it! And then I want you to walk out that door and I want you to walk down the street. And anybody that wants to fuck you say “sure, sure no problem” And when they do you have to say “thank you very very much” and make sure that you have a smile on your face , and then you stupid fucking coward your going to know what it feels like to be a woman.


  1. I was groomed

I had just turned 18 and moved to London after my A-levels in Stafford. I met a screenwriter at Resistance Gallery in East London who told me he was casting for a female lead in the sequel to his film about a baby doll who turns out to be possessed by an evil spirit.

He took me to The Groucho Club (an exclusive private members club in London. I sipped my mojito, thrilled I was at this place where Brad Pitt was a member of and the bragging rights I had acquired to tell my new friend Marie.) He told me about the script and even took me and my friends from work out to an Aphrodisiacs event in Shoreditch and paid for our table and Grey Goose Vodka. At the time, I had no idea about gaslighting and manipulation and so had no idea I was being groomed. He told me to see where he lived which was this converted boys orphanage further in East London, that he wanted to show me his Aleister Crowley altar and items. His place was huge and covered with esoteric occult items. He had the book of the law in reverse.

I had, in my (very) limited experience in London, went to Torture Gardens once at this point, a fetish club, with my first boyfriend in London named Carl from Bristol. Me and Carl dated for about 2-3 months before he dumped me.. We had met at a Cruxshadows gig and further started talking at Slimelight after the gig. I was enthralled by london and played being a submissive to Carl (who was a virgin and maybe a year or so older than me). He played being a Master to me, mostly just lightly whipping me and using a silken glove at Subversion and Torture Gardens. We were both barely legal, and did not do S&M things in private, it was more of a fun spectacle. Carl was my first heartbreak.

18 year old me told the screenwriter that I had been submissive to my ex. I don’t remember how this even came up. He got noticeably turned on and started to hit me. It hurt. It wasn’t in a safe environment and he wasn’t my boyfriend and it hurt and I started at the light on the ceiling willing it to blind me. Afterwards he raped me. He told me it was sex magic, part of thelema and that by saying certain sentences during the rape it was willing the universe for him to get the funding for the sequel and for me to be the star. I suddenly didn’t give a fuck about anything apart from how old and wrinkled he was (older than my father) and just froze until he came.

After he came he got off me, made us toast and jam and started talking about hiring prostitutes in the past. I didn’t know anything about prostitutes or brothels. He mentioned having a daughter who was older than me.

This all came flooding back today at NYC Pagan Pride. I was attending a Magick in Recovery workshop and the person leading it practiced Thelema. I knew about The Golden Dawn and had looked in Crowley but had stopped, for some reason. It all came flooding back. I couldn’t process it all right then so was manic the rest of the festival, talking to everyone, attended two more workshops. As me and my fiance left Pagan Pride (he was not at the workshop with me, and we met up later that day at the festival) it came out, and as he gently asked me details the floodgates opened. Where I had met him. The name of the movie he wanted me to star in. (Or what I thought it was, I am googling and can’t seem to find it now).  How much it hurt when he hit me and how disgusted I was when he raped me but I never said no because I was groomed but could not, until that moment, realize I was groomed. How disgusting his wrinkled prune hands felt over my body.

I can’t at this moment, remember his name. Maybe my mind it still blocking it. Everyone who has been through extreme trauma knows things come back in pieces. If anyone can tell me more, please do. I know a photo exists somewhere at the night he took me and my work friends to.

I even wrote a prose piece about it on my blog at the time entitled “Beware the False Prophets (of a Lost Generation).” You can read it here:

He was the man behind the stanzas “Is he the aged film executive in Vivienne Westwood, who believes spirits haunt his sleep and lives in a converted boys orphanage?

And sometimes you see through the bullshit, the smokescreens and the lies. Sometimes when it is late and you are sober, somehow, and they push you and grab you and force your mouth to theirs, their ugly hands pushing up your dress, and you are screaming inside. And this is wrong, so wrong, and you don’t want this, yes you want the fame or salvation or whatever they have promised you but not this, anything but this.

But something inside of you freezes, grows cold and hard as a stone, and you cant do it, you are too weak and scared to fight, still tipsy on his promises and you know, you just know that he wont stop.

It is better to submit than be violated.

And  then comes the day when you walk away.”

I sent this piece to the filmographer of my first youtube video and he said it was basically a how-to on how to rape me, but I still hid behind metaphor. Unfortunately unlike in the piece I physically COULD NOT WALK AWAY. Not then, and after that was written brings us to:

  1. His name was Jonathan Weissler.

I was 19 ½.. I have written about this before, but not named him publicly. His name was Jonathan Weissler and this is his IBDM page.

He is also apparently on twitter, though seemingly not very active:

I met him through the “posh” Soho/Knightsbridge/33 Portland Place scene. He was a producer and I was raped at Elstree Film Studios at his office overlooking Sherlock Holmes 2: A Cast of Shadows. He started talking to me about a role but it all seemed so legit as I wasn’t at someone’s residence, I was in an office at the studios. Seemed until he asked if I wanted a drink. I barely touched the champagne as I wanted to be sober for my audition. I sipped about a third of it but felt instantly like I could not stand. Later in trauma therapy I remembered knowing I was spiked. This time I said no. This time I said I had a boyfriend. It didn’t matter. He was violent. My face was slammed into a black leather couch. My body was forced down but my mind was, as before, floating. I watched myself being violated somewhere from the ceiling. At some point later that night I met my then-boyfriend B. He asked why my bra strap was undone. I remember stammering “I-I don’t know. I don’t remember.” I did not want to remember. Thankfully at the time he did not press although he told me later on he suspected.

After the rape, Jonathan Weissler repeatably messaged me on Facebook. He offered to pay me 1,000 to have sex with him. I was so deep in denial and shame I THOUGHT ABOUT IT. I thought about allowing myself to be raped again because if I was paid for it, it would be like the prostitutes the screen writer mentioned. I had already been violated so why not profit from it? He went on to say he had another young woman over at his residence. He mentioned her being 16. That combined with how deeply disgusted I was by him (he was huge, Harvey Weinstein esq in both size and power compared to me, still in my teens and with a fledgling modelling career) made me realize I could never actually go through with it. I blocked him on Facebook.

I did not report because after he raped me I still allowed him to contact me for a short time on Facebook before blocking him.

If anyone knows any London news outlets or anything who you think would take this story, let me know. Not reporting this when I know he raped a 16 year old, probably MANY other teenagers, is something that has continuously haunted me for YEARS.

I told the only other person I knew in London named Adam that he had raped me, because he had apparently been talking about it like it was consensual. Adam was the first person I told, a couple of years after it happened. He urged me to report, but by then I was still too scared. I did not report because I thought no one would believe me or my name would be smeared and dragged through the mud. Adam showed me screenshots of Jonathan Weissler’s Wikipedia page which apparently kept being vandalized by other woman he preyed on:





I started going out clubbing more after that. Drinking and substance abuse would continue off and on from then until just about last year. At time of typing I have not  touched a drug in over 10 months, or a drink or cigarette for 6.

After the trauma I started working in the adult industry, doing dominatrix work as my mind’s way of reclaiming my power (I was never able to be submissive again after the screenwriter).

I did not report because the first time, I could not even comprehend I had been raped, after the second time I was terrified my later drinking and substance abuse, hell even my modelling (I modelled up nude levels) would somehow all be used against me. Who would believe me? I was a NOTHING. I was NOBODY. I was WORTHLESS. I became very close with another brilliant, beautiful writer/model named Cassie She had also been sexually assaulted and she died of an overdose at 25, when I was 23.

The next 3 years were a cycle of harming myself, praying for death or an overdose because those 2 times I thought would be my “big break” I was both physically and sexually assaulted.

I prayed for the mercy of death. I wanted to make myself so incredibly small so I would not exist. Thumbelina fighting my monsters with the needle. I lashed out and still struggle with chronic dissociative anxiety, complex PTSD and cyclothymia as a result of both childhood trauma and rape. (The childhood trauma was not sexual in nature).

I did not report because of the people (mostly older white cisgendered men and the mother of a partner) told me I just needed to “get over it.”

The thing with trauma is, you can’t face it unless you get to the root of it. Complex PTSD sucks too because I cannot “get over” my triggers. They can happen at anytime, anywhere. The worst is when it happens during sex. I don’t know if I can ever have a normal sex life even being engaged because at times during the act my rape will play out in my mind and I start shaking uncontrollably. For hours.

Fuck anyone who tells you to “get over” your rape. Seriously. FUCK. YOU.

On the way home today, after realizing I was raped (at least) twice, I stopped by a grocery store. My fiance walked off for literally less than a minute and some guy started harassing me about my “interesting” look. Still processing what had happened with the screenwriter all I could do was murmur “thank you” and walk back to him, and he asked why I did not follow him. Because, you know, we live in a society where you need a male escort in order to feel safe. I was away from his side from less than a minute. This is rape culture.

Yesterday, I started reading other incredibly brave inspiring women’s #WhyIDidNotReport. Hannah, I love you so much. You are so incredibly courageous. I had NO IDEA. If it was not for reading your story yesterday, and thinking about it, I would not feel strong enough to write this. It was in my head all of today and its woman like you and my other friends all sharing their stories maybe the damn would never have burst.


I don’t care if you have a history of alcohol or substance abuse, what industry you work in. I don’t care if you are a movie star, stripper, data analyst, sex worker, accountant. No one deserves to be violated.

I am still TERRIFIED typing this, shaking but it needed to come out. Oh how much this needed to come out.

#WhyIDidntReport #MeToo

Untold Stories


There is a lot I don’t write about. A lot of moments I fail to capture. Some of these are because I am not agile enough. Others are due to reasons that make me sad. Some are because I am asked to keep the story a secret and therefore, it cannot evolve into a story.

Yes, I could fictionalize certain stories (to an extent.) I do base characters off of people in one way or another for example. But you cannot do this with “every” true story.

The real tragedy is that those stories left untold are always the ones I find most valuable.



    I came across this article in the New York Times tonight:



     It brought me back to my own very awkward high school years….I don’t think I personally “flourished” in my environment until University. And I do believe a massive part of that was in LSBU, I could major in my strength-Creative Writing in different mediums, without having to divide that with my weaknesses or things I hated like Physical Education and Math. Honestly, I love physical things as an adult, just dance or yoga or running with my dog in a park, not dodgeball or soccer.

   But it wasn’t just about the adedemia. There was something so liberating about being in London, so glamorous. I feel we as humans tend to romanticize parts of our lives, looking back in sepia hued glances of nostalgia. In the digital age, and having always written fairly actively, its good for me to help see the larger picture or at least try and have perspective. But high school was very awkward for me compared to college. The best parts were meeting a few of my fellow creative misfit types who weren’t the standard jocks and cheerleaders. Those who also took drama and we would share manga and anime DVDs. I still miss that.

   I believe my first anxiety attack occurred around age 13 ½. I did not know it was an anxiety attack until years and many episodes later and being diagnosed with GAD. I just remember being screamed at by one of the teachers, who would ride around the school grounds in these Go-karts, because someone’s shirt was untucked or they had the wrong belt color. The dress code was very strict as it was a “good private school”. Everything looked hideous and as I was recently in recovery from anorexia as the trousers had to be tailored it made me feel insecure going up and down in weight.

   I remember being in between classes one day. I had on this ugly red top and it was scratchy and horrible, the harshness of the fabric  making my skin crawl. My weight was up which would mean having to ask my parents to pay money for a new pair of trousers and I was ugly ugly ugly but this was ugly and I was in a bathroom stall. I felt like I was simultaneously being suffocated whilst having a heart attack. In an abandoned memoir, I think I described this sensation as being “boxed into a cubicle of conformity.” I felt utterly trapped.

    As an adult, I prefer wearing leggings which stretch and are pretty and comfortable, or tights and a skirt (also stretchy.) I do like some jeans but most jeans at least have some kind of elasticity. Honestly, right now, I enjoy dressing up to fancy events but unless its for some occasion I don’t even like wearing makeup, because I often just don’t want it on my face.  

    However, sometimes I LOVE makeup because I want to dress up and feel beautiful and glamorous. Reading this story made me sad, (and also wondering if the Dean was a Perv….how awkward and embarrassed this student must have felt.) It also brought back with startling clarity this trandescent individual who I wish I saw more of but remain friends with to this day, Minnaleah. Our dress school’s dress code (also located in South Florida) would only allow a certain brand of tops and trousers from this approved uniform shop, hot pants or shorts were basically past knee length, etc etc….however they still discriminated against students they felt were not “conservative” enough.

   Of course, the creative soul in me rebelled. I wanted to dye my hair white and argue that was “natural.” BTW plenty of high schoolers dyed their hair, but it had to be a “natural” looking color. The blonde cheerleaders who used peroxide and bleach were fine, but one day my friend turned up looking radiant. She was wearing fairy wings and had done her makeup in this really transcendent manner. I was very shy then and still learning what my interests were, but I gravitated towards her. She was captivating. She gave me a makeover once, and it’s amazing how something like a friend doing your makeup can make you look into the mirror and suddenly, you are transformed.

    It’s miraculous what an act of kindness can do. I don’t know if she even remembers this but I was going through a really hard time and had this soul-crushing insecurity. You helped me see a beauty I often struggle to see in myself. If you are reading this, thank you so much for being my friend.

    One day, Minnaleah stormed into the bathrooms angrily. The administration had told her to take off her fairy wings and she needed to wash off her beautiful makeup (despite neither being against official dress code policy). I saw her tears.

    In University studying Creative Writing and doing some promotional work and modelling on the side, I could show up in literally whatever I wanted to for  lectures for my Undergrad. For me, as I was experimenting with Romantic Gothic fashion, some days that included a steel boned silver underbust corset and a mini veiled top hat. My hair went from Marilyn blonde to long and red. My lecturers did not care. What they cared about were my ideas and execution, the quality of my work and the areas I professionally needed improvement in.

    I loved University and-despite my rape trauma my final year-I graduated. I am proud of myself for that. Reading that article brought back so much-the cocoon of high school anxiety mixed with the butterfly that emerged studying abroad in London.

    I think school uniforms are ridiculous, personally. Yes, full on nudity would obviously make people uncomfortable. But fashion and makeup is also an outlet for many, a fun way of expressing yourself for that moment to the world. I performed to a much higher degree in Uni wearing my 18 inch corsets than I ever did in those itchy colored polo shirts. Worse yet, if you did have the wrong belt color or even if your trousers were not from the school-approved uniform manufacturer, you would get points off your GPA. In life, I am a firm believer one should never be judged for any non-fashion/promotion related job (literally any job you don’t NEED to be “in character for”)  based on not fitting into an exterior “mold”.

    The rich girls could have bleached hair and ostentatious designer bags but Minnaleah couldn’t shine in wings and glitter like the fairy I know she is inside. This apparently remains a sorry state of affairs in schools to this day.

     I also believe it’s quite sexist to demand that girls MUST wear a bra, the top shown is loose and they made her wear band-aids on her nipples even WITH an undershirt when she was suffering with severe sunburn. That is ridiculous.

    One could even say this is an example of the rape culture we live in, that we as woman must appear a certain way so as not to “distract” the boys, whose education obviously matters so much more than our personal comfort.  

    No, Lizzy Martinez, you are not a distraction. What you are is an incredibly brave courageous woman  for going through a humiliating ordeal at such a young age and having the courage to speak out about it on a national level. I applaud you and am so glad this story is trending.

    Anyone feeling discriminated against for their attire is ridiculous to me as an adult. As a model, I took fun assignments that allowed me to express myself in different characters and roles. I only model occasionally now as I dedicate a lot of time to my ultimate dream-my fantasy novel. 

    At the moment I am writing in bed-Insomnia, or perhaps simply my quiet time, in celestial print PJ’s sipping chamomile tea.

    But the part I care about?

    I am writing.