Disbelief

He’s gone.

He’s in prison.

They carted him off in cuffs right in front of me and sent me PDF copies of the documents he signed acknowledging he is required to submit DNA samples, register on the sex offender list and abide by a whole host of other rules even once he is out of prison.

How long he actually stays in there will remain a trick of the system, but he was given the maximum possible sentence across the board for the charge he was convicted of and the summary election.

I can’t believe it.

Less than 7 per cent of reported cases end in…this. From bravely speaking to a police officer, to charges, to a trial, to conviction – less than 7 per cent of Canadian victims get…this.

If you were part of the other 93 per cent and you want a win, I’ll share mine with you. However happy or proud you may feel at reading he is now in prison, I would be equally happy and proud for you for any peace you find and the bravery you stepped into (however waveringly) to step forward.

I’m still in disbelief that we got this. I genuinely am.

I shouldn’t be, but I am.

I hope the amazement at this occurrence wanes not just because there are fewer victims but also because I hope the courts handle it better.

---

I’ve already submitted the form to get the publication ban lifted. I’m safe enough to do that. If it makes sense in your situation, and I know it is highly variable and personal, consider lifting the bans. When we tell our stories and share their names, it protects the next woman. It creates a resounding din of “not again” that makes would-be assailants think twice.

Nobody wants to be labeled a rapist.

If we can, we should take back our greatest weapon: our voice.

Clare’s Law

I wish I had known about this before today. I haven’t verified it, but watch the video.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMYvWFRTg/

Essentially you can, according to the woman in the video, contact your local police on their non-emergency line and ask about “Clare’s Law”. She said if you provide their information, police can look them up in a database and let you know about any assault or intimate partner style charges even if they are still before the courts.

In Ontario, you can also create a logon to the province’s judicial site and search it yourself. I know another blogger who has successfully done this and will link a post of hers describing the process.

Maybe on Monday I will test this tik-tokers advice and report back on the experience.

I can be the villain…

…but you need to wave that red flag a little higher if you’re gonna make me a victim/survivor too.

The best heroes have a limited number of enemies and as the number of villains your would-be hero accumulates in his (or her) life story, please pause and know they used to be his (or her) side kicks. Please know, even Hollywood hasn’t created a character who was actually a good soul who had multitudes of enemies expending their precious time and energy to hurt them. Even Jesus, despite his doubters and detractors, had a limited number of people actively trying to discredit him daily until his crucifixion. (And he was actually trying to make big societal changes – not just have a relationship or do normal daily things.)

If you put down your knee-jerk sympathy for the supposedly falsely accused and attacked for a moment, it becomes apparent how utterly ridiculous it is.

So, if you start hearing these stories, remember three things:

1) That’s a HUGE red flag,

2) They did something to accumulate those enemies, or

3) Those enemies don’t actually exist and this person is actually barely on their radar. This would indicate a plethora of other possible personality disorders or serious mental health issues which could harm you.

Those of us with jobs and responsibilities value our time and energy and mental peace. We don’t squander it. Be wary of those who do and assume others do as well. It’s just not realistic.

I learned these lessons the worst way. I paid dearly for them; I’ll share them with you now but I will not give them up.

Do you know him?

I see you reading this blog.

If you’re anything like me, something he said stuck in your mind and it just doesn’t seem right. You’ve hopped onto Google or Bing hoping for the answer and to make sense of it all.

You stumbled across this blog on your day off, on a lunch break, or in the middle of the night when looking for answers.

You read one post and then another, and another, and another. I see you going very far down this rabbit hole.

“This can’t be him. It’s just a coincidence,” you’re probably thinking.

Maybe you asked him about some of these things and he told a good story or dismissed me as a jealous ex or something else.

You’re right to be suspicious.

Keep reading.

It’s him. You’ll know it’s him.

You’re supposed to know it’s him.

I’m scared for you.

Please be careful.

When you’re ready, let’s grab coffee. My treat. I’ll bring photos and evidence. We can meet at a playground if you have kids who need to run and play.

Message me from the Facebook page.

Please believe your own eyes.

Craving intimacy

The touch isn’t enough
The empty kiss
The haphazard caress
The deep sigh and grunt of pleasure.
It’s not enough anymore.

I want the look that lingers
The hunger
The lips that have to be licked
The mid-thrust confessions.
I want the afterglow smiles.

I want the soft, strong chest
Where my head belongs,
I want the slow, lingering kisses
Savouring skin scent
With traveling fingers.

Magnetic eyes,
Exclamations of peace and home
Hitting deep
“Here?” And “yes, God, please!?”
And slow then fast.

Smiles at my pleasure,
Quickening pace at theirs
Flushed cheeks
All-day distraction
Building wet anticipation.

I don’t just want to be touched
That isn’t enough.
I want it all.
Turn the bed into our world
But first bring me intimacy.

Blood lost

She checked the req, she drew the blood
I felt the prick – saw the crimson flood.

Nearly two weeks now and still no reply
Am I infected? Has Asshole changed my life?

H – I – V. It’s such a small virus and such a small phrase
When a “yes” always means big, irrevocable change.

The doctor called with crushing news
“We’re sorry hun, they lost the tube.”

“What?! What are you saying?” I inquire.
My sample’s lost – anger – fear surge like fire.

So I still don’t know if I am walking death
Destined to hurt those I may infect

Is my love now a curse against those I’d protect?
Or are sunnier days somehow coming yet?

The waiting is killing me

My fingers slid across the worn and cracked touch screen of my smartphone for the umpteenth that afternoon touching the proper spaces almost without thinking.

The lab results popped up on the screen.

Great – TSH is still good. I won’t die of a slow metabolism anytime soon, I thought to myself sardonically.

Still no HIV results to see though.

It was five minutes until an important client meeting. Checking at that moment was not the wisest decision. What was I going to do if it was there and it was positive? I have no poker face.

I should get a new phone. I slid my fingers absentmindedly over the cracks again without any task in mind while opening the zoom meeting room for my clients. But then I’d have to reprogram the new one and set it up for my needs … and I’d have to actually sort two months of photos and screenshots and messages from life with Asshole.

The waiting room on zoom dinged to let me know my client had arrived.

Dimples on, Varity. Let’s go.

The meeting went smoothly and I only thought about my potentially impending life changes a half dozen times while she stepped away to tend to screaming children.

(I seriously love this part of my job. It makes me smile when they say “then bring me the cup, Jeremy,” while talking to me about serious financial matters and holding a bottle of juice. Helping professional women juggling everything while reaching their goals is a blessing. I get to see their smiles when they realize they can achieve their goals. You can’t put a price on that.)

When the meeting was over, I urgently placed the necessary trades and then checked again.

God damnit! I just want to know!!! I thought while sniffling back a runny nose which had been plaguing me for three weeks with no real explanation, fighting through abnormal fatigue, feeling achy, and noticing swollen glands among come and go very mild fevers. It’s not covid. I already had that and I’m vaccinated.

Am I seroconverting? Is stress killing me?

I don’t know; There’s still no results.

Only God and some anonymous lab technician somewhere in southern Ontario knows.

I’m envisioning conversations with future partners, “So, HIV – you need a condom for sure”.

And healthcare professionals. “I’m HIV positive. Please take extra precautions to protect yourself.”

Even more doctor’s appointments and blood draws to track various blood count levels and try to maintain my health.

An ever present small but niggling fear that I will stop responding to the HIV drugs available for some reason.

Extra complications if I somehow do find a partner willing to commit to me and we want to have a child.

And regular trips to the pharmacy for my retroviral treatments. “Yes. That. For me,” as the young gay pharmacist I usually run into does a double take of my ‘script and does another up-and-down of my very feminine figure in upper-middle-class business attire before going to fill it. He also has no poker face – I can relate.

(I only know this because it already happened with the PEP. That was an interesting experience. The middle aged, obviously gay couple behind me in bohemian garb picking up identical bottles didn’t get so much as a second glance.)

And a million other little things and, maybe someday, basically nothing at all except the monthly prescription.

I seriously don’t want to be HIV positive but the waiting is killing me and I just want an answer at this point either way.

Truvada is sort of amazing I am learning. I can still live a good life and if I need that big blue pill, I want to start it ASAP.

I don’t want to wait any longer.

It’s time for the next chapter – whatever it is.

It’s in the blood

Encouraging music with a good dancing beat played in my ears as I sat frozen in my office chair.

I broke my statue impersonation to click the refresh button on my inbox for the umpteenth time.

Still nothing. Sigh.

I was waiting for the lab requisition I sent to myself from my personal email to come through so I could print it and go to the lab down the road quickly and discreetly.

HIV. It’s an HIV test.

Under the “reason” section, the doctor ticked “exposure”. As well as a whole bunch of other things but that’s the main reason for this lab req.

Fuck me.

Wait – he already did that. Asshole fucked me in too many ways to properly enumerate.

I need to get this done. I need the result to be negative.

I have tears stock piled behind my tired eyes. I can feel them waiting for an excuse to free themselves.

Relief or grief – either will do.

The music kept playing in my ear buds.

Refresh.

Wait.

Still nothing.

This music is annoyingly cheery but I don’t think sad music would make things better either. My body was tensed and ready to fight some unseen intruder.

If only she could fight this intruder.

Sigh – close my eyes.

Click refresh.

“Finally!”

I printed the form and was off.

I sent up a silent prayer-

Sweet Mary take me in your hands if I need to collapse in three days time.

The big blue pills

If you know what those pills are you know that hand full alone costs about $300 CAD if you don’t have insurance. It’s not quite a one week supply and if you need it and don’t take it, you’ll die.

Those pills are my PrEP, a.k.a. the gift that keeps on giving from my abuser. A patient on PrEP takes two pink ones a day and one giant blue one.

You could rightfully be forgiven for having absolutely no clue what “PrEP” is unless you travel in certain circles though. I had no idea until the day before I started taking it.

Backup to the afternoon of Saturday, Aug. 28, 2021. I was relaxing with my ex in his home and we are in his bedroom. He lives about an hour from me so I was just settling in for the weekend. He’d told me previously he had cancer and it was bad. He was on a regimen of chemotherapy pills, according to him, to at least try to contain or slow down the tumor(s) while his team assessed other options. Like many people, cancer is big in my family and I am familiar with it. He knew this. It didn’t make me shirk away from him and I actually wanted to help if I could. I asked about his meds on a few occasions and he sort of brushed it off.

Standing in his room, taking off my work shirt, I saw a big bottle of blue pills. It was big. It was about half empty but I bet it contained at least 60 pills at one point if it was full.

“What are these?” I asked while reaching for them. His face flashed panic before he donned his customary “mask” and he quickly told me they were part of his chemo treatment and not to worry. Then he hastily shoved them in a drawer and shut it.

Straaange … but he’d always said privacy in certain areas was important to him and I was trying to respect that. I was worried about him though and I genuinely thought I could help.

We had a lovely evening together, he cooked a fabulous meal, and he was more cuddly and romantic than normal. In the morning, we had sex numerous times, unprotected, just as we had been for about six weeks. We’d both professed our monogamy and he showed me a (supposedly) clean STI report early on.

When he went for a shower, I just had to check those pills though.

Curiosity will save this cat.

“I have connections and he is young – maybe we could get him in a trial,” I thought. I read the label: Emtricitabine/Tenofovir 200/300.

What? What is that?! That didn’t sound remotely like any chemo drug I had ever heard of and he hadn’t mentioned being part of some trial already. I didn’t hide my snooping as he came back but he kept a calm mask on. When it was my turn in the bathroom I began Googling.

“This product is used with other HIV medications to help control HIV infection…” was the first thing that popped up.

HIV?! HIV? He has HIV?!

My stomach dropped and I was in shock. I kept Googling looking for some sort of off-label use related to oncology or even something less severe like….anything. I was already beginning to strongly suspect some lies but this….this….I still don’t have the words.

The relationship ended that day. I didn’t leave right away because I literally became borderline catatonic. He knew what I’d found and got very worried and seemed considerate and played nurse but all I could do was lie in shock.

I still don’t know if I have HIV. The first test was negative, hallelujah, but I am still on PrEP as a precaution. The side effects, for me, are miserable. They feel even more miserable because of how this all came about. The drugs are expensive, have to be taken frequently and are the result of being lied to, used and abused.

I’m pissed off every time I have to take them. Every time the skin on my hands peels, my stomach gurgles, I have to run for the toilet, my head is pounding until I can barely think, I wake up in the middle of the night extremely tired but unable to sleep and my muscles ache I play a mental game of “is it the pills or are you seroconverting (when HIV takes root in a body)?” and I wish I could sleep again and it was all a nightmare.

I hate the pills but I have some small hope that even if he did infect me, they may prevent the infection taking hold and this will just be one shitty month. Sometimes I watch the song “will I?” from the musical Rent and almost cry.

HIV is scary as hell. I’ve learned a lot about it over just the last week. It’s not the death sentence it used to be and even if I am diagnosed with it, I should be able to resume a relatively normal life (with these gottverdammte pills), but I didn’t choose this and I didn’t even get the chance to choose whether or not to take that risk. I feel violated on a level I can’t adequately describe.

He’s still insisting to the police he doesn’t have it and maybe he doesn’t. Maybe they were preventative for his throng of gay lovers, but I still didn’t get to make that informed decision and I’m pissed off as hell about it.

On top of all the other violations, this one? This one catches me still. I mostly push it to the back of my mind to stop from having unending panic attacks. I’ll be fearing every ache and swollen gland and slightly elevated temperature until I (hopefully) get another negative in about 3 months.

In “Stepping Stones” I’ve added some links for some good online Canadian HIV/AIDS resources.

(HIS NAME HERE)

Trigger warning: date rape, sexual assault

You nearly pissed yourself when my voice dropped low,

My body went still and my eyes went cold.

You’re fingers trembled as they stretched towards me,

tears welling, voice pleading with me not to be angry.

---

In that moment I was strong and you saw it.

The boundary was clear-so why’d I redraw it?

My spine of steel lies behind a soft, soft heart.

You said “sorry”-what’s the harm in another start?

---

The harm was in bruises on my thighs,

In raw, chaffed parts on the inside

That throbbed and ached for days and days.

My mind contorting to find reasons it was ok.

---

I said “no”; I said “it hurts. I can’t do anymore”.

I held you close, looked in your eyes, “no”, “no”, “no more”.

Your bony hips found purchase between my knees,

And then you did whatever you pleased.

---

You were thrusting, grunting and trying to claim

While I lie there, unmoving – it wasn’t the same.

You finished, rolled off and patted my thigh.

A contented smile crossed your lips as you heaved a sigh.

---

I flew from bed, clothes in hand, to nearest room with a lock,

You called my name to no answer and began to knock.

“I said NO,” I shouted at you through the door.

“I said no” I said a bit softer once more.

---

With nowhere to go, I opened the door.

You stood naked, half hunched to the floor.

Red-rimmed eyes barely contained your tears

As my glare met your face for what felt like years.

---

“I said no,” I whispered with lethal calm.

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry,” you offered in alms.

I told you I hurt and held my hands over my core.

I told you it was date-rape – your eyes shot up from the floor.

---

“I know,” you said, reaching for my vanished dimples

Begging me to smile, “please, it’s really simple”.

“You’re scaring me,” you said as I glared-

My arms crossed, standing back, anger flared.

---

In that moment I was strong and you saw it

The boundary was clear-so why’d I redraw it?

My spine of steel lies behind a soft, soft heart.

You said “sorry” so what’s the harm in another start?

---

The harm was in bruises on my thighs,

In raw, chaffed parts on the inside

That throbbed and ached for days and days.

My mind contorting to find reasons it was ok.