Moments In Time

You are the defining moment in my life simply because I haven’t cared to live without you.

I’ve waited years for you to come back, and you haven’t and you won’t because you learned to live without me. I had to learn how to do that, and it took realizing that you’re a different person now.

You don’t want the same things you did. You don’t act the same way you did. You don’t love me the way you did.

You’ve changed, and I’ve only pretended to in order to keep your friendship, because I’ve been dependent on the idea that maybe if I were stronger or prettier or more mature than I once was and I showed it to you, then you’d come back to me.

It’s always been second nature to assume we’d find a way back to each other, because loving you is all I’ve ever known. I never thought that was different for you even though you’ve lived a second life of happiness and heartbreak since your life with me ended.

I can’t tell you how much our life meant to me and still does, but I’m working on living without you for you. God knows I can’t do it for myself.

Eventually, I may find a second moment, and God.. Do I hope it’s as special as the first. 


Tongue-Tied and Terrified

It’s been a rough 24 hours, but if I’m being honest, it’s been a hellish five years. 

I once considered myself a hopeless romantic. I once thought that life was nothing without love. I once had a Pinterest board with flowers and dresses and DIY wedding decorations. I once had my wedding colors picked out to the tee— peacock teal blue and lilac. I don’t want to say but then I grew up because I recognize that there are millions of people who are still hopeless romantics, and I admire that. I really do; I’m just not one of them anymore. 

Because I got my heart broken, and I let it destroy that innocent, joyous part of me that believed in happy ever afters. 

A hefty introduction to my love life: 

     I fell in love with a boy named Vincent (fondly forever Vinny in my heart) when I was five. Right now you’re thinking but you don’t know what love is at five, and I’m calling your fucking bluff. He wormed his way into my heart by using realistic as hell fake blood to make me think he’d butchered his damn hand like a minced meat pie. When he smiled at me and said gotcha, I was a goner. I want to say he moved away when I was 9, but any understanding of time evaded me at that age. I do know that before he left, my family planned a mini-vacation, and we couldn’t not invite Vinny. The vacation itself entailed a sleepover (get your head out of the god damn gutter; I was nine). Boys and girls were obviously meant to sleep in different rooms, but we found each other. We fell asleep talking and laughing and wondering as he used my baby fat thighs as a pillow. The vacation went on, and he moved away forever. Or so I thought… 

Fast forward to a terribly reckless 12 year old me who was desperate to be shown I was still worth some value after being raped. I found Vinny on Facebook, messaging him, “Remember me? The annoying, redhead cousin of Chase who absolutely adored you,” and of course, he picked on me as any 14 year old boy would. But we grew close even though he still lived across state, and soon we were boyfriend/girlfriend material. But the time came for my court dates regarding rape, and I needlessly ended things with Vinny out of fear of whoknowswhat. 

The court dates ended, Vinny was rightfully pissed at me for breaking up with him for literally no reason at all, and I somehow started dating a boy named Casey. We were together for nearly eight months. We even earned a spot in the 8th Grade Who’s Who for Cutest Couple. Then, in a sudden whirlwind, it all ended because he could tell I was still in love with Vincent, even if I was fighting it hard. 

Within a couple weeks, I was back with Vinny. We were mushy and happy and in love and the time was finally right. We literally spent our five month anniversary driving across the Mississippi bridge to Arkansas and then coming right back because we were rebels. We were together for three more months, but the world had established a well-oiled plan by then of tearing us down when we were edging near perfection. I was starting freshman year, and he was a junior at MSMS, a boarding school for highly intelligent juniors and seniors striving for greatness (or so says the pamphlet). It was a new experience for us both, and he wanted to be single to experience MSMS life [read: fuck hot nerds]. 

Obviously, I had no problem with this because I was in a relationship with a Mohawk-sporting, crayola marker-sized gauges, sex stud of a guy named Jeremy within a month of the breakup. While Vincent was off presumably sexing it up at MSMS, I was being romanced by a rebellious military brat. We were together for nearly two-and-a-half years, but it didn’t go without a few bumps in the road. The first year went splendidly. Then he found out he had to relocate to Japan for a year until he was 18. Perks of being an Air Force kid, right

Vinny took this as an opportunity to work against his dry spell by romancing me with sweet nothings while I was weak and exhausted from my full-time job of Missing Jeremy. Inevitably, as the story always goes, I fell for Vincent again, breaking up with Jer literally halfway through our year of intercontinental separation for a beyond beautiful New Year’s Eve fling with Vinny. Having realized what he’d done, Vincent quickly found the exit three days later after telling me he needed to be free to explore the last semester of his senior year. I ran straight back to Jer, never telling him what transpired in those three days (for the record, I’m not happy about what I did to him, but I don’t regret getting to spend a magical night with Vincent; sure, I’m a horrible person, boo me). Jer came back that summer, proposing to me because that’s what you have to do when you plan on going into the military and you want to be able to see your girlfriend. I obviously said yes, and then we both moved away as he went to his first year of college and I followed after Vincent’s footsteps going to MSMS. 

Vinny was also in his first year of college, and I typically leaned on him because he’d been through the troubles of MSMS and understood what I was going through. Understandably, Jer hated it. He wanted me to have nothing to do with Vincent. I constantly reassured him there was nothing between Vinny and I (this is when naive Tiffany discovered you can cheat without being physical; another thing I’m not proud of). Jer and I lasted nearly until the end of my junior year, but we put the relationship through too much turmoil for it to sustain, much less prosper. 

I pined for the loss of Jeremy for about a year. But I’d be lying to myself and you guys if I didn’t admit that I was excited for the possibility of being with Vincent again. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Jeremy in a uniquely awe-inspiring way. He was my everything, but even I know now that it was my heart’s way of distracting me while Vincent became who he was meant to be without my help. Vincent really grew into himself, becoming confident and aware and ready to start a new chapter of his life. But I was a bit ruined at this point. I learned I didn’t want romance after Jeremy. I wasted all of my energy hoping he’d come back, and I was devastated when he didn’t. I punished myself by not allowing myself to be happy with Vincent. I turned cold with impossibly high walls surrounding my heart. Try as he might, Vinny fell from the too-high-to-climb walls, and he began building walls so that I wouldn’t hurt him even more. 

Eventually, he started a new relationship. But Vinny and I have a habit of never having any closure, which leads to an endless cycle of us always coming back to each other. Every few months, he’d get drunk and message me with proclamations of love only to get sober and remember he had a girlfriend. I’d fall into a depression because he only wanted me when he was drunk. It would happen again and again and again, and I always hoped this time would be different. Hell, I still hope next time will be different.

So here I am with a failed engagement, a broken heart, and a four year long unwanted hiatus from dating, while Vinny is in love with his girlfriend of two years. And I’m happy for him. I am. Or I try to be. I don’t know which. 

But it’s hard knowing I gave up on happily ever afters when he had just began believing in them

ATW^2, my dearest. 

**as always, name changes have been made to protect identities.

It’s Not So Easy Ruining Someone’s Life

I’m panicking. I’m screaming. I’m crying.

“No! Don’t do it! Mom, tell them to stop! I don’t want this to happen!”

The judge asks if anyone can calm me or remove me from the room. My mom has a firm grip on my arm so I don’t cause a bigger scene as she talks to our representation. The woman steps forward to tell the judge that we no longer wish to press charges. The judge is unhappy that we’ve wasted his time, and he dismisses us after giving his sentence: registering as a sex offender and two years of probation. 

Nine years later, and I still wonder if I made the right decision… How do you sleep at night knowing your rapist is free because you didn’t want to hurt him? I’m very open to talking about my experience if it can help someone else, so the question often arises…

“But he ruined your life, so why didn’t you ruin his?”

To debunk the common myth that raping someone makes them inherently damaged and worthless, the fuck it does. I am not porcelain. I am not breakable. I am not damaged goods. My vagina is still just as worthy of sex as any other vagina. I am still a human being, capable of love and lust and happiness and sadness. He didn’t ruin me.

Pardon me for not being a vindictive bitch at the age of twelve. But, y’know maybe it takes knowing the story to understand my reasons.

At 12 years old I was the normal, completely oblivious little girl who kept her nose in a book. I had a whopping total of three friends: Chance, Freya, and Declan. Chance was my best friend at the time. Freya is the little sister of Declan. Declan is my rapist, but he was once more than that. RAINN statistics state that 4/5 sexual assaults are made by a person known to the victim, while 47% of rapists are friends or acquaintances with the victim. Declan fit those statistics. He helped me with homework. My mom treated him like the older brother I should have had. We were thick as thieves, always together and always getting into trouble. I thought he hung the moon. So when it happened, when he raped me, it’s understandable that I was confused. He’d done it. He’d threatened my baby brother’s life if I told anyone. He’d yelled at me and hurt me, and I felt like it was my fault.

That’s the problem with rape culture: at 12 years old, I thought it was my fault that I was raped by a guy who had obviously targeted a girl who was five years younger than him because it’d be easy to manipulate her. For months, I told no one not only because I was afraid for my baby brother’s life, but also because I thought it’d make me a slut.

Thankfully, Chance saw a drastic change in my appearance and demeanor. I started to cut, I wore clothes that covered me completely (not out of fear that people would see the self-harm, but so that I would be undesirable to men), I became incredibly reckless with my life. When Chance noticed, I was probably one cut away from killing myself out of shame. He hugged me as I cried out my confession that I’d “made Declan rape me.” He promised it’d be between us, our little secret. Luckily, Chance had other things in mind. He saw my destructive path and knew the only way to save my life would be to tell my mom.

Which brings me to my mom’s realization that I’d kept my first secret from her, and boy was she pissed. I remember the screaming phone calls, the angry crying, the self-hatred of not keeping her baby girl safe, the pride she felt knowing her baby girl had endured all of this for the sake of keeping her brother out of harm’s way, the shame she felt for thinking those thoughts. My mom was a catastrophic wreck. It no longer was my fault; it was all hers, or so she thought.

Fast forward through the months of pressing charges, refusing to cooperate, getting Declan kicked out of his house because he’d also been molesting Freya, being condemned by my church because I was no longer a virgin, and now we’re at the incident that starts this post… 

I couldn’t do it. I still thought it was fault. The therapists, social workers, my mom, Chance…. No one had changed my mind. I couldn’t let Declan go to jail when society told me it was my fault. So I let him go. At this point, various people like to tell me I developed Stockholm Syndrome during the year between being raped and the court date. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I sympathized with the boy I thought I knew. It doesn’t really matter now.

He’s free. He’s living his life, and he’s dating a girl younger than me. Luckily, she’s 18. Unfortunately, he’s 26. I don’t know if his list of victims stopped at Freya and I. I hope it did. I’ve grown immensely in the last nine years. I now know it was never my fault, and that I did let Declan manipulate me in that way so I wouldn’t want to hurt him. I don’t regret letting him go. I am awed by my 12 year old self’s ability to be compassionate and to see others complexly.

Declan may be my rapist, but he is also a friend to many, a son to loving parents, a boyfriend to a wonderful girl. Raping me does not define him, just as being raped does not define me.

Do I still get scared? Do I have nightmares? Do I sometimes have to sleep with my mom out of fear because he’ll somehow find me and hurt me again? Do I experience crippling, detailed flashbacks of being raped? 

Hell yes, I do. The time surrounding the anniversary of being raped is a petrifying ordeal for me. I have to take off work, I have to be watched, I have to be forced to eat. I have to be in constant contact with at least one person at all times. But I’m alive. I’ve made it through eight anniversaries, and I will make it through eighty more, because being raped is only a minuscule fraction of my story, and I’m here to share it all.

My message to rape victims: you are loved, you are important, you are worth it, and don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Or I will personally fuck some bitches up.

With love, my spirits. Take care!

**The names in this blog have been changed to protect identities.

**Rape is a very serious matter. Tasteless jokes and comments regarding the subject material will NOT be tolerated. 

**This is MY story. Just because I chose not to prosecute my rapist does not in ANY WAY mean that others should not. My story is unique, just as all victims’ stories are. 

All Roads Lead to Her

For today’s challenge my best friend (let’s call her LadyBug) and I made the treacherous trek to Memphis, which was only like 30 minutes of a drive but rush hour traffic, y’all. I’m fucking dedicated…  

The first thing you should know about Beale is that it’s serious about some damn blues. If you’re prone to headaches from loud music, an agoraphobe, or dislike drinking and/or drunk people, Beale is not the place for you. In fact, Memphis and surrounding are probably not your cup of tea.   

Beale is the road of dreams and hope. Amazing talent has been found here. The street is always crowded with singers, dancers, painters, dreamers…  

LadyBug and I came up on this guitarist as he strummed with his tongue, and he was actually good at it. That’s a pretty unique talent, y’know? People from all over the world come to Beale to see it.  

 Caricaturists are found up and down Beale. So are photobombers.  

 Did you know there is actually a Voodoo District here in Memphis? I was so incredibly happy to find this here, because it helps to tie in all the cultures you find on Beale. Here you’ll find people of all nationalities exploring their dreams. There are Irish pubs and to freaking die for barbecue. There are pawn shops and gift shops. There are drunkards and ducks that are actually trained to interact with humans and ride elevators.  

Beale is the home to the Orpheum, the FedEx Forum, and one-of-a-kind alcoholic beverages. There is always something going on at Beale. Case and point:  

 A damn hot rod convention. Cars and trucks lined Beale Street, a rare occurrence because Beale is blocked from traffic at all times.  

 Okay, Restless… Cool entry, but who is this hott BAMF in half the pictures, and why is she relevant to the “road” theme? 

This is LadyBug. She was my model today because while I wanted to fulfill the road requirement, I also wanted to interpret it in my own way… Beale is the road thousands of people flock to in hopes of realizing their full potential. Like the title suggests, all of my roads led to LadyBug. I questioned a lot about myself before she came into my life. I didn’t have any friends, I didn’t have a plan, and I didn’t know what my full potential was. I found those things because of LadyBug. She is my road, my hope, and my dream all in one. 

Have you found your road? Is it what you thought it would be? Have you ever experienced Beale Street? Let me know in the comments! As always, I’m always open to any comments, suggestions, or criticism. 

On Changing Titles…

Obviously one of the most important things about a blog is the name of it. It draws you in, gives you an idea of what the blog is about… So when Blog101 gave me today’s prompt, to play around with changing titles and taglines, I’m not gonna lie. I was pretty terrified.

This is my blog.

I’m working hard to make it a reflection of myself.

What if I can’t find anything else to change it to?

And what about my subscribers (or lack thereof, at the moment)?

For those of you new to my blog, I intended for this to originally be a strictly sex blog. I’m a panromantic demisexual, after all, so it would have been interesting. But I signed up for this “class” for a reason, right? I needed to challenge myself.

So I dug deeper. Being demisexual, you’d think I’d remember the meaning, y’know? For those who don’t know, demisexual means that there is generally no sexual attraction unless there is an intense emotional connection first. I actually looked up the definition a thousand times before it hit me like a freaking truck, I tell you.

Sex isn’t about sex to me. It’s about my heart. But my heart changes a lot. Every day, something has morphed it into a slightly different heart. So while sex may still be a prominent theme within my blog, I present to you for the very first time ever The Journey of a Transient Heart.

I hope it doesn’t disappoint, guys! I’m always open to comments, criticism, suggestions, or questions, so don’t forget to let me know what you’re thinking!

The Beginning of Something 

Happy Monday! Today marks the start of my blogging and photography classes, so bear with me through my incessant ramblings— I promise it leads somewhere! 

Today’s assignment for blogging is to introduce myself, but to ensure no redundancy, just head on over to my about me for that information! 

As for my photography class, the assignment is to show what home means to me. But where do restless souls such as myself find home? 

For me, it’s while I’m out on the road. I find solace in the passenger seat of a beat up Pathfinder with luggage piled high and countless miles of road ahead of me. This past week’s travels led me to Kentucky to watch as a family member graduated from high school.     

Hailing from a small town in the flatlands of Mississippi, I don’t think I’ll ever get over the way the sun shines on the rocky hills. There is a lot of beauty to be found even through a window and an iPhone camera.

 The last thing I expected to see in Kentucky was a castle, but it brought forth an easy way for me to describe what this entire journey has been thus far— majestic.  I’ve never seen such green before. The grass between your toes, the trees looming over your head, the hills stretching far and wide, the bourbon that had to have been dyed green. Kentucky summer is beautiful.  

Now with my feet on the dashboard, the radio blasting Santana, and trying to sing along around the sunflower seeds in our mouths while the Sun gives way to the rain’s temporary insanity, my driving partner (affectionately known as my mom) and I are making the trek back to our temporary home, and I’m reminded that it will always be temporary for us. A mother and daughter always on the move for the love of adventure…

About Me

Hello everyone! My name is Tiffany. I am 21 years old, a junior in college, a frozen yogurt and pizza server, a panromantic demisexual, and a restless adventurer. I’m from a small town in Mississippi, and I blame my need for adventure on that small fact. I suffer from PCOS, sacroiliitis, and mild depression.

I’m here because I’ve always been an avid writer, but I’ve never had the guts to share my thoughts. This is a miscellaneous blog where I will talk about sex, love, travel, sickness, and maybe even food. It will sometimes be a bumpy road, but I’m up for it if you are!