An early sexual experience. Age 14.

Reflecting on it later, she isn’t sure how it happened. She remembers talking to one of the boys, and feeling a lot more confident than normal. (Maybe it was the memory of her sun-warmed nipples under her tshirt). She sat next to him, on a log and they shared a beer. They sat in silence mostly, watching the flames, laughing at the poor jokes made by the others. She learnt that he had recently broken up with his girlfriend, he was two years older than her. She heard one of his friends say “rebound”.

Later, back at the hut, her sister and parents had gone to sleep in one of the bunkrooms, so she and Tess lay their sleeping bags out in the other room with the group of teenagers. Part of her longed to go into her parent’s room, snuggle into her sleeping bag, fold up her polarfleece as a pillow and read her book, before blowing out the candle and saying “I love you” to her family.

Later, on the platform of top bunks, all linked up. Tess and her are separated. She’s between ‘her’ guy and the wall. Tess is two different guys away. She doesn’t know what Tess is doing. She hears lots of whispers and laughs. She doesn’t know what to do.

The guy beside her leans in, and she assumes he must be going to kiss her, so she closes her eyes and parts her lips, like she’s seen. He pulls away, shakes his head slightly, but keeps coming at her. She lies still, as his hands explore her under her sleeping bag, over her tshirt and bra. She thinks about what she knows about this: women moan and arch their backs and squeeze their eyes shut. Men conduct, with grunts and say “baby” a lot. (When she was much younger, she thought it was lovely that so many men constantly sang and talked about their babies. “Such caring fathers!”)

She tries a moan. Just quietly, breathy, just enough for him to hear. He likes it, she can tell, because his hand is now travelling down, over the waistband of her shorts and over her thigh. She tries the moan again, and now his hand is between her legs, and then cupping right up there, right up there between her legs, cupping where no one else has ever touched before. Where she has only touched a few times herself,

secretly.

(The first time she did it, she didn’t know what had happened to her, she thought the orgasm that took her body by surprise was ‘having sex’.)

She decides to see how he reacts to a back arch, so she does, but without any sound it comes across like she’s uncomfortable and trying to move away.

(Is she?)

She tries the arch and the moan together, and this really excites him, and she knows this because his hands are now under her shirt, clammy and rough, sliding all over her belly and he can’t decide whether to go up or down. He tries up, and is stopped by her underwire, and this is too hard for him, so he’s going down, way down, underneath her shorts and underneath her panties, and his hands are scratchy and hard and his fingers are in a hurry.

(She’s not. In a hurry. For this. At all.)

Then, his fingers find her and push on her clit so hard she actually does gasp, not like in the movies, but a real gasp, one of shock and pain and bewilderment. And then his fingers keep going down and they push again and now one finger is inside her and it hurts and he’s pushing, his arm is pushing hard on her pelvis and he’s leaning over her, but looking at his hand under her shorts and breathing hard, eyes half closed, face frozen, eyebrows knitted.

(She doesn’t know what to do. So she…)

Arches her back. Movie-moans. Pretends. That she likes this, this violation.

He works his fingers in her for a long time. Any lubrication she had is long gone, and it’s feeling raw. She still continues with the charade, as long as he wants to, because she doesn’t want to make a

fuss.

Eventually, dawn is peeking through the matchbox windows. Like he’s been stung, he rips his fingers from her, she bites her lip to stop crying out, and he finally, finally looks at her. She makes one last grasp at intimacy, leaning forward for a kiss, and he turns his head aside, flops onto his sleeping bag, turns away.

She’s going to be sick. The nausea is quick and rising, and she can’t do it in the hut, she doesn’t want to wake everyone, so she’s climbing over the other sleepers, down the ladder, across the floor, out the door, across the lawn to the bush and then there she is, bent over.

Dry retching in the dawn light.

It’s misty. Mosquitos are still awake and start biting her, and all she can do is stare at her toes and feel a sharp ache, in between her legs, but also deeper than that, much deeper.

Pain.

These violent delights.

He has big features. He once said that to me, over a dazed breakfast. “I have big features. I have big hands, and big feet, and big facial features. People have told me that before.” He was right. His hands could fit (almost) all the way around my

throat.

He is a chef. (Was? I haven’t had any contact with him for over 8 months). He worked as aggressively as he fucked, by the sounds of it. Keeping his staff in line with verbal backhands, rewarding with a dirty joke, drinks and a joint.

You have to know what he looked like. He was stocky, formidably strong, with a chest you could punch and kick and your fist would meet flesh and warm, solid muscle. You’d be cringing, because the look in his face was

“You’re going to fucking get it now”

But, I don’t want to give the impression that he was a ranting, angry guy. He was sharpened as delicately as one of his knives. His aggressiveness was always under the surface, and if, like me, you were sensitive to picking that kind of stuff up then you could definitely notice it. The potential for him to fuck you up was very real, very present. But, he was also hilarious. God, he would make me laugh! He spent a lot of time thinking, wrote affirmations to himself on his bathroom mirror, had 2 tiny fluffy dogs, worked out, smoked weed, socialized, travelled, had girlfriends. We went to a party together, dropped some MDMA and danced and laughed and tried to pick up women.

We brought out the darkest in each other.

He made me bleed, by holding my jaw open and fucking my mouth so hard that my teeth cut a long, thin slice into my upper lip. He slapped me until he bruised my cheek and jawbone, which clicked for weeks. (By chance, a friend of mine who was an osteopath did some work on me, and after running his fingers down the sides of my face exclaimed, ‘huh, you’re a bit out of line’, and jolted my jaw back into place). He bit me so hard that I screamed “Red” (the only time) and  the bruise, the size of my closed fist, purpled my thigh for close to a month. He would work his fingers inside me until I would

bleed

and then go harder. While I’d be screaming in pain and

ecstasy.

Now, 8 months later, in therapy. I start making the link between

the prevalence of self-harming tendencies that she began acting on in her teenage years, and

asking this man to fuck me til I cry.

Eliminate violence? Love myself.

SO GLAD! Yelling it at 13,500 ft!!

SO GLAD! Yelling it at 13,500 ft. Tajumulco, Guatemala

I wrote this during an earthquake-y November in Guatemala, 2012. I rented a second floor apartment in the centre of Xela, and spent a month lying on sun-warm concrete tiles, surrounded by car alarms and relentless reggaeton, and took stock. This was the result of that.

I have written about violence before. Fear, pain, degradation, brutality, tears. Violence that, to any outsider, is graphic, visceral, and looks incredibly real, but to a kinkster is a magical creation of careful negotiation and trust. Consensual violence turns me on, I have fantasized about it for years and I practice it with relish.

However, here I am writing about a different type of violence. One that is often not portrayed accurately in TV and movies. It cannot be neatly pegged by stereotypical images or words. For the victim it can be secret, quiet, stigmatized. For the outsider it’s uncomfortable, embarrassing, horrifying, too close, too scary to unpack in detail. I am a woman who has survived this type of violence. And I am writing this on November 25th, three days before my 25th birthday, because it is Eliminate Violence Against Women Day and, for the first time in my life, this day is for me.

5 months ago, I was raped. I want to stop hiding this in the closet like a dirty secret that can’t be mentioned. I feel, now, like this is a part of who I am. This in itself is tricky- it’s as if by saying this I’m giving my rapist more of me, more importance. But then, on the flip side, this really was life-altering, and not *just* a bad experience to be forcefully erased. I AM a rape survivor. I feel like I’m going out on a bit of a scary limb writing about this, because in my experience people don’t discuss rape in detail. People talk about other awful things: car accidents, earthquakes, fires, assault, cancer. But I’ve found that once you say the word ‘rape’, that’s a conversation stopper.

So, on this day, I’m going to write about my rape. I’m going to tell you how it happened, how I reacted in the months afterwards, and what I feel now. My hope is that, with this small and highly personal step, I can contribute to an open discussion of violence. My hope is that by sharing this, I can experience relief, it’s difficult to feel so much and keep it so hidden. My hope is that, with this piece of writing, I can honor and draw attention to Eliminate Violence Against Women Day in a real, non-abstract way.

I feel like I have already given plenty of preamble, but just a couple more things. I do discuss my rape in detail in the following paragraphs, so if you’re prone to sexual violence flashbacks then here is a trigger warning. If you’d like to keep reading the rest of my writing, you can skip the paragraphs between the lines of asterisks. Also, this entire piece is highly personal and subjective. This is my experience, this is how I feel, and I am in no way saying that any other rape victims might feel the same way as I do, or have any reason to. Neither am I saying that how I’ve dealt with my rape is the ‘right’ way to do so. It’s what’s worked for me, but I am definitely not claiming that it is superior or better than how any other person may deal with rape.

************

I was halfway through my glorious year of travel and I had arrived in a new city. I was planning on living here for a few months, so I did what I’ve done many times before, without any incident. I looked for a room on Craigslist, and found one, cheaper than most, with one male room-mate. This time, however, the Russian roulette that is internet classifieds was not in my favor. I got the bullet. My room-mate rapist defies all prejudiced stereotyping, and lends himself to others. Tall, strong, white, same age as me. Owns his own business, university graduated, close to his brother and still-together parents. Heavy drug user. Holds misogynistic attitudes towards women.

My rape was confusing. I can’t remember any of the first assault. I was being celebrated with ‘welcome to your new home’ drinks on my first night at the apartment. I was given a tequila shot, carefully poured and handed to me by him. I next remember waking up in his bed, naked, bruised and disoriented. He’s snorting a line of coke off my ass. I blearily ask where his friends were, and what was I doing naked in his bed? Did we have sex? He is defensive, aggressive. He looks me right in the eyes and tells me I seduced him. He tells me he knew he shouldn’t “screw the crew”, but I stripped in front of him and begged him to fuck me. He tells me he wanted to walk away, but I was so sexy he couldn’t help it and gave in. He tells me I wanted this. He then turns me over and fucks me, without emotion, with propriety. I’m surprised at how sore I feel, and bewildered. What was happening? Did I initiate this? Did I want it? I freeze, kept my mouth closed, submit.

He leaves for work, and I spend the first day at my new apartment lying numbly on the couch, watching hours of reality TV, not thinking, not eating, not moving, not leaving. He returns, jittery high. Obviously my month’s rent, paid in cash the day before, was going right up his nose. A friend of his comes over, and he counsels him on how to “deal with that dumb bitch”: his friend’s girlfriend. My head is pounding, nausea, trapped. I can’t stand to listen to their conversation, to the rantings of an misogynistic coke head, feeling his huge hands clenching and unclenching on my shins as he pulls my legs into his lap. I feel numb. I feel powerless. I can’t think, can’t take a step back and evaluate the situation. I do the only thing I am capable of: quietly extract myself, tiptoe to my room, and fall asleep.

He crashes into my room around midnight. He is manically high, and holding out another tequila shot to me. Thankfully my indignation at being awoken partially breaks through my numbness and I refuse the shot, asking him to leave my room. He tells me it was his room, because I was in his apartment. He tells me I’m rude for not taking the shot. He tells me I am his. He undoes his jeans, pushes his cock in my face, takes out his phone and tells me to smile at the camera while his dick is down my throat. He leaves as suddenly as he had entered, muttering about going to score. I sink into emptiness.

3am, he strides in again. This time he slaps me hard, on my cheek, and then bites my shoulder. He orders me to put on a new dress I have, and then tells me to strip. I obey him, robotically. He fucks me again, telling me that he isn’t interested in trying to pick up at bars tonight, because why would he need to, when he has a sexy thing like me at home. I close my eyes, retreat into myself, ignore his manic conversation, his panting, his coke shakes. He leaves and I keep my eyes closed, frozen on the bed. He comes in one more time, laughs and smashes my cellphone on the ground, tells me he’ll buy me an iphone, and a car, and he’ll find me a part-time job. He fucks me again, pushing inside me brutally. I am like a blow-up doll.

I can’t fall asleep when he leaves this time. He’s ranting in the lounge to someone- I think it’s his dealer- for hours. He rants about dumb bitches. He rants about his big dick. He rants about nothing. Around eight in the morning his ranting starts to drive me crazy, like a never-ending car alarm. This finally breaks through my stupor, and I look around the room at my smashed cellphone, the untouched tequila shot, my dress crumpled on the floor. I look at my body with detachment; purply-red bruises on my thighs, scratches, sheets tangled in my legs. I look smashed and crumpled too. This makes me angry! My anger is pure, quick, lifesaving. I recognize that I’m not safe. I recognize that I feel scared, and have for the last 48hours. I recognize that I don’t trust this man, raging in the next room. I wait, huddling under the covers, wishing he won’t come in again, wishing for silence. An hour later I get it. Tiptoeing I pull myself out of bed and open my bedroom door a crack. I can see into the lounge, and see his feet on the couch. Holding my breath I peek around the door a bit more. He’s asleep.

My heart is banging in my chest, adrenaline rushes through me, delicately laced with fear. I close my door quietly, reassemble my cellphone and text the only person I know in this city, asking if I can come and stay with her for a couple of days. Miraculously she responds immediately, telling me to come right now. I start crying with relief, the tears surprise me, I didn’t realize they were so close to the surface. I pack quickly, efficiently. I’m barely aware of my actions, but my body is moving on autopilot, racing against the clock, racing against the fear of him waking. I call a cab, zip up my bag. I sit on the bed and fold my shaking hands in my lap. I wait. The phone rings, the cab is here. I pull on my backpack; palms sweaty, throat dry, heart pounding, head spinning, I step out into the lounge and start tiptoeing towards the door. Like a bad dream, he wakes, sits up, pale and gaunt, sweaty with drug come-down. I freeze, eyes wide, caught. He’s between me and the door. He asks me what the fuck I’m doing. A voice, it doesn’t feel like mine, tells him I’m leaving. I feel totally detached, I’m numb again, but the anger and fear is driving something inside me and I take a couple of steps towards freedom. I tell him the taxi is waiting. He jumps up, positions himself in front of the door, starts telling me I’m crazy. He’s looking right at me. He tells me I wanted this. He tells me I begged him. He tells me I’m sexy. He tells me he’s more than infatuated with me. He invites me to lunch with his parents. He tells me he’s never connected with a girl as much as he has with me. He tells me he thought we had something.

I think of the cab, behind that door, safe and yellow, with no coke or tequila or raging men with hard-ons. I look everywhere but at him. I tell him I’m not comfortable staying here. I tell him his coke use scares me. I tell him the taxi is here. I tell him I’m leaving. I start walking again, and wonderfully, unbelievably, he steps to the side, just enough to let me pass. I keep my head down, eyes unblinking, squeeze past him. I feel his eyes burning into my face, and as I open the door I hear the last thing he’ll ever speak to me: “crazy bitch.

********

I’m a pro-active rape victim. It took me around 2 hours after I escaped to realize what a scary, dangerous situation I’d been in, and around another 2 hours for the thought to form in my head that perhaps I’d been drugged, and raped. I found a rape crisis centre, I had a forensic examination at the hospital, I connected with a support group, I spent weeks advocating for myself for free counseling (and found an awesome, kink friendly counselor). I used what skills I had to help myself process and re-open: yoga, writing and BDSM. This is ongoing work.

Since I was raped I have felt the inescapable and judgmental gaze of Victim Blame. I experienced Victim Blame initially, and intentionally from my rapist; then inadvertently (I hope to believe, anyway) from well-meaning friends, family, police, general acquaintances, Ministry of Justice. In the months directly following my rape I felt ashamed that it didn’t look more like a TV depiction of rape, that I didn’t scream “No!”, that I experienced total numbness and detachment during the assault. I was ashamed that I didn’t even try to physically fight him, that it took me 48hours before I could leave. I was ashamed that my rape isn’t as bad as some people’s, and that I should just keep it to myself, because I was lucky and have, in all intents and purposes “bounced back”. I was ashamed that people might see that talking, writing, bringing attention to my rape as a call for attention, that I’m pulling the “rape card”, that I’m looking for pity. I was ashamed that I can’t remember the first night, that perhaps I did seduce him, that perhaps I got too drunk, that perhaps I was “looking for it”. I was ashamed that I was too trusting, that I didn’t protect myself better on Craigslist, but that now I have “learnt my lesson”. I was ashamed that when I asked for financial support with counseling, it was granted on the terms that it was “more likely than not” that I was raped. But they couldn’t say definitely.

I’ve been told all of the above, in the last 5 months. I’ve written about my feelings here in past tense, but honestly, the often subtle gaze of Victim Blame cuts so deep that I struggle not to turn it on myself. I’m most ashamed that I still repeat these things back to myself, and sometimes too, when I’m feeling low and vulnerable, I believe them.

I am not angry at those who inadvertently stray into Victim Blame, the opposite in fact. I feel acute sympathy for those who I’ve told about my rape. We aren’t really taught how to respond to the trauma and crisis of rape. I recognize that in the face of horrifically bad news, some people can resort to humor, accidental blame, cheery phrases, because that can hide the sickening feeling that someone you love has been hurt, by another person. That something so horrible can and does happen to People You Know.

I have suddenly been thrown into a world where lots of women talk about rape. Generally not in the detail I’ve discussed mine here, but I meet women in my support group who have been raped, sometimes numerous times, often by men close to them. I’ve become used to women outside of my support group, almost shyly, in half whispers, telling me that they’ve been drugged before too. Or they didn’t give consent to a boyfriend, but he fucked them anyway. Or they might feel brave enough to say they were raped, but that they didn’t do anything about it, or seek help, because they didn’t want to make a fuss. Even though hearing this no longer shocks me, it still brings to the surface a swell of anger and misery- at the injustice, at the hopelessness. How dare they…how dare these men treat women in this way?! How dare they perpetrate violence through something so deeply damaging and intimate!  How can it be that in North America one in four women will experience sexual violence during her lifetime?! Isn’t this shocking, that the odds are so high it’s almost incredible I’ve made it to 24 without being raped yet! How can so much violence and inequality exist in the world?!

Mulling over this violence filled me with anger and hate. I don’t think I’ve hated anyone as much as I hated HIM. My anger was ferocious, and terrifyingly, it started consuming me to the point where I turned it on myself. I attempted to control every little aspect of my life, and berated myself with a cruelty that shocked me. And when my grip on control became too much to bear, then I’d drop into a spiral of self-destruction. I engaged in emotionless sport-fucking, I drank myself into comas and drugged myself to numbness and fake euphoria. I’d push myself physically, running until vomiting, and then spending entire days forgetting to eat or binging on junk food. Feeling so much anger wasn’t achieving anything positive in my life, and thankfully, I recognized that it brought on more misery, more despair. It was taking me to a place that I haven’t visited since I was a depressed teenager. Then I would exorcise the pain with cutting. Now, I had other ‘socially acceptable’ outlets, but they were just as harmful.

Crucially, I recognized that the anger, helplessness, control, shame, and hate I was feeling was actually pretty normal. I was following the predicted emotional journey of a rape victim, to a tee. I intuited that I would be able to break this destructive and negative spiral though a sort of acceptance, but this seemed impossible. How could I accept that this man could hurt me SO much? Who thought he had the right to use my body without my consent? And then intimidate me into believing it was my fault? In everything we’re taught, this should be unforgivable. But thinking like this trapped me. Because the more anger I felt for him, the more self-destructive I became. The more he won.

But. But. I am in a place in my life now where I feel very lucky, and very grateful. I am aware more than ever of my privilege. I am university educated and was raped in a country where I speak the language and have legal status. I hold three passports, I have a savings account, no dependents and I’m highly employable. I’ve been raised in a stable family filled with love and support, by two very sane parents who encouraged independence and open communication and expression. I have boundless choice: on my sexuality, where I want to live, how I want to form relationships, where I want to work, what I want to study, where I want to travel. I can advocate for myself, navigate bureaucracy, communicate eloquently. I have a strong sense of self-worth. I have almost no limitations on my life. My mantra for the past month has been “So glad!” and I yell it with glee and happiness from the tops of mountains.

He perpetrated horrific, inexcusable and completely unwarranted violence against me. And I responded with detachment, fear, anger, hate. It was very satisfying to imagine standing over him, having cruelly beaten him, and smiling at his tears of fear and remorse. And I could very, very easily continue fueling my anger with these images, but then, simply, I would be continuing this pattern of violence. I was responding to violence with violence. And, most importantly, this violence was not just directed at him, but at myself too- physically, verbally, mentally.

On this day to Eliminate Violence Against Women, I’m a woman practicing non-violence. I am loving myself, and by doing this, cutting the cycle of violence following violence. I am happy, strong, grateful. I’m more than surviving. In place of anger and hate I choose pure and unselfish love.

A year ago today, I was raped.

From the genius hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

Photo from the genius hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

That look. That’s the one. Undisguised sympathy, horror, shock, pity. The “Oh!…”, then left hanging, mouth still forming the word, silence. Eyes searching me now, both of them, questioning, pity. “Are you..?” “Did you…?” So tentative it hurts me, it makes me want to shake them, to laugh it off, to pretend that I just told them I had the flu or something. To be normal about it. I over compensate: “Well, I am an excellent rape survivor!”

I force a smile, looking everywhere but at them, talking far too loud, cutting through the painful pity with bravado. “I did all the right things, sought help, found counseling, contacted the police. It’s fine, really. I’m fine.” I look at them now, make fleeting eye contact. “I’m fine”. Looking away, wiping sweaty palms, grinning stupidly, looking at ceiling, door, window, floor, STD posters, handbag, back at them quickly, glancing from eyes to eyes. Beseeching: be normal, I’m fine, talk normally, let’s move on, let’s forget about it, I’m fine, I’m fine.

“Is he incarcerated?” Of course they ask that. Of course. I lie. “It’s going through the legal system at the moment.” “Did they catch him?” Fuck. I dodge the question, unable to lie again, but not willing to tell the truth either. “He was my room mate.” Them, again: sympathy, horror, shock, pity. Me, again: glancing everywhere, wiping palms, grinning, nodding my head. It’s fine. I’m fine.

She turns back to her computer. Her colleague, a medical student from the University of San Francisco looks over her shoulder. They are suddenly fixated on that white screen and I have a welcome reprieve. Only for a couple of seconds, and then the questions come thick and fast. I’m pinned.

“Have you been treated and tested for any STDs since the rape?”
“Have you been vaccinated against Hepatitis A and B?”
“Have you been tested for HIV?”
“Was your attacker a drug user?”
“Was he an intravenous drug user?”
“Do you know if he was high risk?”
“How many sexual partners have you had in the last 3 months?
“How many of them have been new?”
“Did you use condoms with them?”
“Were any of them intravenous drug users?”
“Did you have anal sex with any of them?
“Did you have oral sex?”
“With all of them?”
“Have you ever had sex with someone you met online?”
“How long ago was that?”
“Did you use a condom?”
“Have you had anonymous sex before, where you wouldn’t be able to contact the person the next day?”
“How many times?”
“When was the most recent?”
“Have you taken any recreational drugs in the last 6 months?”
“Any thing else?”
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
“Are you allergic to any medications?”
Have you..are you..when was..did you..

They leave the room. All of a sudden I’m fighting back tears. Fuck! Why this, why now? I’m fine. I swallow a sob, breathe, force myself to look at my hands. I can’t look at the posters on the walls- syphilis, chlamydia, HIV. Diseased blood, diseased bodies, sickness, infection, viruses spread from person to person, through pleasure, through force. Infecting someone else with your genitals, semen, saliva, blood.

Trigger.

I’m in the emergency ward at Vancouver General Hospital with the sexual assault team- two young nurses and my two support workers from Vancouver Rape Relief. I’m wearing jeans that are too big for me now, an orange cardy, a scarf. Hair tied in a bun, unwashed. I’m numb. They’re doing a forensic rape kit- swabbing my cervix, outside of my vagina, looking for cuts. Documenting bruises on my arms, thighs, chest, neck. I get a paper bag to put my underwear, tights, singlet, dress in.

Trigger.

“He was so full of disgust, disgust at the world and at himself, that he could not weep. He was also disgusted by the murderer. He did not want to regard him as a human being, but only as a victim to be slaughtered. He did not want to see him until the execution, when he would be lain on the cross and the twelve blows crashed down upon him- then he would want to see him, want to see him from up close, and he had had a place reserved for himself in the front row. And when the crowd had wandered off after a few hours, he wanted to climb up onto the bloody scaffold and crouch next to him, keeping watch, by night, by day, for however long he had to, and look into the eyes of this man, the murderer of his daughter, and drop by drop to trickle the disgust within him into those eyes, to pour out his disgust like burning acid over the man in his death agonies- until the beast perished…” (Perfume, Patrick Suskind).

Writing my draft police report. Feeling the anger rise inside me, pure energy, rising up like a shout, a yell, trapped at the start of my throat. Like restless legs, trapped muscles, ringing ears, dizzy head, twitching fingers, cramping feet, nausea rising- physical. Racing, out of the crisis centre, into the quiet, drizzly suburban street. Racing, block by block, walking blindly, drizzle dampening my scarf, my hair, feet and body moving, not fast enough, not exhausting enough, moving moving moving moving. Heart pumping. Hate. So much hate.