What Am I Doing With You?

Do you remember that time when we were sitting and laughing in the taxi while travelling the whole city trying to find that one book you wanted? Of course you do, you remember everything I say.

It wasn't even particularly funny, being with you made everything seem happier.
We started laughing together but I was the one to stop first. I was breathless.
I looked into your face, eyes crinkled, chest moving with laughter and your lips forming a perfect curve of a smile.

I stared into your eyes. You looked straight out of a picture years out of school in some old closet, hitting you with nostalgia. 

Time froze. My heart was beating so fast. I was so nervous.
Then you squished in my cheeks with your hand, I felt my heart was a bird crashing against its cages.

What am I doing with you?

Let me sleep without dreaming of your kisses, let me breathe without inhaling your memories. Let me survive an hour without talking to you.

You are a basic need to my survival. I can never tell you I love you enough in a day.

What do you want from me?

You make me dream about all the places we'd go, all the things we'd do. You tell me I'm your number one. You tell me you love me. You are the last person I talk to and the one I wake up to. You don't even do anything without telling me first. You've seen every hill and valley of my life.

Then you go and tell me about the girls you like. You talk about her and her and her. 

Why are you doing this to me?

Whiplash

Whiplash must be the only movie that hit me right in the face like a shit load of bricks. Gut-wrenching and thoroughly distasteful, for me at least. I could never sit through the whole of it again. And it's nothing to do with the superior acting and screenplay.

Whiplash gave me strong, cringing flashbacks of the emotional abuse I was a victim of by my father. Every insult, every threat, and every distrustful reconciliatory apology. I could do nothing but stare at the screen with a gaping mouth as if in surprise that someone stole my diary and picked out instances to flow on the screen.

I was able to identify with every attack hurled and every response, overt or inert. Looking at it playing in front of me like that made it all seem too real and too near.
No one should have to go through that.

But the problem comes when you set about to explain to people just how the emotional abuse is being played. How can I deal with the passive dismissive reactions that try to downplay the effects of something that has me crippled day and night? Because the truth is, they're are not just words. 

The way Neiman consistently sought the approval of Fletcher hit close to home. I'm glad I was able to understand my father's behaviour early on. There are millions more who still justify it until much later on in their life. They blame themselves and litter their life with unnecessary guilt.

The ending of Whiplash just further condoned the abuse. Was getting fucked up in the head and ruining your life really worth finally perfecting the drum solo?
I guess it was for people who want to die the idealistic alcoholic death at 30 and have people debating about you at the dinner table.

Nude Pictures Vol I

I opened up my e-Mail to see a message by some random guy telling me how he admired my "hot figure so sexy". Not thinking much of it I ignored it and carried about my daily routines which consist of redditing and watching old French films.
Next day, I got another similarly worded e-Mail by that guy. Somewhat creeped, I decided to ignore it yet again.

Then, I got a message by that guy on Facebook. 
"Hi I like you I wanna make friendship. 
I saw some sexy pics of you in the bathroom do you wanna see?"
This was what he sent me, albeit with more spelling mistakes and horrid grammar.

I was pretty shook up but I still chalked him up to various other Facebook creeps a moderately average looking girl faces in her life. (pls note modesty)

Later that night he sent me some pictures but I didn't open them because I wanted to ignore him so he would go away. The next morning he sent me another message.

Today, I opened these messages just to get rid of the annoying notification. I saw 4 photos that hadn't loaded yet. I wasn't aware that he sent me pictures too.
They loaded.

And I saw.

Pictures of me. Naked. In sexually explicit poses.
Pictures I clicked as a 15 year old teenager at the height of  her sexual discovery.
Pictures I would never want even my boyfriend to possess.
Pictures of an unconsenting minor.

My heart was beating fast. All blood rushing, time was frozen.
I kept staring at my breasts, my hands, my face, my body.

I'd only read about this happening to other people. All looping around the same thread of words around their minds like beads of a holy rosary.
"Why me?"

How did he get those pictures? How did he find my identity?
How dare he?

Immediately, I started thinking about the girl in school whom everyone stopped talking to because her nudes leaked.
I thought about The Fappening. I thought about the girls reported in news who end up killing themselves or running away because their pictures got distributed.

Is this what I'm going to be?