✢ 2001 ✢
Where’s my lost
Simba Girl?
(Lexie)
by
History reveals that a cycle of violence involving families unfurled through the 20th and 21st centuries. Here, I’m writing to the childhood I feel never had. It’d be dishonest to write as if my youngest years were nothing but misery. Misery haunted my life. Family upheaval, sexual violence, adults too immature to help a child in need, and financial desperation scarred my first memories of the world.
What does that “my simba girl” thing mean?
Simba in the lion king watches his father die then leaves his home forever
Relatable feeling if your father dies when you’re fourteen years old. Even more relatable if a car accident exposes you to the ugliest side of the American For-Profit Healthcare System: I’ll never forget discussing how much my Papa’s life was worth to United Healthcare. Tough conversation to have in middle school.
Being raped as a little girl ended my childhood in my reckoning.
My life story surprises strangers sometimes. People figure that the daughter of two hard-working engineers is “safe.” Or “financially comfortable” - I work in the highest-paying industry I can because medical bankruptcies leave me no other choice. I have many privileges in our society. Whatever privileges I carry did not protect me from rape, violence, shame, and grief.
My favorite AI Art tool is now down until Monday. I took the illustration top right from here.
Here is what I look like. A human born cursed to give her father’s funeral speech, to wonder if she’d ever keep a lover, to find herself so often friendless but not sure why. i make mistakes but never seem to keep people around.
I begged for help using my real face, voice, and sincere tears of pain. For that, I was called crazy. Someone I trusted called “Adult Protective Services” on me. I had to explain to a government official that women like me are not lying when we say we’re frightened of strangers and rapists. In my own legal dwelling I opened up the door to an unexpected knock and was interrogated.
Given my life so far, many people do not empathize with humans. or they do very selectively.
It’s impossible for me to diagnose where other peoples’ empathy fails most severely. People with zero empathy, I imagine, simply blame whatever superficial attribute they know will garner the least sympathy for their victims.
People who rape or torture me understand sociology very well. They lack the empathy to feel my pain but comprehend society at a level of high intelligence.
Listen to the
Tears of a Kitten.
I know the world would leave me to die alone, suffering physically, shamed for everything in my life, as a woman. that is how i have lived so far.
I wonder if some people I trusted - recently, even, did awful things to me and deceived me to achieve their own goals. Most people wouldn’t dream of using someone else’s suffering to accomplish their victories, but some people will. I don’t know the full truth of my own damn life so I cannot answer the question of “Who did what?”
Some people were bystanders. Others lied to protect me. I know I have trusted the wrong people, I just don’t know who did what.
What happened to me was horrific.
My suffering continues.
Since I published this, I was hauled to a hospital and imprisoned under a trauma-related diagnosis. Doctors haul raped women to hospitals, push pills on us, and -- well yes sometimes doctors rape us again because now they have a conveniently located victim who can be fully discredited. Even though I’ve made no threats to myself or others, women who write about rape better not write one single objectionable sentence.
Look and listen to my sorrow first. Know my emotions are true. I do not lie about my heart. My shitty hot takes are sincere: ignorant but not malicious. Dumb but not cruel.
I remember what it was like to wake up knowing I’d been raped. A girl never forgets her first time. The strangeness of lubricant running down a child’s thighs, the agony of a body that knows it has been sexually violated, the tears silenced by corrupt doctors in a hospital in Saint Louis. All memorable. Particularly memorable since there were multiple surgeries where doctors raped me as a little girl.
I’ll never forget my father’s funeral. He died an innocent man. I remember his funeral because I miss him so much. It tortures my heart that people assume innocent men are guilty. He was often called “an addict” or “a criminal” because why else would a man die in his 50s? He wasn’t any of those things. People rarely deserve their deaths.
Dr. Verdeli at Columbia University believed me about my fears.
All of my classes offered me clues, some of which hurt my feelings, but all of them directed me to this moment in some way. Dr. Verdeli talked about conditioning, learned helplessness, fear, the mental illnesses inflicted on children by evil adults, rape, and the power of speaking the most visceral truth of your heart.
No one deserves what i lived through.
🪦
My papa’s death
No child should mourn their father at age 14, then spend years hearing about why that parent was “an addict” or “a coward” or “a criminal” due to the mere mention of a death. Not all dead people deserve their deaths.
🥀
My innocence
I don’t think that rape survivors should count rapes towards their so-called “body count.” I cannot reliably tell a sexual partner my “body count.” My first time was in a hospital after an evil doctor opened the door, or raped me personally. Here is the second recording that I think I must, for the good of future generations, reveal.
I have done my part to beg the world to change.
Please, do not ask any more of me. I have gone through too much already.
❤️🩹
I am not the only one who suffered.
I suffered so much.
I am not a danger to anyone. I am crying because I am hurt and remembering agonies that were real. Here are photos revealing that some people will torture innocents to achieve their vision of the future. Is it money? Or is it a sick stereotype of “The All-American Apple Pie Human Rights Crusader?” Not the best, not the most beautiful, a young-looking blonde woman who lived as a refugee. A girl raped in a hospital. A woman whose relationships fell apart. A skilled person struggling to find work. A woman hauled into a hospital for protesting. A human dragged into a detention center for getting lost in public. Who is willing to torture people this extensively? I don’t know.
People ought to know the truth, though.
Leave me alone. I want to go out and see the city tonight. I want to breathe free air. I want to walk without fear of rape, needles, and being shoved in front of trains. I want a life. I’ll get a damn job once I have a HOME TO SLEEP IN and the fucking right to say DO NOT RAPE ME OR SHOVE A NEEDLE IN MY UNWILLING BODY.
I know many of you won’t empathize with a human woman like me. Imagine me as a cat.
Once a kitten.
Don’t you dare allege that I’m dangerous. I’m sad. I’m sometimes lost - as in my sense of direction sucks. But how fucking dare you accuse me of being “dangerous.” Fuck off.
sometimes, I feel like I’m not allowed to be angry. (people tell me I’m too loud when i ask them not to do things.) recording rage songs is fun but i hate disturbing my neighbors. if only i had a place to live. right now I’m paying to live in hotels because my building has a serious asbestos problem worsened by a fire. also the roof leaks.
Behold, My rage!
Societal injustices first, my personal resentments will be posted later today. And tomorrow. I have a lot of rage to uncage.
Let’s agree to start with large-scale societal problems that destroy countless innocent lives. So far my life could be must accurately described as “A GODDAMN LIVING TRAIN-WRECK.” As you can see on my dope-ass website, it was to prevent me from being killed in a literal train-wreck. Note that my Mama confirmed the railway accident that struck the train containing me and her en route to Morrissey concerts.
There’s a screenshot on the website!
never mind.
I don’t want to share my song of rage with you.
I recorded a cover of Killing in The Name by Rage Against The Machine.
I decided not to post my rendition. Too many consequences have accrued for me based purely on what I post online. I never called for violence or posted hatespeech, but I sometimes wondered if there were closeted artists in my family. I wondered if maybe a famous musician was a grandparent or great-grandparent of mine. For my silly posts and tearful songs, I just got hauled into a hospital and detained for six days. RIP my rent. RIP my credit rating. Fuck me for shitposting, I guess.
I deadass incurred more consequences for asking questions about possible dead famous relatives than people incurred for crashing the American economy. Or calling for violence. LOVE BEING A WOMAN IN THIS SHITHOLE RAPE EMPIRE <3
I UNDERSTAND BASIC TASTE IN MUSIC.
EVERYONE WANTS TO HEAR RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE SUNG BY A REASONABLY PHOTOGENIC WOMAN. Y’ALL MADE ME SUFFER TOO MUCH SO
fuck your taste in music, asshole.
Should I live in abject poverty? In a meritocracy or a sane nation, no. In this one I do. I am sick of releasing art for no money.
Y’all as a collective entity are such greedy, rape-loving, prejudiced, soul-slaying folks that if I threaten to be a lazy heiress you’ll pay another NAZI KAREN RAPE-SELLER to call “Adult Protective Services” on me to haul me to the rape-shelter for paying customers to rape my semi-conscious body. Again.
Please don’t blame my family for my experiences of sexual assault.
do not “call in concern.”
kindly do not punish me for speaking the truth. don’t contact me at all regarding this website.
My family could not have prevented the rapes that happened to me as a little girl. Doctors participated in my rapes. All crimes were conducted in spaces my parents could not access without doctors, nurses, and hospital workers. It is impossible to stop a rape in the United States of America if a rapist knows the right doctor, rich person, lawyer, or politician.
Do not “call in concern” regarding my welfare.
At best, you are asserting your ignorance over a woman’s sovereignty over her own life. You are acting like a fool who thinks a raped woman’s mental health will benefit from being hauled into a very similar-looking building to where she was raped as a child. That’s a hideously stupid thing to think.
At worst you fetishize rape to an extent where you’ll place a call imagining my rape. (SWATTing but make it more rape? Lovely.)
P.S.: I’m angry because this happened to me.
Here is evidence that I am an artist who, perhaps, deserves payment for my art.
I’ve never been paid a fraction of a living wage to make art. One time I had a recurring Patreon member on YouTube and that’s it.
If we lived in a meritocracy I’d have the chance and the time to try for a little while. Instead, I am officially giving up on sharing my music with you.
Hope that my memories help other people speak out.
Good-bye, internet.
I’ll be around. It just won’t be the same as it was.
