Gorged

Sometimes I feel as though my emotions are smothering me.

A vast array of thoughts and feelings seeping into every crevice. Bleeding into my chest and congealing along my diaphragm. A cacophony that crawls up my esophagus. I need to scream but I'm drowning and gagging all at once on this beautifully caustic tar made of dreams and desperation. Nothing escapes.

I need to run, to wail, to dance, to sing, to crawl into some desolate cave inside myself for shelter. My body feels too small to contain the terrifying universe expanding within me. Overwhelmed by this incessant itch to entrench my fingers between the bars of this cage and tear open my chest. To cast off this oppressive flesh casing and be capable of bearing the intensity of this soul.

How did I manage to become this creature with emotional nerve endings reaching so desperately outwards? This exposed network of hypersensitive receptors drink and drink and drink like tangled roots. I need a valve, a drought, a long cold winter of hibernation, anything to help purge before I burst at the seams.

Tastes Like Satire (RD)

            Whoever said “Don't buy your food where you buy your gas [because] you will not find anything good there,” (Michael Pollan) could not possibly have ever experienced the nirvana of consuming a convenience store roast beef sandwich. The entire process is riveting and awe-inducing. The saga begins the moment the “ding” of the door chime announces my presence to the convenience store clerk and ends with a sigh of sated contentment. A roast beef sandwich purchased from a gas station shop is perhaps the most immaculate sandwich ever conceived. The purchasing procedure, the preparation of the sandwich, and the consumption all add up to an absolutely sublime event.

            The grand roast beef sandwich pilgrimage begins as my left foot lands on the sticky tile of the gas station shop. The ambrosial aromas of cleaning agents caress my nostrils as I stroll toward the coolers in the back of the store. The enthusiastic attendant calls to me with her usual silvery greeting, “Welcome to Kwik Shop.” After I've walked through an isle filled with cheerfully colorful packaged goods, I reach my hand out to grasp the delightfully chilly cooler door handle. A light brush of arctic air induces goose bumps on my arms as it dances across my skin. Hungry butterflies erupt in my stomach when my eyes alight on their goal; the glorious roast beef and American cheese hoagie. I feel a wave of anticipation while trying to decipher a partially smeared expiration date after pulling one from the shelf. “Huzzah!” This one is good for another twelve hours! My ears delight at the sweet tinkling of the door chime as a customer enters the shop. The cooler door produces a delicious “thwump” as I make my way triumphantly to the front counter. Once in line, I am blessed with ten glorious minutes to savor the hunger and zeal building in my gut as an elderly woman stews over her lottery ticket purchases at the register. It is soon my turn at the register, so I pull a crumpled five dollar bill out of my wallet, hand it to the cashier, and scamper out of the convenience store. I practically fly home in my beat up almost-blue Grand Caravan. The sandwich calls to me from the passenger seat, “Lather me in mustard and devour me, Sidney,” (convenience store roast beef sandwich). Soon, mister sandwich. Soon.

            I cradle the sandwich as I leap down the creaky stairs into my kitchen once I've arrived home. The plastic wrapping protests in a series of loud crinkles as I tear through it. I ceremoniously place the freed roast beef hoagie on my favorite green Keroppi plate. I am once again greeted by a gust of cold air as I rifle through the fridge for mustard and lettuce. I pull the head of lettuce from the crisper and locate the mustard on the door shelf. Placing these items to the side, I return to my sandwich. I lay my hand on top of the deliciously dried up hoagie crust. I slowly peel it away to reveal a glorious sight; the perfect slice of cheese. The slice of American cheese has a soft creamy center and hard, smooth edges. The color palette of yellows and oranges is magnificent to behold. The luscious scent of aged roast beef and cheese fondles my nose as I properly rearrange them. Once the slick cheese and the crumbly roast beef are in their proper places, I grab the mustard that was set off to the side. After a good vigorous shaking, I flick the dry crust off the tip with my thumbnail. I unscrew the top and tip the barrel-shaped bottle upside down over the cheese. I masterfully create a depiction of an emperor penguin with the mustard. After my masterpiece “penguin in mustard” is complete, I snatch up the head of lettuce. I tear away the least wilted leaf, fold the damp leaf neatly, and carefully place it over the mustard penguin. My sandwich now garnished, I replace the crispy top half of the hoagie. I step back to admire the alluring sandwich. I consider how wonderful the medley of flavors and textures will be. The concept is absolutely mouthwatering. “It is time, mister sandwich,” I croon.

            I lean back into my plush red couch, Keroppi plate in hand. This is the moment, the culmination of the anticipation. I lightly grip the sandwich with my right hand while I support the moist, supple bottom half with my left. The sharp tangy scent of mustard wafts towards my nostrils as I guide the sandwich to my lips. My top teeth crunch through the top layer of sandwich while my bottom teeth slide through the moist bottom. A jumble of textures and tastes bombard my senses. There is the chewy salty edge of the cheese, closely followed by creamier richer cheese. The heavily marbled roast beef crumbles apart easily and spreads its tart meaty flavor to the furthest reaches of my palate. The crunchy top hoagie grazes the roof of my mouth while the moist bottom glues the conglomeration together.  The sharp bite of mustard permeates through the bread, meat, and cheese. The lettuce adds a snippet of fibrous texture to the overall consistency. I savor the small slivers of heavily peppered roast beef that have wedged themselves into small crevices throughout my mouth.  I force myself to save half of the sandwich so I may enjoy it again later, though. The roast beef hoagie is far too decadent to eat in one sitting because it is the most glorious combination of flavors and textures I have ever experienced. The moisture of the sandwich is balanced by the combination of crispy and mushy bread. The saturated center of the cheese adds creaminess while the rubbery edges enhance the texture. The powerful tartness of the mustard is truly the star of the roast beef sandwich because its strong presence ties all the milder flavors together. This roast beef sandwich was absolutely transcendent.

            I have to admit to the skepticism I felt the first time I purchased a convenience store roast beef sandwich. I was sure it would be flavorless and bland. There was no doubt that the sandwich would be uniform and unappealing. Oh how wrong I was. This roast beef sandwich contains complex flavors and textures normally only found within the confines of upscale restaurants. Even the process of obtaining and preparing the glorious sandwich is incredible. The actual consumption is pure bliss. There could be nothing more satisfying than a convenience store roast beef hoagie with cheese. Remember this roast beef sandwich the next time you find your stomach rumbling on a road trip. This sophisticated delicacy will surely sate your appetite.

Confessional

Words have always held power for me. The English language contains a cacophony of synonyms that all have slightly different meanings. I am always searching for mot juste, the perfect word, to describe. Rape is a hard word for me. As is molestation. There was a lack of violence. There was youth, and on one occasion, there was intoxication. Consent, or lack thereof, is the determining factor behind rape and molestation. I never said no. I do not remember saying no. That time I remember, I feel like my body was screaming no. There was no verbal indication that I did not want what was happening. So I have a hard time saying, “I was raped.”

Except that first time I tried to open up to a man I was interested in becoming intimate with. I did not use the word rape, though. The story I wanted to share was about the first transgression, the molestation. I said the words. It was the first time I had ever spoken them out loud.

“I was molested.”

For several glowing moments, it felt so good spilling out of me. I had told myself over and over that it was not unwarranted. That my feelings, anxiety, and depression stemming from that memory were capricious. In this moment, I had allowed myself to not be the one at fault. I had allowed those feelings authenticity. A momentary gasp of relief.

Until he said it. I cannot remember the exact words. Memory is fickle. Something along the lines of, “It seems like every girl has been molested these days. I’m tired of hearing about it.” So nonchalant, with just a crust of annoyance. The story burning on the tip of my tongue instantly fizzled away to nothing. My heart plummeted back down to that dark place. Immediately returned to feeling as though my emotional reaction was disproportionate. It felt like being release from a cage only to be instantly returned by an amused guard.

For years and years I have been my own rapist. I should want this. This is what makes me valuable. I should want this. I can want this.

Want this.

So many times I have felt embarrassed because of bursting into tears during intimate moments. Before, during, or after. I was embarrassed because I did not want it, felt I should have, but could not make myself. Embarrassed because I had pretended to want even when I did not. Made men, who most of the time genuinely cared about me in some capacity, feel as though they had done something wrong. Once, one told me he felt as though he had raped me. Apologized with terror-stricken eyes even though I explained I was just screwed up.

It was not rape. I should have wanted it. I did not say no, so I wanted it. I should not feel this way. There was flirting and smiling. Touching. I should want this. I cannot. I cannot say no. It catches in my throat every time. I did not mean to cheat that time. I sent the wrong message and could not say no because it was my fault. All those times feeling guilty for not wanting, allowing it, and having to run away. I cannot look them in the eye even though they are not the rapist. I am. Slowly hollowing myself out one fuck at a time.

I remember the faces and names of the men who initially molested me. I still have a hard time saying rape. I have forgiven them. What happened was wrong, but I can forgive. There is no forgiveness in my heart for that faceless person, lost to the haze of memory, who took away my capability to not blame myself, though.

So much harder than that is finding forgiveness for myself. There has been progress. There is a lot to forgive, though. People I have hurt through hurting myself. Memories I wish I did not have. Years of valuing myself for only my body and how I used it. Years of looking for something beautiful, for friendship, only to force its destruction by not being able to say, “No, I’m not ready yet.” Over and over again. Moments of allowing my unease to project on the ones who would never had hurt me in that way.

I realize this piece of writing contains what can be considered “flawed logic.” I understand that I was raped and there is a large variety of both physical and emotional reactions to being molested and raped. My reaction is likely not out of the ordinary. The blame I still hold toward myself is not for the initial transgressions. It is for holding onto the words of one boy in the face of so many friends, teachers, and mentors practically screaming the exact opposite words. It is blame for allowing myself to become my own rapist over and over. It is for losing so many friends because I fucked them, thinking it was my only worth. It is a huge wave of guilt because I am such a strong woman until I need to say no.

I truly wanted to end this piece on a note of strength. I am a strong woman. The difficulty is that I cannot pretend that I have overcome this. Every day, there is a struggle in some part of my mind. Sometimes I make a connection with someone, and then entirely cut off contact with them out of some sense of panic. I will be touching a friend, cuddling perhaps, then recall with a sense of dread that this sort of contact is not socially acceptable unless one plans on taking their clothes off by the end of the night. Smiles are wiped from my face as I realize a grin paired with eye contact might send the wrong message. I cannot send the wrong message. Because it is still so hard for me to say no. I still choke on that single syllable. This does not end on a strong note because I am not afraid of men’s advances, but of my own silence. This does not end on a strong note because I still destroy beautiful things.