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.
