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.