It's Hard to Say The R Word
You had sex with me when I said I didn't want to. You came to my house after I told you no. You walked up my stairs into my safest place and pushed your mouth into mine so hard that the pillow behind my head no longer felt squishy. You jammed your fingers into me like you were trying to convince me that this was consensual - like you actually cared. You sulked when I finally pushed you off the first time; you made me feel guilty for not giving in and you made me feel prudish for caring too much. You made me feel like I owed it to you. You took my weakness for invitation. You forced my hips to rock even when my body was limp and numb. You kept going when I asked you why over and over again. You entered me when I said I didn't want to have sex. You came so fast it barely felt real. You told me it was no big deal. You did nothing to indicate you cared about my experience at all. You made me feel guilty, helpless, ashamed, used. You got dressed quickly and you left and I cried until I fell asleep.
After, I blamed myself over and over again. I couldn't be the victim because I was not the perfect victim, so it had to be my fault. I didn't fight like I was supposed to. I tried to understand why you were doing it. I tried to understand what was happening even as every touch felt like it was tearing my body away from my consciousness. I tried to process it even though my body and brain were so disconnected I couldn't remember much. I tried to forget it and move on. But I still shed tears that feel like guilt.
A lot of my days trying to heal were ruled by terror and hatred of my body. Forget the eating disorders I'd had for years; this kind of disconnect was totally alien. It was not just hatred, it was fear. Fear that my body would never be as strong as my mind wanted to be. Fear that I was too sexy, too flirty, too slutty to expect to be treated with the respect I craved. I wish you could understand how terrible it was to live in a body that didn't feel like my own for a long time after - a body that felt dirty and used and disgusting.
A few weeks after, attempted "normal" sex with my boyfriend of nearly a year ended up with me blacking out and waking up crying, shaking, gasping. I wish you had any idea what that felt like when it happened over and over again. I wish you had any idea what it's like to relive the nightmare every time I'm touched a certain way.
I wish you had any idea what walking around school felt like. Everyone wearing your shirts and constantly reminding me how lovable and extroverted you are. More than enough to outweigh my introverted side of the story. I wish you knew how scary it was to never know what was going to trigger another burst of tears and hopelessness. I wish you knew how frustrating it was to constantly dissolve into flashbacks or paranoia. Panic attacks in grimy school bathrooms were not a fun way to spend the last part of my senior year.
I've told myself for months that I'm not angry, that forgiveness came quickly and easily. I am and have always been loyal to a fault and I didn't want to hate you.
I've stayed up far too late tonight trying not to text you. I've sobbed and paced around my room and rewritten a text over and over again. I've wished and wished that you could understand and see it like I do and feel some bit of remorse. But I can't ever rewrite what happened. And in that gap, between moving on and missing you, is where I am stuck. I miss you because I wish I could rewrite everything that happened. I wish that I could've been in control. I wish you hadn't used me, wish I had somehow been better at stopping you. I wish I had been as strong as I pretend to be. I wish I had been the perfect victim. I wish my vulnerability hadn't been so abused. I wish you knew you what you did to me and I wish I was brave enough to confront you. I'm still wondering how to heal from this, still questioning my emotions, my story, my memory. I'm still wondering if I'm angry, wondering how to let go of that anger, how to move on when I still miss you. I'm almost scared to say it, "I miss you," scared that it will mean what happened wasn't real. But as much as I wish I could rewrite the bad parts out, I am learning to turn panic into gratitude.
When I can't outthink the words in my head, thank you for introducing me to so much good music. When I let repressed sobs bubble out, thank you for once being a shoulder to cry on. When little things send me spiraling, I thank you for coffee, for staying up late, for drawing with me. And when I think I'll never heal, thank you for forcing me to understand forgiveness in a different way.
With all my love, I wish you the best.
After, I blamed myself over and over again. I couldn't be the victim because I was not the perfect victim, so it had to be my fault. I didn't fight like I was supposed to. I tried to understand why you were doing it. I tried to understand what was happening even as every touch felt like it was tearing my body away from my consciousness. I tried to process it even though my body and brain were so disconnected I couldn't remember much. I tried to forget it and move on. But I still shed tears that feel like guilt.
A lot of my days trying to heal were ruled by terror and hatred of my body. Forget the eating disorders I'd had for years; this kind of disconnect was totally alien. It was not just hatred, it was fear. Fear that my body would never be as strong as my mind wanted to be. Fear that I was too sexy, too flirty, too slutty to expect to be treated with the respect I craved. I wish you could understand how terrible it was to live in a body that didn't feel like my own for a long time after - a body that felt dirty and used and disgusting.
A few weeks after, attempted "normal" sex with my boyfriend of nearly a year ended up with me blacking out and waking up crying, shaking, gasping. I wish you had any idea what that felt like when it happened over and over again. I wish you had any idea what it's like to relive the nightmare every time I'm touched a certain way.
I wish you had any idea what walking around school felt like. Everyone wearing your shirts and constantly reminding me how lovable and extroverted you are. More than enough to outweigh my introverted side of the story. I wish you knew how scary it was to never know what was going to trigger another burst of tears and hopelessness. I wish you knew how frustrating it was to constantly dissolve into flashbacks or paranoia. Panic attacks in grimy school bathrooms were not a fun way to spend the last part of my senior year.
I've told myself for months that I'm not angry, that forgiveness came quickly and easily. I am and have always been loyal to a fault and I didn't want to hate you.
I've stayed up far too late tonight trying not to text you. I've sobbed and paced around my room and rewritten a text over and over again. I've wished and wished that you could understand and see it like I do and feel some bit of remorse. But I can't ever rewrite what happened. And in that gap, between moving on and missing you, is where I am stuck. I miss you because I wish I could rewrite everything that happened. I wish that I could've been in control. I wish you hadn't used me, wish I had somehow been better at stopping you. I wish I had been as strong as I pretend to be. I wish I had been the perfect victim. I wish my vulnerability hadn't been so abused. I wish you knew you what you did to me and I wish I was brave enough to confront you. I'm still wondering how to heal from this, still questioning my emotions, my story, my memory. I'm still wondering if I'm angry, wondering how to let go of that anger, how to move on when I still miss you. I'm almost scared to say it, "I miss you," scared that it will mean what happened wasn't real. But as much as I wish I could rewrite the bad parts out, I am learning to turn panic into gratitude.
When I can't outthink the words in my head, thank you for introducing me to so much good music. When I let repressed sobs bubble out, thank you for once being a shoulder to cry on. When little things send me spiraling, I thank you for coffee, for staying up late, for drawing with me. And when I think I'll never heal, thank you for forcing me to understand forgiveness in a different way.
With all my love, I wish you the best.
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