Last night something happened to me that made me acutely aware of how much the things that have happened to me have become part of my story, how and that story has severely influenced my personality, my fears and my reactions to triggers.
My first encounter with sexual violence was when I was a teenager.
And despite all that I heard almost two decades ago, and all that still resounds in my head, I was not asking for it.
I did not ask for it, and none of it was my fault.
Something was taken away from me and it made me fear and lose my sense of self, agency and my relationship with my body and my sexuality, and no, it was not my fault.
I am no longer a teenager.
I am a sexually active woman in her thirties.
I am no longer a virginal child who does not understand what is happening.
I am sensual, open and free.
And I openly talk about my desires, my encounters and all that I love about my body.
I am flirty,
I am empowered and I think of myself as someone who lives freely.
As my sister friend claims, “I ooze sex”
I dress daringly risqué, and I share my body as a precious gift on some days, and as a regular fleshly necessity that everyone possesses, on other days.
I flirt, and I use words to paint a vivid picture of the moisture on my inner thighs, or the yearning throb of my nether lips.
None of these things excuse what happened to me last night.
When he asked that we get a room, and I said that I was not down for that.
I meant it.
When he told me he was undressing me with his eyes, and he was doing things to me in his mind, I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
I quickly changed the subject, trying desperately to bring things back to the path where I felt more comfortable.
With each passing second, I felt more and more helpless. More and more deflated. I smiled politely, I laughed stiffly. I averted his eyes. I struggled to straddle the line between harassment and humor. This had to be humor, right?
When my ring fell down and I picked it off the floor, he commented on the shape of my ass. I glanced furtively at the exit, wanting to escape, but wanting even more to not be a victim. To not be sixteen. To not be afraid, to take better control of the situation, to move the narrative. I laughed lightly. The salve I use to fix all horrors.
But, my demons crept back.
Soon, I was a shadow of my sixteen year old self.
His right arm draped across my shoulder, purposefully brushing my right nipple.
I hated it.
I hated him.
I moved.
His left arm found my shoulder.
A man on a mission, he fished for the left nipple,
To balance things out.
Nothing was right.
I had nothing left.
This wasn’t me.
I wanted to slap him.
I looked at his arms. Knowing he could end me.
Kick me to the ground.
Knowing that I was afraid that if I resisted, my night could get even worse.
Then he slipped his arm into my dress.
Fishing for all my dignity.
He searched frantically, looking for ways to forcibly relieve me of my authority over my body.
He succeeded.
“I like this side of you.” he said.
“The quiet you”
“I like diminishing you into nothing” I heard.
“I like robbing you of your power, your agency and your voice” I understood.
I placed my bag between us. A wall of pillows to barricade myself into a safe space.
He moved my barrier and placed his hand on my thigh.
I fought hot tears, because I knew my tears were not welcome.
I fought the bile rising in my throat.
I thought of opening the doors, rolling my body onto the street, to be engulfed by the machines the headlights behind us belonged to.
Their wheels would roll over my body. Leaving marks deeper than the feel of his thumbprints left on my nipples.
The crushing of my bones would be so welcome.
Metal and glass splitting my skin and spilling my red life force onto the canvas of the tarred streets. A self-portrait that shows the pain of my night.
Instead, my bravery would not let me end it. In no way.
I sat and fought with myself.
Hating myself,
Hating my situation and waiting.
Waiting till he was satisfied enough to stop.
Then I threw myself into my tear-soaked pillow, diving deep enough to drown. I sobbed enough to stop my breathing.
I screamed my throat raw, and rubbed my eyes sore.
I sacrificed myself to the night, welcoming the dark…sleep or death?
Who can tell the difference at a time like this?
Last night should have been my last night.
Matekwor.