2003-02-19 - 7:10 p.m.
'the story told like it didn't happen to me'
Right now I'm hazy and numb. Numb. I don't feel like I'm inside my body anymore. And I don't want to say it was rape. Because I don't know if it was. I know that no one should come out of a sexual experience looking the way I did. Or feeling the way I did. It was scary and it was violent, but was it rape? I honestly can't say. I brought him home. He was drunk. And we kissed in my living room. We kissed in my kitchen. And he went upstairs and I thought he passed out in my bed. On my side. I remember that I tried to shove him over, because I don't sleep well on the left. It's too close to the closet and the nothingness. He wouldn't budge. I thought he was down for the count, so I put on my pajamas and tried to get under covers. He was awake. He was grabby, but nonthreatening. He was JD. I never thought to be weary of him really. Because he always seemed so shy and so passive.
I woke up with bite marks deep in my neck and bruises on my shoulders. Bruises on my chest. My back. My arms. Bruises. Bruises. Bruises. Everywhere. Places that bruises shouldn't be. I hurt. I see flashes of him looming above me, trying to get inside my mouth. Of the scary things he said. I see flashes of how big he is and how I never suspected he'd be that aggressive. How I never expected he'd be that rough. Or scary.
He left later the next morning. And I took a bath. Washed my sheets. I still haven't put the fallen pictures back up. My house is in shambles. My life is in shambles. And I still don't know what the fuck happened. I don't regret sex. I'm not the kind of girl who gets all worked up about something small. I just feel like if I can't decide what it was, it probably wasn't what it should have been. I shouldn't have woken up looking battered. Feeling worse than I did after my car crash. It just shouldn't be that way.
Penny told me no. I shouldn't. No one comes out of consensual sex looking like a victim. Feeling like a victim. All battered. And aching. No one should come out of a sex act feeling hit by a truck. And it was in my house. And I really thought I liked this person. I naively trusted him. I thought that he was cute. He was drunk and he'd come over and we'd kiss a little. And go to sleep. I never even considered sex with him that night. It seemed like a physical impossibility. On top of the fact that we were seeing each other. We were dating. And I thought there was plenty of time for that later. There was plenty of time for knowing and discovering.
And now I know that it wasn't about that for him. Now I know that he didn't want to know me. He didn't care. He didn't fucking care. I could have been anyone, but unfortunately, I was just me. Just me. A body made for violence. A soul made for pain. I'm just me. So broken, who could blame someone for taking one more swing at me?
I don't want to call it rape. The word's so extreme and seems so impossible. And when I think about that word I think of innocence. And faultlessness. I don't think I embody either. It was just scary. And violent And never-ending. And he slept in my bed. And I don't know where the line is drawn or when one thing becomes something else. Or when it transforms. When it morphs. I don't know. I don't know. And I don't want to know. I don't want to blame. I don't want to hate me. I don't want to say this is what it was. This is the end. This is the truth. I don't want any of that. I just want to stay hazy. I want to stay numb. And sleep. I just want it out of me. But it never will be. So let it sleep. Let it lie dormant and unnamed. Just let it be. Let it be.
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