First you really liked #metoo. Then you hated it. It wasn’t empowering for the victims to have to out themselves. Then it was OK if you said their names. Then it was why. Why would you say their names? You didn’t like our stories or you did. And they made you brave. Or you didn’t want to share, but you wanted people to know that you were #metoo, too, but you didn’t want to post it. Or you just didn’t all together.
And it all seems like, Internet, no one gives a fuck what you want.
At least not me
It feels like you can’t make up your mind, Internet. Like the victim you blame, who MAY have said yes, but then was like naaaaah. And he (or she) should have been OK with that, but instead, you blamed her. Because she was a cocktease, a whore, asking for it, should have made up her mind. Slut.
But I don’t care about how you feel.
Because his name was
jerked off on me and touched me before I’d hit puberty.
Sodomized me in a park.
Burned me with a cigarette for not going in the woods with him.
Fed me Zima to quench an undying thirst as he drove me around in a car with the heat blasting.
Roofied and tried to rape me.
Hit me. Beat me.
Forced me to have sex as we slept in a shared bed.
At gun point- because it was a game.
And it wasn’t just his game. It was all of you. You all took cues from each other in the Boys’ Club, like passing notes in 10th grade chem class. Information shared about what kind of drinks a girl likes, where you’ll be when you get yours, if they’ll help a guy out so he can get some.
As though I am some.
But I’m not some
I’m ALL, Bitch. I’m everything. I am my sun, moon, Earth. I am the only stars in my sky. I am the reason my legs get me out the bed in the morning. The legs you’ve spread open for your own empowerment. Raping my choices away. I am why I live each day- because it is a choice.
Just like it was a choice to use your body to mutilate mine.
I have girls.
I don’t actually have them. I birthed them. Two of the most beautiful wonderful girls that have ever walked this Earth. Girls who are building their own thoughts and ideas and opinions about life. Recently, I had them tattooed on my arm very specifically. It’s as though their placement was the most purposeful, perfect planning- regardless of the fact that I hadn’t had work on my arms since years before their births.
A bear on my triceps. A muscle that must be worked to maintain it’s definition, but powerful. Full extension of the arm. Used in strikes for precision blows, downward momentum. Emblazoned with a bear. A beautiful, meticulously adorned bear. A little clumsy, but cute. Much adored. Deadly.
On my biceps, a moose. What you see when I flex. Needed to twist and pull. Stealth, grace. A two-headed beast of a muscle. A messy intersection of lines making up a moose. Cute and celebrated as a sign of fall and forest life. Often shocking, up close, in size. Stoic, solitary… brutal when angered.
why I’m so guarded, loud, aggressive. Why would I ever walk down a dark alley without a friend. If I don’t want to get hurt, maybe I shouldn’t date that kind of guy, drink that drink, live in a city.
You shouldn’t rape
Maybe you should know that no retracts consent the moment it is uttered. That I have the right to change my mind. That the blood circulating through your erection is not more important than my decision. My choice. My governing of my own body.
And I don’t care if you like my story, Internet. If it makes you uncomfortable. Angry. Hurt. Your emotions aren’t my problem here. You have a voice. A choice. You can say no. Shut down. Walk away.
There was no choice. No voice. It was stifled under a salty hand, sweaty tshirt, the hairy forearm of a drunk college boy. Never again will I try to breathe through a car seat as my face is forced down into it. Trying to bite a hand a can’t get my teeth around. Choking on the frayed hem of an undershirt that smells like a deli and coffee.
My voice. It’s loud AF.