dec 4, 2024 7:13 PM
Dec 4, 2024 7:13 PM
I'm ready to start writing about it.
I'm ready to take control.
I'm ready to stop blaming myself.
I'm ready to give myself the narrative.
I'm ready to rage.
Men make me angry. Not necessarily because of each individual thing they say/do, but because of how easily they get away with it. Why do we hold such low expectations for men? Why is it so wrong to teach men how to handle their emotions? Why does masculinity exist, and why is it so powerful? And why is it so fragile?-- I am less so actually asking these questions, but more so expressing frustration. We need to start holding men accountable. Raise the bar, rewrite the standards. Because I am done sacrificing my comfort for other peoples'. What happened to me is real. And it is true. And I do not need to justify it in order to validate my identity. I don't need to prove it to anyone.
Why do I blame myself? I have deep-dived and overthought every possible crevice of the details to understand what I could have done differently to avoid it. But that has been useless. I have sat here and been mad at myself for the naivety I held that night and the warning signs I detected-- which I've been taught my whole life to-- that could have stopped this from ever happening. But that has been useless. I would like to stop blaming myself. Because it is not my fault. I need allow myself to accept that what happened to me was a violation. And it was scary. And unnecessary. And rude. And egregious. And disgusting. And permanent.
So here I am. Holding space for myself to let it go. The blame. And I'm giving it to him. He doesn't ever need to know. I hate him.
I wonder which moment it was that he decided he was going to rape me. Was it the moment I pushed him off me on the couch while his friends were still in the kitchen? Was is the moment I told him I really didn't want to hookup with him? Was it the moment I told him I'm gay? Or was it the moment I begged him not to stick his penis inside of me because I wasn't on birth control, or at least if he was going to continue, then to please dear god please wear a condom-- to which he then proceeded to pull out a screenshot of a record of his most recent STD tests to show me that at least I wasn't going to get infected. I wonder. Whichever moment it was doesn't actually matter. Because all the different scenarios I can run around in my head will never change the facts. It was never my choice. And I have to accept that. Scary feeling.
Everything I have tried to do to cope with that fact has only denied me from its ugly reality.
It was not my choice. It was his. He chose to rape me.
And I live with the consequences of his decision every day.
I don't want to be angry with men anymore. I don’t want to be angry with myself anymore. I just want to breathe.
