I feel like all I can see when I look at myself now is a sick person. I can see the possibilities for what else I might be, for what else I am, but most of those are things that may be beyond my actual capabilities. When you get down to it, I am mangled.
I am a dancer who cannot dance, a writer who cannot hold a pencil, a student who cannot attend classes. I am an extrovert who cannot leave the house, and a reader who does not have the presence of mind to untangle a plot. I am damaged goods.
I am a burden on my family, the back hole in my parents' pockets. I am a bright spot of possibility and potential that society invested in only for my stock to crash. I am wasted.
I tell myself that no good character is without a weakness, and that the only reason the world can survive my awesomeness is because I am handicapped in this way. What terrible things I would accomplish if I were healthy!
Everything I do is less already, because what more could it have been instead?
I am good with masks. I can play the part of the healthy person for hours at a time!
It is a facade. It is a sand castle.
The illusion dissipates. The walls crumble.
I make plans for the future that I cannot count on coming to pass.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and all I see is a sick person, staring back at me. Her eyes are shot through with blood, her cheeks are puffy, complexion dotted with thick, red, flaking skin, with bruises under her eyes like she got punched in the face. Her lips are chapped, the roots of her dyed hair are showing, and no one that young should have lines cut so deep in her face. No one so young should bear such obvious evidence of hardship.
Pain is a formidable sculptor.
I want more than anything to look at that sick person with a smile, but I say, "I hate you" several times a day. I thought I was talking to my body at first, but now I'm no longer sure.
How can I love that which is destroying me?
And that's what it feels like.
IT FEELS LIKE I AM BEING DESTROYED.
It is not artful. It is not beautiful. It is not a romantic story, something for healthy people to read and coo over, sigh and interpret as me being "remade." It is not creation out of chaos, a phoenix rising from its own ashes, oceans receding to reveal land. No. I am not raw iron, and my illness is not a crucible.
I am a star - a beautiful, young star with an atmosphere and a surface that might have supported life one day - being drawn into a black hole, painfully aware of the inevitability of being stripped down and consumed.
Now - tell me that I am being short-sighted. Tell me that I am being pessimistic. Tell me that I am a brilliant girl who can do anything she wants. Tell me that other people have it worse. Tell me that I should be grateful.
Tell me about this one person you heard about - same problem (ish) as me - who did such and such great thing in spite of their malady. Tell me about a future where they've figured out a cure. Tell me about how I've given up without a fight, and how darkness always comes before the dawn, and how I'm such a strong person, things will get better, you swear.
Tell me all the ways I'm wrong to feel and think that I am just a sick person.
You aren't telling me anything I haven't screamed at myself in the mirror.
1/21/14
12/10/13
Meg
When I was growing up, out of all the Disney princesses, I wanted to be Meg.
Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.
To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.
"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."
And then I grew up.
I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.
And that was when the women were there at all.
But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.
That's real life.
I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."
And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.
You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.
So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.
Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.
That makes her a role model.... right?
Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.
Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?
Is she remembered in the stars?
When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.
And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.
Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.
I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.
Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.
But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.
And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.
I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.
I want to be myself.
Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.
To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.
"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."
And then I grew up.
I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.
And that was when the women were there at all.
But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.
That's real life.
I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."
And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.
You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.
So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.
Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.
That makes her a role model.... right?
Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.
Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?
Is she remembered in the stars?
When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.
And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.
Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.
I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.
Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.
But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.
And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.
I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.
I want to be myself.
8/15/13
Worst Case
"Tell me your story," she said, leaning toward me.
I blinked at her.
She was pretty, I suppose. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, the logo concealed in the folds, and her blonde, almost colorless hair was tangled and frizzing from the storm winds she'd walked in from. She hadn't bothered with make-up, but her attitude rendered the lack of cosmetics irrelevant. She had a calm that seemed to come from knowing that she liked herself, and that no one's opinion was going to change her own on that count. Besides, there's just something attractive about a woman who just doesn't give a fuck if her lips are chapped or if there's a zit coming in next to her nose ring.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Um...." I bit my own lip and watched my fingernails tap the white ceramic coffee cup. "What do you want to know?"
"Your story, doll," she huffed good-naturedly. "How did you end up here, sitting in this coffee shop, on a date with a woman you only know by a friend's description? No one ends up in that situation without a story of some kind."
Wow. She was forward.
I shifted uncomfortably, damning the combination of my flowy short skirt and the too-hot leather seat. I took a long draught of my coffee and winced. It needed a bit more sugar and significantly less heat.
I finally looked at her again.
Her eyebrows were raised, her lips pulled off to one side, slightly upturned. She rested her elbows on the table, arms open, palms up. Her iced chai sat square between them, sweating and puddling.
"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I was... bored?"
She nodded oddly, kind of scooping her chin forward.
"Yeah, bored," I affirmed. "No offense."
She backhanded the comment away with a limp wrist.
"None taken. Boredom can be a great impetus for adventure."
I caught myself looking at the table when I smiled, and I forced myself to make eye contact. I desperately wanted to avoid being rude.
"I'm not actually great with adventures. But yeah, I suppose. It'd been a while, you see. I broke up with my last boyfriend last fall semester...."
I paused, waiting for her to interrupt here.
Her gaze didn't waver. She made that odd scooping nod again, and settled one finger beneath a cheekbone.
I took a deep breath.
"There was just... something missing, I guess. The dates were fine. The sex was fine." I crossed my legs tightly under the table. "He was nice enough."
I settled my hands in my lap, pressing my skirt down my thighs, as I shrugged my shoulders.
"I thought it might get better after that. You know, since being single's supposed to be so much fun."
She chuckled at that. "Who told you that lie, sweetie?"
I found I liked the way her eyes crinkled.
I quickly involved myself in taking a sip of my too-bitter and too-hot coffee.
"Society, I suppose," I muttered, setting the mug back on the table with a clink that startled me with how loudly it rang through the coffee shop.
Was it quiet enough that people could hear our conversation? I eyed the young man at the next table over, his head dropped into his hands as he pored over a textbook. I took an unsteady breath when I realized he had long white wires dangling from his ears.
"I'm guessing that single-dom didn't turn out so hot," she prompted, gently.
"Uh, yeah." I tried to smile at her. "It was awful. I did single things. You know. I went to parties. I went to bars. I went to clubs. I had bad sex and worse hookups."
She scoop-nodded again, eyes intent on me.
I laughed a little, but it was more bitter than mirthful.
"It wasn't all that fun. The guys - " I held my mouth open for a moment, and then clicked my lips shut. "The sex - " I tried again, only to bring my hand to my lips as I faltered once more.
Her eyebrows rose. I probably blushed.
"It was... predictable," I concluded, dropping my hand onto the table, palm down. "It always went the same way."
Her finger moved from her cheek to her lower lip, and tapped once or twice. Her nails were unshaped and unpolished.
"How so?"
I sighed, and pursed my lips.
"I'd meet a guy. I'd think he was reasonably attractive, maybe even funny, or smart. If he seemed interested, I'd let him know I was down, but not, you know, locked down. I'm not an insta-relationship girl."
I found it easy to meet her gaze when I said this.
"We'd have sex or hook up or not. Sometimes I'd see him again after that, maybe two, maybe three times. But nothing ever really..."
I waved my hand vaguely above my coffee mug.
"Manifested?" she offered.
"Yeah." I bit my lower lip. "And it was boring."
"Huh." She tapped her lip with her finger again, shrugging with the corners of her mouth. "So, what made you think you might try a blind date with a woman instead?"
My laugh was reflexive. I felt warm coffee coat the side of one finger as I scrabbled at my mug for a sip.
She gave me a moment, taking a long draw of her chai through her straw.
I wiped my hand off on my skirt.
"Well...." My voice came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat.
"Well, I was just... ready for a change, I guess." I watched spilled coffee wend its way down the white ceramic to the table. I didn't want to see her react. "Jessa's always been more flexible than I am, and, um... she has fun, you know? Her love life doesn't seem formulaic at all."
I snuck a quick look at her. She noticed, and smiled encouragingly.
"So.... I dunno. I - I asked her if she knew anyone."
My skin peeled away from the leather seat as I fidgeted.
"And, well, you know Jessa...."
She grinned at me now. I hesitated, but smiled with her.
"Yeah, I know Jessa." Her hand dropped to the table, making it very easy to see how pretty that smile made her. "The phrase 'social butterfly' was coined to describe your roomie."
"Seriously," I agreed. "She was the kid that 'stranger danger' was meant to scare to safety."
When she laughed at that, her chuckle moving up to a note high enough to be a hiccup, I really did grin at her. She was cute.
"But, yeah," I continued. "Of course Jessa knew someone. She started telling me about this marvelous person."
"Yeah?" She leaned back a little.
"This marvelous person who likes to go white water rafting and mountain climbing and is up for trying just about anything once and wants to be a history teacher and makes plate armor on the weekends...."
A small blush crept into her cheeks and she briefly pressed on hand to the nape of her neck. The folds of her t-shirt shifted, and I saw that the logo was the ship Serenity.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "She just went on and on describing you, telling me all these things that you like and do and dream. Like, she told me that you volunteer at the animal shelter repairing fences because you can't have a dog in your apartment, but miss being around animals. All this detail. And I was... mesmerized."
The pitch of my voice dropped on that last word.
We smiled at each other over our drinks. In tandem, we both took sips.
I didn't notice or care how bitter the last dregs of my cooling coffee were.
Our empty cups clicked as we set them back on the table.
"Anyways, Jessa waited until I was all but set to marry you, sight-unseen, before she slipped in, 'Oh, yeah, and she's a girl.'"
"Yeah?" she asked. Her tone was light, but she was watching me very carefully. "Did you freak?"
I smoothed my skirt down again, recrossing my legs.
"A little," I conceded. "But... I dunno...." I laughed, sincerely this time.
"I guess you just sounded like such a wonderful person, I... didn't really care. I wanted to meet you. And... I figured - " I threw my hands up into the air beside my head. "What the hell? Worst case, I don't like you and you don't like me, but at least I did something different."
She rolled her lower lip into her mouth, and looked up at me through her lashes, slow and smoldering.
"Now that's a story, doll."
"I mean.... I guess."
"So.... Is this the worst case scenario?" She eyed me sort of sideways with the question, kind of rocking side to side in her chair.
"I-" My words got caught in a smile, and I bit my lip closed, glancing toward my shoulder and then back at her. "I don't think so."
I reached across the table and lightly touched the back of her hand, just the tips of my first three fingers resting on the tendon of her index finger. Her skin was soft, and warm, and just a little bit damp from the condensation on her cup.
"I don't think so," I repeated.
I blinked at her.
She was pretty, I suppose. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, the logo concealed in the folds, and her blonde, almost colorless hair was tangled and frizzing from the storm winds she'd walked in from. She hadn't bothered with make-up, but her attitude rendered the lack of cosmetics irrelevant. She had a calm that seemed to come from knowing that she liked herself, and that no one's opinion was going to change her own on that count. Besides, there's just something attractive about a woman who just doesn't give a fuck if her lips are chapped or if there's a zit coming in next to her nose ring.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Um...." I bit my own lip and watched my fingernails tap the white ceramic coffee cup. "What do you want to know?"
"Your story, doll," she huffed good-naturedly. "How did you end up here, sitting in this coffee shop, on a date with a woman you only know by a friend's description? No one ends up in that situation without a story of some kind."
Wow. She was forward.
I shifted uncomfortably, damning the combination of my flowy short skirt and the too-hot leather seat. I took a long draught of my coffee and winced. It needed a bit more sugar and significantly less heat.
I finally looked at her again.
Her eyebrows were raised, her lips pulled off to one side, slightly upturned. She rested her elbows on the table, arms open, palms up. Her iced chai sat square between them, sweating and puddling.
"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I was... bored?"
She nodded oddly, kind of scooping her chin forward.
"Yeah, bored," I affirmed. "No offense."
She backhanded the comment away with a limp wrist.
"None taken. Boredom can be a great impetus for adventure."
I caught myself looking at the table when I smiled, and I forced myself to make eye contact. I desperately wanted to avoid being rude.
"I'm not actually great with adventures. But yeah, I suppose. It'd been a while, you see. I broke up with my last boyfriend last fall semester...."
I paused, waiting for her to interrupt here.
Her gaze didn't waver. She made that odd scooping nod again, and settled one finger beneath a cheekbone.
I took a deep breath.
"There was just... something missing, I guess. The dates were fine. The sex was fine." I crossed my legs tightly under the table. "He was nice enough."
I settled my hands in my lap, pressing my skirt down my thighs, as I shrugged my shoulders.
"I thought it might get better after that. You know, since being single's supposed to be so much fun."
She chuckled at that. "Who told you that lie, sweetie?"
I found I liked the way her eyes crinkled.
I quickly involved myself in taking a sip of my too-bitter and too-hot coffee.
"Society, I suppose," I muttered, setting the mug back on the table with a clink that startled me with how loudly it rang through the coffee shop.
Was it quiet enough that people could hear our conversation? I eyed the young man at the next table over, his head dropped into his hands as he pored over a textbook. I took an unsteady breath when I realized he had long white wires dangling from his ears.
"I'm guessing that single-dom didn't turn out so hot," she prompted, gently.
"Uh, yeah." I tried to smile at her. "It was awful. I did single things. You know. I went to parties. I went to bars. I went to clubs. I had bad sex and worse hookups."
She scoop-nodded again, eyes intent on me.
I laughed a little, but it was more bitter than mirthful.
"It wasn't all that fun. The guys - " I held my mouth open for a moment, and then clicked my lips shut. "The sex - " I tried again, only to bring my hand to my lips as I faltered once more.
Her eyebrows rose. I probably blushed.
"It was... predictable," I concluded, dropping my hand onto the table, palm down. "It always went the same way."
Her finger moved from her cheek to her lower lip, and tapped once or twice. Her nails were unshaped and unpolished.
"How so?"
I sighed, and pursed my lips.
"I'd meet a guy. I'd think he was reasonably attractive, maybe even funny, or smart. If he seemed interested, I'd let him know I was down, but not, you know, locked down. I'm not an insta-relationship girl."
I found it easy to meet her gaze when I said this.
"We'd have sex or hook up or not. Sometimes I'd see him again after that, maybe two, maybe three times. But nothing ever really..."
I waved my hand vaguely above my coffee mug.
"Manifested?" she offered.
"Yeah." I bit my lower lip. "And it was boring."
"Huh." She tapped her lip with her finger again, shrugging with the corners of her mouth. "So, what made you think you might try a blind date with a woman instead?"
My laugh was reflexive. I felt warm coffee coat the side of one finger as I scrabbled at my mug for a sip.
She gave me a moment, taking a long draw of her chai through her straw.
I wiped my hand off on my skirt.
"Well...." My voice came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat.
"Well, I was just... ready for a change, I guess." I watched spilled coffee wend its way down the white ceramic to the table. I didn't want to see her react. "Jessa's always been more flexible than I am, and, um... she has fun, you know? Her love life doesn't seem formulaic at all."
I snuck a quick look at her. She noticed, and smiled encouragingly.
"So.... I dunno. I - I asked her if she knew anyone."
My skin peeled away from the leather seat as I fidgeted.
"And, well, you know Jessa...."
She grinned at me now. I hesitated, but smiled with her.
"Yeah, I know Jessa." Her hand dropped to the table, making it very easy to see how pretty that smile made her. "The phrase 'social butterfly' was coined to describe your roomie."
"Seriously," I agreed. "She was the kid that 'stranger danger' was meant to scare to safety."
When she laughed at that, her chuckle moving up to a note high enough to be a hiccup, I really did grin at her. She was cute.
"But, yeah," I continued. "Of course Jessa knew someone. She started telling me about this marvelous person."
"Yeah?" She leaned back a little.
"This marvelous person who likes to go white water rafting and mountain climbing and is up for trying just about anything once and wants to be a history teacher and makes plate armor on the weekends...."
A small blush crept into her cheeks and she briefly pressed on hand to the nape of her neck. The folds of her t-shirt shifted, and I saw that the logo was the ship Serenity.
"Oh, yeah," I said. "She just went on and on describing you, telling me all these things that you like and do and dream. Like, she told me that you volunteer at the animal shelter repairing fences because you can't have a dog in your apartment, but miss being around animals. All this detail. And I was... mesmerized."
The pitch of my voice dropped on that last word.
We smiled at each other over our drinks. In tandem, we both took sips.
I didn't notice or care how bitter the last dregs of my cooling coffee were.
Our empty cups clicked as we set them back on the table.
"Anyways, Jessa waited until I was all but set to marry you, sight-unseen, before she slipped in, 'Oh, yeah, and she's a girl.'"
"Yeah?" she asked. Her tone was light, but she was watching me very carefully. "Did you freak?"
I smoothed my skirt down again, recrossing my legs.
"A little," I conceded. "But... I dunno...." I laughed, sincerely this time.
"I guess you just sounded like such a wonderful person, I... didn't really care. I wanted to meet you. And... I figured - " I threw my hands up into the air beside my head. "What the hell? Worst case, I don't like you and you don't like me, but at least I did something different."
She rolled her lower lip into her mouth, and looked up at me through her lashes, slow and smoldering.
"Now that's a story, doll."
"I mean.... I guess."
"So.... Is this the worst case scenario?" She eyed me sort of sideways with the question, kind of rocking side to side in her chair.
"I-" My words got caught in a smile, and I bit my lip closed, glancing toward my shoulder and then back at her. "I don't think so."
I reached across the table and lightly touched the back of her hand, just the tips of my first three fingers resting on the tendon of her index finger. Her skin was soft, and warm, and just a little bit damp from the condensation on her cup.
"I don't think so," I repeated.
6/16/13
Fragile
I manage to forget -
Mostly.
There are sunny days where I luxuriate
in the warm red color inside my eyelids,
mapping delicate capillaries as if they lead to my future.
I trace my upward trajectory with a twisted half-smile.
If there's irony in that smile,
it's because the edges of my vision
aren't meant to tilt away from me.
My head is only tangentially related to my spine:
a sweet, but too-eager kiss could decapitate me.
My smiles have never stood on steady ground.
But it's a sunny day,
so my sweat sticks my warm skin to a plastic lounge chair,
And yesterday -
banging on the coffin door as loam sifts down,
desperate coughs fighting adrenaline and soil to get to oxygen,
unable to see even the bloody ends of my fingers in the too-close darkness,
let me out let me out let me out! -
is just another half-repressed vision,
a scene from a story I thought about writing.
I tuck my broken nails inside a fist.
These sunny days are curtains I draw closed
around the mussed and crinkled sheets
of the hospital bed I clambered from -
Conceal it, hide it, call it by another name -
The nurses do not change the linens.
Mostly.
There are sunny days where I luxuriate
in the warm red color inside my eyelids,
mapping delicate capillaries as if they lead to my future.
I trace my upward trajectory with a twisted half-smile.
If there's irony in that smile,
it's because the edges of my vision
aren't meant to tilt away from me.
My head is only tangentially related to my spine:
a sweet, but too-eager kiss could decapitate me.
My smiles have never stood on steady ground.
But it's a sunny day,
so my sweat sticks my warm skin to a plastic lounge chair,
And yesterday -
banging on the coffin door as loam sifts down,
desperate coughs fighting adrenaline and soil to get to oxygen,
unable to see even the bloody ends of my fingers in the too-close darkness,
let me out let me out let me out! -
is just another half-repressed vision,
a scene from a story I thought about writing.
I tuck my broken nails inside a fist.
These sunny days are curtains I draw closed
around the mussed and crinkled sheets
of the hospital bed I clambered from -
Conceal it, hide it, call it by another name -
The nurses do not change the linens.
5/13/13
Air and Anchors
I wish you were here. I miss you like a postponed inhalation. I need your warmth here beside me, reassuring me, telling me my fears are invalid, that I am not simply second best, my friend's runner up. I am in her shadow in many ways - I need my relationship with you to not be one of them.
I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.
I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.
I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.
I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.
"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.
But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.
If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.
When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.
I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.
Your sweetness.
Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.
Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.
Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.
Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.
Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.
I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.
But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.
I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.
I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.
I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.
I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.
"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.
But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.
If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.
When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.
I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.
Your sweetness.
Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.
Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.
Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.
Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.
Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.
I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.
But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.
10/19/12
Salvage
I can feel you falling away-
A broken empty slate,
Halfway erased -
Dimly showing the outlines
Of who you thought you were.
What's left?
What's usable?
Come home with me this time.
Forgive yourself this once
For the future you never had and cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
Come home this time.
Answers aren't prescribed.
They aren't buried in a name.
They can't be written out in pencil,
Proof in the bottom line -
Only algebra's so simple.
Please don't blame yourself,
Lock the solution inside your head,
And tell me it cannot exist.
Come home this time.
Forgive yourself this once
For the future you never had -
You cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
You're on the ledge and leaning forward -
The wind won't push you back,
Even as thin as you have gotten -
Gravity may win.
I'm far away and cannot reach you!
Please hear me now.
The battle's hard and it's far from over;
I know how tired you've been.
The answer's hiding somewhere,
But the solution can be found.
Come home with me this time.
Forgive yourself for once,
For the future you never had and cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
Ask now:
What's left?
What's usable?
A broken empty slate,
Halfway erased -
Dimly showing the outlines
Of who you thought you were.
What's left?
What's usable?
Come home with me this time.
Forgive yourself this once
For the future you never had and cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
Come home this time.
Answers aren't prescribed.
They aren't buried in a name.
They can't be written out in pencil,
Proof in the bottom line -
Only algebra's so simple.
Please don't blame yourself,
Lock the solution inside your head,
And tell me it cannot exist.
Come home this time.
Forgive yourself this once
For the future you never had -
You cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
You're on the ledge and leaning forward -
The wind won't push you back,
Even as thin as you have gotten -
Gravity may win.
I'm far away and cannot reach you!
Please hear me now.
The battle's hard and it's far from over;
I know how tired you've been.
The answer's hiding somewhere,
But the solution can be found.
Come home with me this time.
Forgive yourself for once,
For the future you never had and cannot forfeit.
Come home.
Be at ease.
Recognize your face in the mirror,
Gaunt sunken cheeks
But eyes with fire left to burn.
Ask now:
What's left?
What's usable?
10/10/12
In Honor of My Three Year Anniversary with my Migraine
I've lived in this house forever, but there's a hole in the middle of the staircase.
It wasn't always there, of course, but now it is. It's been there for three years now. Exactly. To the day.
At first it was hard. I stood on the landing, on the stair just before where the steps had rotten away and fallen through. I was stumped. I could see the shadows of wooden teeth at the bottom, waiting for me to jump and fall and be chewed up and swallowed. So, I sat down. And I waited.
Eventually I worked up my nerve. There were things upstairs I desperately needed. I took a running leap, and managed to make it across, barely. My feet slipped out from under me, and for a moment, I slid, my feet dangling into the crevasse. But I caught hold of the railing, and pulled myself upright. My knees were weak and covered in carpet burn, but I'd made it. I was across.
After a while, I got comfortable. I leaped across the gap like it was nothing, like it was a lifelong fact, like that hole in the middle of the staircase had always been there.
There were even days when I could forget about it, even as I leaped over it.
But it's been three years. It is very, very hard to live for three years with a hole in the middle of the staircase, and to jump across a dangerous broken gap as easily and thoughtlessly as kids straddle the state lines at Carowinds.
Days started to come when I became tired. I would miss my footing as I jumped the break, and slide and nearly fall in, to be broken and ground to bits by the teeth below. They looked no less sharp for the passing of time. My knees were carpet burned, more and more frequently.
One day, I looked at the gap, backed up to make the running leap - and then stopped. I couldn't bring myself to try to cross.
The next day I managed the feat, but I was shaken. I was shaking.
More and more days came when I stared at the gap and shook and shivered, and eyed those foreboding teeth at the bottom. Were they coming closer? Were they becoming darker, more eager, impatiently gnashing at me with hunger?
Then came a week when I just couldn't jump. I couldn't do it. I sat on the landing below the break and I sobbed and I cried. I hated myself, cursed myself for being too weak or to afraid to try. I must've made it to the other side hundreds - thousands! - of times before. Why couldn't I do it now?
I've lived in this house forever, but there's a hole in the middle of the staircase.
I don't know if I will ever make it upstairs again.
Worse, I don't know if I will ever try to make it upstairs again.
It wasn't always there, of course, but now it is. It's been there for three years now. Exactly. To the day.
At first it was hard. I stood on the landing, on the stair just before where the steps had rotten away and fallen through. I was stumped. I could see the shadows of wooden teeth at the bottom, waiting for me to jump and fall and be chewed up and swallowed. So, I sat down. And I waited.
Eventually I worked up my nerve. There were things upstairs I desperately needed. I took a running leap, and managed to make it across, barely. My feet slipped out from under me, and for a moment, I slid, my feet dangling into the crevasse. But I caught hold of the railing, and pulled myself upright. My knees were weak and covered in carpet burn, but I'd made it. I was across.
After a while, I got comfortable. I leaped across the gap like it was nothing, like it was a lifelong fact, like that hole in the middle of the staircase had always been there.
There were even days when I could forget about it, even as I leaped over it.
But it's been three years. It is very, very hard to live for three years with a hole in the middle of the staircase, and to jump across a dangerous broken gap as easily and thoughtlessly as kids straddle the state lines at Carowinds.
Days started to come when I became tired. I would miss my footing as I jumped the break, and slide and nearly fall in, to be broken and ground to bits by the teeth below. They looked no less sharp for the passing of time. My knees were carpet burned, more and more frequently.
One day, I looked at the gap, backed up to make the running leap - and then stopped. I couldn't bring myself to try to cross.
The next day I managed the feat, but I was shaken. I was shaking.
More and more days came when I stared at the gap and shook and shivered, and eyed those foreboding teeth at the bottom. Were they coming closer? Were they becoming darker, more eager, impatiently gnashing at me with hunger?
Then came a week when I just couldn't jump. I couldn't do it. I sat on the landing below the break and I sobbed and I cried. I hated myself, cursed myself for being too weak or to afraid to try. I must've made it to the other side hundreds - thousands! - of times before. Why couldn't I do it now?
I've lived in this house forever, but there's a hole in the middle of the staircase.
I don't know if I will ever make it upstairs again.
Worse, I don't know if I will ever try to make it upstairs again.
~*~
"When my mom has migraines, it's like she disappears," he said wonderingly. "You don't do that."
You are silent.
How do you explain that you've already disappeared?
You are a shadow of what you could be. You're muted. You're like Metallica S&M played through crappy earbuds, tinny and cracking at the highs, with only the barest outlines of the melodies audible, with the harmonies completely indistinguishable. The music in all its grand subtlety is there, though, somewhere, but the vast majority is lost in translation.
Your migraine keeps the world from hearing your music in all its symphonic nuances.
How do you explain that you've already disappeared?
How do you tell him that it's only through sheer will - will that seems to be flagging - that you are not just like his mother when she has migraines, tucked up in bed, blankets thrown over the drawn curtains for good measure, staring at the wall and thinking in white noise?
You smile at him, lips tight.
"No," you say. "I'm used to it."
~*~
On a day she actually makes it to class, they are discussing the philosophies of St. Augustine.
She can't stand his writing. She summarizes it simply, through the lens of a post-feminist Witch: "Blah blah misogyny blah blah."
He hated women, he hated sex, and in a lot of ways, St. Augustine hated himself.
During the discussion, she observes that one section of The City of God seems to be about the trials of erectile dysfunction.
"He can't stand that there's a part of his body that he can't control." Her tone implies that he is silly for this, bearing the full weight of condescension that only hypocrisy can maneuver. The backlash of her tone startles her.
The discussion moves on, but she is thinking.
Minutes pass.
A pause. The other students seem to have run out of things to say about silly, dead, misogynist St. Augustine.
"You know," she muses, not really looking at anyone. "I kind of get it - why he would have thought that human bodies were the sources of all evil in the world. I mean, we live in a time of modern medicine. Largely, our bodies can keep up with our minds. But back then, they got sick - deadly sick or injured or crippled. To him, bodies must have seemed like prisons, like the only things keeping human beings from achieving their potential."
She glances up at her professor.
He gives her a long, sad look from behind his glasses, fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, and looks away.
She can't stand St. Augustine's writing, but maybe she understands a little bit of where he was coming from.
~*~
Visiting doctors seems to be an exercise in futility. I go, I sit in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, I fill out the endless paperwork, I put in the phone calls to have records transferred. I go through the motions.
My mother seems to think that maybe they'll find something this time, that maybe since the last time we went to this type of doctor (allergist, neurologist, acupuncturist, etc.) they'll have discovered some new treatment. Or maybe, just maybe, they'll try something they've tried before, only this time it will work, because my body has changed.
My mother hopes.
I go through the motions. I go, sit in the waiting room chairs, fill out the endless paperwork, put in the phone calls to have records transferred, and I watch the new doctor as he talks at me, telling me about this migraine I've been living with for three years. I watch the doctor as he talks at me, and I pray simply:
"Please don't give me any more pills that do nothing and force me to become nothing. Please don't prescribe me out of living what little scraps of life I have left."
~*~
You don't get much sleep at night. It doesn't seem to matter how many pills you take.
You are so very, very tired. The world spins around you, and you are acutely aware of every pulse of pain in your head. You stare at your ceiling and make a game of ranking each individual pain spike.
"That one was a 4. That one was a 6. That - an 8. This - a 7. A 9. A 5. A 4. 4. 7. 8...."
You hope that you will wake up on time tomorrow. You hope that you will be able to get out of bed, get dressed, and go to class. You dare to hope that you will even feel good, and will be able to pay attention to class.
The clock marches on steadily. As the numbers begin to approach three AM, your hopes for the next day steadily diminish. You hope that you will be able to drag your sorry carcass out of bed at all.
You turn over onto your side. You shut your eyes. You try imagining that your boyfriend is curled up next to you, warm and reassuring.
Your fingers are cold. You press them to your temples. The relief is small, but it is, as you might have said during the stats class you took last semester (took, but never went to, and had the highest grade in the class before absences were factored in) statistically significant. The relief is statistically significant.
You turn onto your other side. You wonder, as you almost always do in the dark of the night when you can't sleep, alone with your migraine, how the hell you're going to be able to continue like this. This thought is familiar, like a childhood enemy who now works with you, whom you have to see everyday.
How the hell are you going to live your life? What in the world are you going to be able to accomplish?
You remember what your AP Calculus teacher said. You'd been absent, out with the migraine, and had just returned to school.
"Your wits will get you by for now," she said, tone disdainful. "But what are you going to do after high school? College students who can't attend class are not successful. And if you have a job and can't show up for work, then you're going to be fired."
You know, staring at your wall in your college dorm room, exactly how right she was.
It is not your boyfriend who curls up next to you, but your migraine.
When you finally fall asleep, it is only because you are too exhausted to do anything else.
When you wake up, you are still so very, very tired.
8/4/12
Moving On
Tonight slammed home all the ways that I have yet to drag myself beyond the corpse of our relationship. As the fiddle danced atop the box drum, I missed the sight of you whirling through the sawdust, feet bare and face shining red with exuberance. I even made the ultimate gaffe - I mentioned you in passing. And when they slowed the music, I felt your absence like a two-by-four to my midsection. I blinked away tears and left the conversation, because I knew I would not be able to succeed in the ruse of being "fine," and I had no desire to explain the situation to my company - I'm still trying to explain it to myself.
Silence, however, is not an option. I cannot be as a young girl and slam my hands over my lips, saying no evil even as it claws at my palms, drawing blood that tastes of burning copper on my tongue. I cannot hold my peace on this when I can no longer hold back my tears. (Although bravo to me for managing this long.)
I hate the way we ended, and I hate the way that it was necessary for us to end. You were by far the best I ever had, and are now the measuring stick that no one can match, stand on tiptoe though they may.
I have to move on, in a real way this time. Because I'd like to be able to see you whirling through the sawdust, feet bare and enabling you to fly. More, I'd like to be able to smile at the sight, knowing that we are both fine - no absence, no ruse, and no conspicuous corpse taking up room.
Silence, however, is not an option. I cannot be as a young girl and slam my hands over my lips, saying no evil even as it claws at my palms, drawing blood that tastes of burning copper on my tongue. I cannot hold my peace on this when I can no longer hold back my tears. (Although bravo to me for managing this long.)
I hate the way we ended, and I hate the way that it was necessary for us to end. You were by far the best I ever had, and are now the measuring stick that no one can match, stand on tiptoe though they may.
I have to move on, in a real way this time. Because I'd like to be able to see you whirling through the sawdust, feet bare and enabling you to fly. More, I'd like to be able to smile at the sight, knowing that we are both fine - no absence, no ruse, and no conspicuous corpse taking up room.
7/13/12
The Culture of Rape
There was a moment - a solid, shining, crystalline moment - when I could have delivered him a square kick in the balls. Everything was moving so quickly - it's really all just a blur - but that moment was slow and painfully logical. I remember being on the floor, him bent over me, hands on my wrists above my head, and I remember looking straight at his groin, wide open and exposed, and my foot just a few inches away, a clear shot. I remember understanding that he did not understand what he was in the process of doing, and that he was ignorant, a boy more than a man, and that I cared about him and did not want to hurt him, even as I could feel pain blossoming in my wrist beneath his fingers. Most of all, I remember that I could have knocked him back, sent him stumbling, articulated to him an even clearer message about my stance on his current activities - and in that solid, shining, crystalline moment, I decided not to.
I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.
I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.
I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.
I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.
I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.
Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.
I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!
But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.
I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.
I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.
I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.
I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.
Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.
I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!
But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
7/4/12
Mourning
I'm finally alone here. The air conditioning hums in a monotone manner that invokes silence. I only know it's on because I can feel the cool air brushing across the side of my calf and tickling the back of my thigh, just above the crook of my knee. I feel it, a cold caress that reminds me of all the warmth I'm lacking.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
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