The truth is I don’t know what happened. I know I cried. I know I was confused. At some point a picture fell from my wall leaving a small bruise by my temple. I’d push on that spot and wince at the pain over and over as the next few days passed, like a worry stone made from my flesh.
Oh that’s right, it happened in my house, my room, my bed. I had someone come take the bed away the next week. The sheets and duvets and pillows – all given or thrown away. Everything needed to go away.
The pieces, of the couple of hours that changed everything, are muddled and fuzzy. How did we get to my house? How did he know where I lived? Did I tell him? When did he stop listening to the no I remembered saying at the bar? Jesus, did I say yes?! If I said yes then why did I want to die? Really want to die.
What I’ve always known is that I never wanted to go home with him. I wanted attention but not sex. I wanted to feel good, flirty, fun.
Well I didn’t get to feel good. Instead I got raped. Oh but I got a free drink, that was supposed to secure my vagina for the night, right? $8 was a holding fee, or perhaps just an easy way to ensure you had someway to slip me drugs? I’ll never know if I was drugged because I was lying in bed thinking of ways to kill myself or drinking to forget for the next few days. Watching the shadows and light play on my walls and remembering in flashes the 4 tiny glimpses that are still all I have or drinking until the tears came. Alternating between Ativan induced comas and alcohol induced hazes. Being sober meant thinking and I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to deal with the gaping wound that was left in my spirit.
I had a dream during that time that I was bleeding, rivers of blood, all coming from what would have been my vagina, but instead all I had was darkness and shadows and the blood. Tears streamed down my face and I cried for help. And I woke up sweaty, crying, panicked.
But don’t worry I did. I have. I will continue to acknowledge, process, digest, repair, learn, and forgive. Forgive myself. For drinking in public and flirting with the wrong guy. For seeking attention and affection. For not remembering. For going quiet and for then being loud. For not fucking remembering, I forgive myself – most days.
-Ashley, 38, Townie