Gloom time

Wednesday night gloom #metoo

It took me 1 and a half years to finally accept that I was raped.

You just never really expect it to happen to you, not in the way that it did. You weren’t dragged into a room and nobody forced themselves on you, the way they show it movies.

It happened because you drank a little too much one night, you let yourself go to a strangers place, and you climbed into his bed, too tired, too drunk, and definitely too incapacitated to say “no” out loud. But you didn’t say “yes” either. You vaguely remember screaming “no” when he shoved it in, but maybe that’s just you.

The next morning, You remember nothing much. You remember much pain the night before, and if that’s not enough, your swollen, hurting labia will remind you.

You will tell no one. The friend that came along with you last night will assume you consented to those loud screams she heard last night and will laugh and give you knowing smiles. The guilt and shame you feel will temporarily hide itself and you will smile back- you just lost your virginity!

You will go home and take a shower, staring at one side of your labia that’s more swollen than the other. You have a headache from the splitting hangover, but you feel disturbed.

You have to catch a flight in five hours, to meet your boyfriend.

He knew something wrong happened last night, because you stopped replying to his texts, he knows it would’ve involved another man, because he thinks, no, he knows, that you, are a slut.

Three nights of crying and one night of him “loving” you and realizing that you are no longer as tight as you used to be (two fingers are now three fingers) will lead to him violently hitting you repeatedly on the face, on the footpath.

You cheated on him. You allowed another guy to touch you.

The guilt and shame will resurface, fresh and hot, like the sensation on your cheeks.

Everyone will know about the ex who hit you, they will know it was because you cheated, but no one will know that you were raped, not even you.

One and a half years later, you read that drunk consent is not legal consent. That, is your trigger. The proof. This is what you needed to hear all this while, especially that morning of November 2018.

You didn’t know any better, but your rapist…. he was 25 or so,working, he should have known.

You were raped, and it took you one and a half years to accept it.

Gloom time

Sunday morning gloom

This morning, as compared to most other mornings, has been particularly hard. The routine is the same, to wake up and feel extremely guilty. I am supposed to be dead right now….

The ‘Survival of the fittest’ test that all human beings encounter everyday, I was supposed to have failed it last year, October 2019. Or maybe, I should have started failing back then, but by now, April 2020, surely, I should have failed.

‘ “TB is like living with a bomb in your lung.” Buddy had written to me at college. “You just lie around very quietly hoping it wont go off.” ‘ – Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar.

So I decided, to be dead. I silently resigned from everything, from everyone. Every morning, I stare at myself in the mirror guiltily, because I know, I don’t belong here. I have not written anything I am proud of from December 29, 2019. In fact, I haven’t written at all, though my mind seems to be bursting with ideas. I don’t have the courage. I want to write about all these emotions, but I cant seem to bring myself to talk about this.

The other day I almost fainted in the kitchen. It’s a funny feeling, to faint. You feel weak at your knees, sweat trickling down your neck which feels….empty. Your ears close up with immense pressure, your head seems to be jumping up and down…like your soul trying to escape, but your entire body is nailed to the ground, you stop smelling the bananas being fried in fresh coconut oil. You feel like a soda bottle that has just been popped open, as light as the gas that escapes, but your head feels heavy, like a huge soda bottle weighing you down.

I am unsure of how to justify my body’s failure to myself. My mind seems to be stuck in a very toxic loop, sometimes I want the soda bottle to shatter on my head, glass splinters falling, slicing my already once sliced neck….

Sometimes, I just want to write about these feelings.

I’m glad I chose the latter.