I’m still writing poems as always but I’m also thinking of writing a book about my life. I just wrote this excerpt about something from my past that’s been on my mind, that I think will have to be in the book and I’m kind of worked up about it and need to just put it somewhere right now. If anyone reads let me know what you think of the writing style. constructive criticism on writing is welcome, please do not leave mean comments on the story.
TW: talk of sexual assault and emotional responses to it
I always thought that if something bad was happening to me, I’d know it. I thought that if I was attacked or raped or assaulted or taken advantage of or whatever term felt most applicable, I thought that if it ever happened, that I would recognize it in the moment.
But when something did happen, I wasn’t able to accept that it could happen to me. I avoided the possibility that what happened to me wasn’t okay. I minimized the pain and tried to pretend that it wasn’t what it was. And if it actually was rape, I blamed myself. I told myself a lot of shouldn’ts. I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I shouldn’t have stayed at the party so late even after I lost track of my friends. I shouldn’t have worn such revealing clothes, I shouldn’t have trusted that person who I thought was safe, that person who I thought was a friend, that person who I thought cared about my well being.
And could I have prevented it? Maybe. maybe I could’ve been more careful. Maybe I could’ve gone home early, drank less, walked home alone or clung onto my girl friends at that party. Maybe I could’ve stayed in, watched movies alone and gone to bed early. But this night in particular wasn’t at all special. What happened to me that night could’ve happened to me any night, not reliant on my level of intoxication or my clothing or the time of day.
It took me years to realize that prioritizing your safety is important. I wish I could meet my younger self, give her a cup of water, hold her while she cried, held her hair while she threw up after drinking too much. I wish I could’ve walked her home, helped her brush her teeth, tucked her into bed safely, watched over her while she slept.
It also took me years to realize that it didn’t matter if I’d done everything perfectly. Being human means living a life full of imperfection. Mistakes, making messes, cleaning them up, asking for forgiveness. Trial and failure. Giving people grace when they falter, and hoping they have the same compassion to reciprocate that kindness.
It took me years to realize I didn’t need to be perfect. It took me years to realize none of it was truly my fault. I hadn’t asked for what was forced upon on.
It took me years to realize that what happened to me wasn’t okay. It took me years to even be able to say out loud, “I think I was raped,” when I was just alone.
I always thought that sexual assault was obvious. I thought that I’d know what was happening, while it was happening, but that’s not exactly how my story went. I’d like to tell that story now. Triggers be warned.
I remember being at the party. I remember the music. The colorful lights grazing across the dark room. The bottoms of my sneakers sticking to the floor a little with every step, thanks to all the spilled beverages, mostly beer. I remember playing beer pong at the table with my friends. I remember having fun, laughing with my friends, dancing and drinking the night away. I remember the moment I realized maybe I’d drank a little too much. I knew I’d be okay but that I’d need to go home soon. I’m sure people were aware of how drunk I was. I’m sure it was obvious by my stumbling in circles for what felt like an eternity. I knew it was late, I couldn’t find my friends, I kept walking around in circles around the dance floor, searching for a familiar face. I remember feeling relived when one appeared in front of me. And a hand gently gripped my arm, steadied me, offering something solid to lean on and stop my frenzied figure eights.
It was Louis. He was a big guy, sort of husky built, strong looking, and tall, nearly a foot taller than I and easily twice my weight. He had long wavy black hair, brown eyes just like mine, and a full beard that seemed to suit him. He had a friendly smile and an infectious laugh, he loved to talk about music and movies. He seemed nice, but a little dorky. Harmless. I thought he liked me. Louis and I had been friendly, we’d run into each other at parties for a while and had chatted a few times. He was in the same fraternity as my best guy friend, so we ran in similar circles. Last time I saw him he’d asked for my phone number, and we’d been texting a bit that week. I might’ve even been a little flirty towards him at one point.
But that night I was far from feeling flirty. I was not feeling well, the excess bottom shelf tequila I’d drank turning in my stomach and making me dizzy, the loud music and colorful lights spinning around the room, blurring together and overwhelming my senses, my legs felt unsteady, my head already pounding. I think Louis could see I was quite drunk. When he offered to walk me home, I found it endearing and I accepted. I felt grateful.
I remember the walk, or bits of it, at least. I remember it was a warmer night for October, I remember cloudy skies holding a half moon and humid air that felt almost sticky. I remember walking my usual path from the Greek houses to my dorm building. I remember the street lights guiding me home. I don’t remember inviting Louis up to my room, but maybe I did. Or maybe I thought he was just making sure I got into my room safely. I don’t remember getting inside or walking up the stairs or unlocking my door but I do remember Louis helped lift me up into my lofted bed. It was lofted as high as possible, so I had storage space beneath, which made it a little tricky to jump up into, especially while drunk. I remember sitting on my bed upright, my arms heavily slumped at my sides, my legs dangling over the side of the bed, kicking off my shoes. I remember sitting just like that, swinging my feet, and thanking him for walking me home. I remember him leaning in to kiss me. And then it all goes dark for a while.
I thought maybe I’d passed out, just laid down and fallen asleep in my bed. The room was dark, but my eyes were also closed, I couldn’t see anything. But I remember this crushing feeling. Like an elephant sitting on my chest. I remember feeling like I was trying to scream but my lungs and throat were full of concrete. Dense and heavy. I remember feeling like my limbs were all stuck in quicksand, no matter how hard I tried to move them, I couldn’t. I felt like I couldn’t even breathe. I remember wondering if this is what sleep paralysis feels like, like when you want to move but you’re frozen in place. I remember wondering if this was what dying felt like, just before your brain activity halts and you’re still slightly conscious.
I remember being stuck like that for a while, paralyzed, unable to open my eyes or scream or breathe with an incredible weight on my chest, keeping me pinned down. There was a quiet calm, almost peaceful, in the inability to move like that. Like meditating without knowing how long you’ve been at it. Like falling asleep. Like dying. But not quite.
And suddenly the room started spinning again, I lept from my bed and ran for the toilet. I vomited all the red colored “jungle juice” I’d forgotten I’d had at the party. There was vomit in the toilet, but also on the floor, in my hair, on my body. That’s when I realized I was naked. Louis knocked on the door to check on me, and I apologized to him for getting sick. I felt embarrassed that someone had seen me in such a state. The reason I was completely naked still didn’t fully hit me. I jumped in the shower and asked him to bring me the towel hanging on my closet door.
I took a cold shower, rinsing the vomit from my hair and face and body with the coldest water possible. I half heartedly dried myself off, wrapped in the towel and dripping, and Louis offered me the oversized sweat shirt he’d found sitting on my desk, the one I always slept in. I quickly put it on and hopped back up in bed. I think I apologized to him again. He asked to see me for lunch the next day, and finally left after I agreed.
I wake around noon the next day and text him. Apologizing again. Asking if he still wanted to get lunch. We agreed to meet at the cafeteria at 1pm. It was hot and sunny, the world so bright it worsened my hungover headache. I’d worn a tank top and shorts, and sat a table outside. I brought my backpack full of all my homework I needed to do that day, and started on it while I waited for Louis to find me.
When he turned up, something inside me felt wrong. I avoided looking directly at him and didn’t talk much. I distracted myself with the work I’d brought and after an hour or so of small talk and more apologies for my drunkenness, Louis said he had some work to do too and left.
I stayed at the same table trying to work for a while even though I was having a hard time focusing. It was now uncomfortable hot this afternoon, I was sweating and could feel a sunburn starting on my exposed shoulders. But I stayed for a while longer. I’m not sure how long I sat at the table, trying to look busy but not really getting much done, before I packed up my bag and went back home.
I’m not sure if I ended up getting all my homework done that day. I probably pushed back any tasks I could to another day.
The following day was Monday, which meant going to classes. I ran into Brandon, my best guy friend. He asked me how the rest of the party went. I don’t remember what I told him. Brandon then told me that Louis had been telling everyone in the fraternity that he’d fucked me, and that I was very vocal during it. My heart sank as I realized two things. That Louis definitely did have sex with me the other night, and that I definitely didn’t remember any of it besides that feeling like I was paralyzed or dying or whatever that was. I also realized in that moment that Louis was the type of person to brag about it with our mutual friends, and that he’d told it as a fun story where it seemed I was very much enjoying myself. I’m not sure if someone who isn’t fully conscious can be vocal during sex, but then again I guess I wouldn’t know.
Brandon loved to gossip about my escapades, he was in a serious relationship with my roommate, Bri, who was away this semester, studying abroad in Italy. Brandon loved hearing stories of my drunken nights where I flirted or kissed random people, and he looked at me excitedly, like he was about to get the inside scoop on the latest story and was just seconds away from all the juicy details. All I could do was shrug, which I knew must have been disappointing. “I don’t remember much to be honest, I was really drunk.”
His smile dropped. “Are you okay?” He asked me, with concern wrinkling in his brows.
