#blurry-consent

Content Note: This post includes references to alcohol misuse, blurred consent, sexual trauma, and self-blame. It may be difficult to read for those with experiences of assault or substance-related harm. Please take care in choosing whether to continue.

Sometimes I think about how he found me. Sitting in the office lobby, middle of the day, drinking a cutwater out in the open like I wanted to be caught. And maybe I did. Maybe I was trying to self-destruct loud enough that someone would finally intervene. Or maybe I was just… exhausted. From hiding. From holding it together. From pretending I wasn’t drowning.

He said he had to get me away from the office before anyone saw me like that. He walked me to my car. He called a coworker to bring my things. And I thought, maybe this is someone looking out for me.

But then he kissed me. And I kissed him back. And then I told him we shouldn’t do this. And then he said he was married. Had kids. And then I said we really had to stop. And he didn’t.

I remember him sucking on my nipples, and I remember holding his head closer. And I hate that memory. Because I don’t know if that means I said yes. I don’t know if my body meant yes. I know I was drunk—slurring, swaying, sitting in my own mess. I know I’d just told him I was an alcoholic. I know I was not in a place to choose.

And still—I blame myself more than I blame him. That’s the part I can’t shake. The part that keeps me from naming it clearly. Because what if I did say yes? What if I wanted it for a second? What if being wanted felt better than being pitied?

What I do know is this: after it happened, I didn’t go home. I didn’t rest. I drove drunk. I totaled my car. I got assaulted again. I got arrested. I went to jail.

So if it was consent, it was the kind that leads to collapse. If it was choice, it was the kind born from shame and self-destruction. And if it was sex—it didn’t feel like mine.

I wish I hadn’t been drinking. I wish I’d told her to wait it out, to sit still until it passed. But I didn’t. And it didn’t.

And now I’m left wondering—not if it happened, but if it counts. If I count. If my story is still mine even when I’m not sure what to call it.