#gotconsent?

My sister was practicing her palpations on me for her upcoming practical, when she had to find muscles and bones in my legs.  I tried to no avail to keep the giggles from frothing out of my lips, but I could not.  She looked up at me, confused, and tried to find the muscle again.  I jerked away, barking out a laugh.

“Are you ticklish?!”

“YES.  VERY.”

We had a good laugh, as she asked me how come she didn’t know that about me.  I told her it’s because I hate being tickled, so I don’t let people tickle me.  And with that, I remembered just how much I hated being tickled.

When I was younger, tickling was fine.  Most kids like the thrill of the feeling and the uncontrollable laughter that it elicits.  It can even be a comfortable and trusting feeling, since it’s usually a parent who is doing the tickling, or a trusted adult like a sitter or caretaker.

As I got older, I didn’t like it so much, but I didn’t really know why not.  By around fifth or sixth grade, I was totally over it.  I also could feel what I call “phantom tickles,” where someone could just wiggle their fingers towards me, like they were tickling me but not actually touching me, and I could feel the sensation.  My older brother and sister would do it constantly, because they found the concept to be amusing.

My dad liked to tickle us a lot, and I don’t think he meant anything more than to play around with us.  But I just didn’t like it.  And I told him so.  I asked and eventually would tell him very firmly that I didn’t like being tickled, and please don’t tickle me.  I would recoil from that undesired touch again and again.  And I remember actually getting angry one day and telling him, “I don’t like that.  Please don’t tickle me.”  I may have even lost my mentality and not even have said “please.”

And I got into trouble.  He got angry with me and didn’t listen.  I dodged the touch again and again, and he told me that I needed to just let him tickle me.  I don’t even know if he told me why, but it was understood that he was my father, and I should not have questioned his actions in the first place.  So time and time again, he would tickle me, even though -- and sometimes because -- I didn’t like it.  Maybe just to show me that he could, and there wasn’t anything that I could do about it.

And I realized why I didn’t like it.  I don’t like tickling because it’s something someone can do to you where you can’t control your reaction.  I don’t like that loss of control of my own body.

This reminded me of another thing.  He used to just punch us or hit us for no reason.  He would say it was to have fun, but I HATED it.  And this one I straight up remember telling him “no” to.  Which was a MASSIVE no-no.  You do not tell my dad no.  That was something I knew better than.  So why in heck was I sitting there flat-out telling him that?  Because it was more important to me that I not be touched like that than for me to save my skin and avoid trouble.

And do you know what I was told?

The gist was:  “It doesn’t matter that you don’t like it.  Because it makes ME happy, you should let me do it.  You are not good at self-sacrifice.  You don’t always do things because you like them, you let other people to make THEM happy.”

Guys, I’m writing this right now, and I’m literally shaking.  I recall being so angry and frustrated, I cried.  I remember him continuing to take jabs, and using his knuckles to punch me in the ribs -- he literally called this move “rib-ribs.”  He did it so often, it had a freaking name.

Too many days, I ask myself why I just laid there and let Matt do what he wanted.  The cops and detective and all the people want to know, “Did you scream?  Did you fight?  Did you say ‘NO’?”  And it’s like I’ve let the world down, because I didn’t, or I didn’t enough.  But did anyone ask or try to figure out why??  Maybe because I had a history of my body not being mine?  Maybe because I was told that I’m SUPPOSED to let people touch me how they want if it makes them happy??  Maybe because I was told that my happiness and desires didn’t matter and that I was supposed to self-sacrifice???

So often, we don’t try to figure out what went wrong so long ago.  My life was punctuated by events and habits that led me to react -- or not to react -- in a moment when it mattered most.  But the reaction didn’t happen in that moment; it had been brewing for years.

Anything less than a yes = no.  That’s it.  It doesn’t mean, “try to convince me.”  It doesn’t mean I’m playing hard to get or pretending to be coy.  It doesn’t mean, “but if you keep asking and I finally say yes, I wanted it all along.”  It doesn’t mean, “but just do what you want.”

A shrug of my shoulders.  A shake of my head.  Putting my shirt back down.  Moving your hands.  Closing my legs.  Covering myself up. Closing my eyes.  Crying.  Complete silence.

All of these mean no.  If I don’t say yes, you have no right to do what you want.  I don’t belong to you.  My body is mine, as are my choices, and they are to be respected.

Guys, I’m gonna keep this one brief.  I’m not going into a ton of detail, because I don’t have the energy right now.  It’s just too draining.

I just had a cry in the shower.  I had to sit down, I was crying so hard.  I tried to breathe, without catching water in my mouth.  My chest was hurting.  My soul was aching.

And I knew why this was such a painful cry.  Because I had been keeping it in for weeks, cashing in my tears for the physical pain I had been in with the gastritis.  But I knew that these tears would come eventually.  I’m just so relieved that I was home.  And in the shower, where sound of the water could cover up my sorrow.

I reported the rape a few months ago.  I did everything I could to prove that Matt had raped me.  I had to see his horrifically evil face and identify him in a photo line-up.  I gave every account I had kept in journals and notebooks and letters to my family members, the phone that should have had the evidence on it (but my brother swept it, not knowing how important it was that I hadn’t done so).  I had to recount the entire story to a police officer, then again to the detective, then again on paper -- filling over eight pages.

I did everything I could, but I had no expectation of a prosecution.

And the week before I got sick, I got the call:  “There just isn’t enough evidence for a prosecution.  But we’ll keep it on file.”

And even though I had prepped myself for weeks, it still hurt.  In addition to the physical pain in my belly, now I was carrying around an emotional weight in there too.

And I finally heaved it up in the shower tonight.

It was a cry of sorrow.  A cry of anger at the system that won’t actually help us if we don’t report immediately and get a rape kit done, like the rape wasn’t traumatic enough.  A cry of rage that Matt even got the “opportunity to tell ‘his side.’”  A cry of frustration with myself for not going sooner to report.

But also a cry of relief that I had done the absolute best I could and had finally been able to report it.  And a cry of hope that it IS in the system, so if any other girl (or guy) reports him, my report will set off a red flag and could help that person.  And a cry of finality with the whole ordeal; once I go pick up all the evidence I had submitted, I don’t have to go back again and sit in another room recounting one of -- if not the -- the worst things that has ever happened to me.