How It Feels
It’s confusion. It’s repressed thoughts and carefree laughter.
It’s what happened to me? And it’s I don’t want to think about it.
It’s scary. It’s pressure to label it, and fear that if you do, someone will get hurt because of it. It’s refusal to be a ‘victim’ or a ‘survivor’ because you didn’t think much of it after the initial freak out. It’s the thought that it was only thirty seconds, and the feeling of sick when you think about Brock Turner the rapist (that’s his goddamn name isn’t it?) and his similar defense.
It’s dark and melancholy and low days. It’s worried about other things and repressed thoughts. It’s three jobs and friends and all types of distractions. It’s lapse in memory and rapid flashbacks. It’s why was I that stupid.
It’s sudden nausea and aversion. It’s please don’t look at me. It’s what did I do wrong. It’s regret and shame and guilty feelings. It’s phone calls where he yells at you for letting him do that. It’s crying silently against your dorm room door. It’s blog posts about hate and nail marks down your arm while you can’t breathe. It’s did it really happen to me. It’s do I need therapy. It’s no I can’t I’m sure I’m fine.
It’s seeing the preset tag of ‘rape’ when I go to publish this story.
It’s jumping when you hear the words “sexual assault”, accompanied by a new found prickle on your skin. It’s newfound dominance in someone who likes to give up control. It’s teaching children that their bodies are theirs, and consent is everything.
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It’s refusal to do anything about it because you don’t want trouble but you feel weird for staying silent. It’s feeling small, and not in the good way. It’s wanting to hide and wanting to yell.
It’s safe feelings, with the right people. It’s people rallying around you. It’s please touch me more. It’s confusion because shouldn’t I avoid touch if it really happened.
It’s a rise in confidence in saying no. It’s recognizing other stories, other feelings, other instances where someone said no and they weren’t listened to. It’s angry responses when victim blaming occurs based on clothes, drug use or alcohol intake. It’s it happens all. the. time.
It’s looking back and recognizing other times when he wanted it and I didn’t, but it’s the desire to please someone and make them better and make them whole that was too overwhelming. It’s conflicting thoughts and lack of clarity. It’s why should I worry and it’s all of the people out there who have the same thoughts.
It’s the ‘consent is everything’ button on my wall.
It’s “did I rape you” and “I don’t know”.
It’s getting better.
It’s a good support system. It’s best friends coming to lay in your bed to tell you it’s okay. It’s the subtle “I’ll kick his ass” from others. It’s a tiny bedroom in an apartment with fairy lights and a comfortable bed. It’s Netflix and YouTube and holding hands while walking down the road with your platonic wife. It’s hour long drives down the mountain to trust an animal to keep me safe and crazy laughter with new friends. It’s days at the daycare where you hold babies and listen to them screech with laughter while they pull your shirt down. It’s a busy schedule and little sleep.
It’s good morning texts and sleepy snapchats. It’s late night phone calls and whispered conversations. It’s rampant caution and it’s safe feelings. It’s an adventure like a hurricane. It’s writing dates and John Green. It’s outrageous flirting and it’s making me better.
