Trigger warnings for rape and for a slightly gory picture
I was raped.
Sometimes I just need to say those words. They hurt. Every time I say them they hurt. But they’re true, and someday I’m hoping that truth will set me free.
I haven’t always been able to admit that I was raped. At one time it was actually safer to think that it had been my fault. It was easier to blame myself than it was to admit I’d been powerless, because, to me, powerlessness was far more terrifying than penetration.
So, instead of dwelling on the fact that I’d said “stop” over and over and over, I would dwell on the fact that I’d said “yes” to other things.
Instead of dwelling on the fact that I’d tried to push him away, I’d dwell on the fact that I didn’t kick him or hit him.
Instead of dwelling on the fact that I wasn’t ready for sexual intercourse yet–that I was too afraid–and I’d told him so and he didn’t listen, I’d dwell on the fact that I had been sexually attracted to my rapist and had wanted to sleep with him eventually.
The lies I told myself were safer. Blaming myself was safer.
But I’m at the point in my life where I need to peel off the Band-Aid of self-blame that I’ve been wearing for six years and look at the wound that my rapist caused me.
Neglected, ignored, covered up and hidden, that wound has festered. It’s warm and red, oozing with pus and blood, swollen and painful to the touch. The years of denial allowed the infection to spread, and now, it must be dealt with or it might kill me.
I don’t blame myself for ignoring the pain. I was in no situation to heal myself the past six years. Denial was all I had, and the fact that I used it when it was my only option is not wrong of me.
But it’s not working anymore. I have to peel off the Band-Aid. I have to clean out this wound, touch it despite the pain. Let the poisonous pus run out even if other people find my seemingly endless stream of pain and anger to be unpleasant, even disgusting.
Yes, I was raped. I’ve talked about it before but I’m asserting the truth of that fact right now.
Not only that, but I’m mad about it. Fucking mad.
And I’m hurt and sad and bitter and hateful. I’m not happy. I’m not okay. I’m not ready to forgive. Why fake it? Why pretend that there isn’t a gaping, bleeding, infected wound in my heart? Why slap another Band-Aid on and pretend it doesn’t exist?
I won’t pretend I’m not in pain just to make you feel more comfortable.
I need to clean out the poison or this wound will never heal.
If you think my wound is gross, don’t look. If you can’t stomach the “bad” feelings that have been gushing out of my soul lately, then don’t speak to me. I didn’t ask for this pain, this infection, despite what lies I may have told myself these past years. I didn’t ask for it.
But now I’m going to heal, and it’s going to be messy. If you don’t like that then all I can do is ask you to get out of the way.