This Isn't an Exorcism

These are merely words...

No one likes to read about this. No one except voyeurs. I’m not writing for this for anyone’s enjoyment, including my own. I don’t think writing about it will heal me or anyone else. These are incidents that have never been put into words. We all have these incidents in our lives. They happen, but we never think of them in words. We never describe them. We move forward. The actions remain forever replaying in a little compartment in our brains, and we never put it into words. For some of us, putting it into words is too dangerous. It breeds rumination and rumination has a way at eating away the brain without addressing the issue at all. But here I am, taking one step, for me. This is not healing. This is not an exorcism. These are merely words.

I have consented to having violence inflicted upon my body. The last time it happened, I consented on the firm agreement that if I said, “no” then it must end immediately. It wasn’t a game. The word “no” had no hidden meaning and as someone I had known for 10 years, he had accepted my agreement. He had a need to release his inner demons in the form of violence, and I had a need to release mine by receiving that violence. But this was not a lover’s relationship and it was coming towards the end of whatever it was. He had always obeyed my will in the past. Maybe he felt like he no longer had to anymore.

I told him to stop. He never hesitated. He never so much as pretended that he would stop. I said the word “no” repeatedly. I screamed at him that he had to stop, but he returned my "no" to me and told me to stop pushing him back. He outweighed me by about 70 pounds. He had complete physical control. When he was done, I didn’t get up and run away screaming. I was ashamed and shocked. I let him put his arms around me as if he loved me. I let him act as if we were lovers in some kind of normal relationship. While he fell asleep I cleaned up the blood left behind. I didn’t tell him he had raped me. I told him I was bleeding. I can’t remember how he responded. I didn’t call the police. I wasn’t going to shame myself by letting anyone else know what I had allowed him to do before he did what I had not allowed. I knew in his own mind he had done nothing wrong. When speaking to him later about how much pain he had caused, he was furious that I would dare accuse him of rape.

We all have these incidents in our lives. Not the precise incident I described above, but we all have our incidents. The words I wrote are not what happened because no words will suffice to recreate those actions. These are merely words.

More than one man for whom I felt seething hatred has put his arms around me just as warmly as sweet sunshine, pressed his lips to my ear and lovingly whispered, “I love you.” These are merely words.

In the middle of sex for no reason at all, a lover once began talking about slitting my throat. I wasn’t afraid. These are merely words.

A man who sexually assaulted my sister and helped tear my family apart asked me every Sunday for months to please pray for him, and though I wanted so much to be a good, forgiving Catholic, I could not pray for him because I was afraid my prayer for him would turn into a prayer for his death. I forgive him now, at least for his role in the pain caused in my own life. I cannot forgive him on behalf of others. Upon his death I lost all opportunity to offer him my own forgiveness aloud. But to tell him would have merely been words.

I could put in words the time a man held me down on a bed, then masturbated until he ejaculated all over my back. I said “no” then too, but obviously, “no” is merely a word too, and means nothing to the people who ignore it.

If I put into words every violation, every nasty little event that has happened in my life I would never.stop.writing. I know this even as I know that I have had a fortunate and privileged life. What I have experienced is a pittance in comparison to so many people, including young children who have only been in this world for a few years. Words won’t heal this, and I may never share this with anyone. I don’t know how I ever could. But if I did, maybe someone would open their eyes just a little, see a little more clearly. Or maybe it would just turn their stomachs. Maybe these really are just words, or maybe perhaps too they can be the knife I use to carve myself into a world that's been carving itself into me my entire life.