Thereās something really insidious about sexual assault. Iām not talking about the violation itself, more of the after effects for its survivors. It follows you like a sentient, poisonous cloud afterward. It doesnāt matter if it has been ten minutes or ten years, that cloud will stretch its tendrils and spread its rot into every aspect of your life.
Mine happened in my childhood bedroom. Visiting home is bittersweet for me. I won't sleep over if I can avoid it. I should have listened to my mom about this person. But when youāre 16, you think youāre an adult and donāt need anyoneās advice. Fucking idiot. I let the person into my home, my private and only space in the world, and they hurt me in the worst way.
āJust relax, itāll feel good in a minute.ā
It didnāt. Those words bounce off the walls of that room even now, beige covering the colorful cry for help paint job people assumed was my teenage, rebellious angst. I still live in the same 20 mile radius of my hometown after my attempt at city living was cut short by suicidal tendencies. The person who hurt me lives on the west coast now. They seem happy. It makes me sick to know they are living a life full of adventure and love while I sit here still hyperventilating at the thought of their touch, feeling their hands when Iām with my partner. It isnāt his fault, but he has to deal with the consequences of your (my?) actions.
I stayed with my abuser for a few more months after that. No one makes good decisions when theyāre a teenager. They kept sexually abusing me. They hit me once, too. Then, to no oneās surprise, they cheated on me and then tried to stay with me as friends with benefits. I wish I had said no. I begged them to stay with me because thatās what happens when you think abuse is love. They finally put me out of my misery a month later. I stopped allowing people to casually touch me after it happened. My family thought it was quirky and my friends werenāt touchy anyway. I put up a barrier to anyone who wanted to get close because I thought if I lowered it, I would relive the same trauma. It didnāt stop there, though. I wasnāt popular in high school, but word spread really quickly through my small circle of acquaintances. They were telling people about how I begged for it and how I sounded while in vulnerable situations. Pain and pleasure kind of do sound the same if you think about it. I didnāt respond to any questions and just waited for it to end. The only thing I did was try to ask people to stop saying their name around me.
āItās just a name, get over it.ā
I didnāt tell them what really happened. Itās easier to be a whore than a victim. Maybe I just didnāt want to believe it happened. I donāt know. I didnāt tell anyone until my therapist a few years later.
I still hate the intimate parts of relationships. Itās been ten years and I still flinch if someone leans in too fast. I start to feel sick after being touched for too long. Until my current partner, I sought out the love I thought I wanted. I went after people who were emotionally unavailable or people who made a hobby out of gaslighting. I had the same issues each time. I was given no respect because I chose to be with people incapable of giving any.
I still donāt know what healthy love looks like. I think I have it now, but these days I worry that Iām the one creating the unhealthy atmosphere. Am I gaslighting him? Am I emotionally manipulating him? I donāt know. He says I donāt, but Iāll never know. Heās great 90% of the time and thatās all you can ask for out of a person, I think. But even in that 10%, I see the same traits I sought out before.
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