A FRIEND REQUEST

By Chris Quintos

GIRL speaks directly to the audience. She’s quirky, funny, and indignant.

GIRL

(looks up from her screen)

Who the fuck are all these people I’m friends with? Am I right?

(she goes through her friend list)

Honestly? I LOVE being online. I NEED to see what my friends are doing/thinking/liking. Oooh! A notification! She wants to be my friend. He is now following me. I love it! But ask me to sign off?

(She puts her phone away.)

Well, that’s where the problem lies. I can’t unplug! Even for the sake of my own sanity.

(She explains.)

Triggers.

(groans)

Let’s pretend that I have somehow magically learned to identify precisely what sets me off.

(laughs)

Even if this were remotely true?! These days, information moves at the speed of tomorrow. And I don’t know how to filter the good stuff from the bad. EVERYTHING lands in my Newsfeed, whether I want it to or not. Information gets through, from pictures of 1st Tooth Fairy visits to denim sales, from new home announcements to one woman show schedules. If content holds triggers, there’s very little I can do to shield myself. Recent trigger in point: Dylan Farrow. There I am, scrolling through my Newsfeed in my pj’s — like I do every morning — when hidden among the news articles, social events, and friends’ activities was Dylan Farrow’s op-ed. The Trigger — capital T.

The thing is, like her, I am a survivor of sexual abuse.

(A beat.)

You see, when I was 10, my father sexually molested me. Nightly. For years. He snuck into my room and did things to me that I still can’t talk about.

(She pauses.)

And, 20+ years later? That hasn’t left me. Sure, most days are better than others. The pain changes. My emotional tools evolve. But, there are still days when I can’t shake the painful flashbacks, the abandonment, the PTSD.

(She backs off and tries to recover with a joke. It doesn’t work.)

And sometimes? Sometimes, when the Moon is in the House of Venus, or whatever… all it takes is a shadow of a reminder. And bam! I’m in the void. I’m drowning in the scalding reality… the reality that, for years, my own father tried to fuck me.

(She pauses. Angry.)

And then? As if having a child rapist for a father isn’t enough, there’s Woody-fucking-Allen. Somehow, I have been able to remain blithely unaware of Mr. Allen’s transgressions. Until now. Turns out even those of us who have been raped participate in a rape culture.

(Softer, matter of fact.)

So, I read Dylan Farrow’s editorial. And, I thought, “Christ. Her, too?” There was something in her words, in her memories… and I just knew … I just knew she was telling the truth. I could feel it in my chest. The weight of her trauma. There’s a thing that happens to me sometimes that I can’t really explain. It’s this spidey-sense that pushes me to ask if a perfect stranger is okay and they burst into tears. I dunno — Melancholy seeks melancholy? …

I closed my computer — for the first time, in a long time. That’s enough.

(Talks to self. Rambling.)

I need a break. No more reading, no googling, no new tabs. I will not be dragged into the void by this! Command + q. There is no need to read full descriptions of that pedophile laying his head in that baby girl’s crotch. And breathing. In and out. Force quit! I will avoid all denials, non-apologies, and calls for witch hunts. Shut down. I’ll let this news cycle, boycott Woody-fucking-Allen forever, and continue to live my life.

(A pause. As if re-watching on a screen she continues rambling.)

But, like a moth to a trainwreck, I could.not.stop.reading the deluge of opinions of every “friend,” acquaintance, and media outlet. It seemed that there were a ton of people who just could not separate the man from the art! And, sure. I could see how that could be inconvenient for the auteur’s fans, but we’re talking about very serious stuff here, folks. We’re talking about a man molesting a 7 year old child. So before you spout your heinous bullshit argument for why I should just relax and enjoy a re-watch of Vicky Cristina fucking Barcelona, maybe a little sensitivity for people who might not see it that way? A disclaimer, perhaps? Or, I dunno, A FUCKING TRIGGER WARNING?

So, what now? I can’t sign off — and frankly, I don’t want to. I love my life on line. I enjoy sharing my opinion. And hearing yours. YES, I want to know which Smurf I most closely resemble! Like! I dig reading about …everything. Comment! I LOVE PICTURES OF MY DOG. And your dog. And her dog! SHARE!

(She comes to a conclusion.)

So, I’m speaking the fuck up. I choose to live my life; triggers be damned!

(Delightedly.)

I choose GIFs, and quizzes, and apps! #sorrynotsorry

(Asks the audience.)

And, the thing that keeps me plugged in and saves me from the void? What gives me the strength to laugh at my own fear? MY people. @MyTRIBE. My amazing on-line friends. “Acquaintances” who have spoken up against all the sexual violence horrors. Who speak up against the monsters, real or imagined. The believers. They speak up for me when I’m just not ready to. They support me. I support them. That’s the deal.

And as the Woody-fucking-Allens come and go, I know my people will be there. Together, WE speak up. We are building. We are building a community. We are building a community that I love! One that makes me come back, day after day.

If you want in, friend me!

BLACKOUT.