So, essentially, I talked to a counselor for the first time about it here.
And, technically, I was molested.
I was 14, a freshman in High School. I was taking Algebra for the first time. I had just bought concealer.
He was 42. On the board of law in Iowa. A member of Mensa. A children’s lawyer.
And I feel bad calling it assault. Or ‘being molested’.
Because I was very much in love with Him. And I very much wanted Him, emotionally, physically. And wanted it. Until I didn’t. And He didn’t stop.
But I can’t help but feel that my active, participatory involvement makes it more justified on his part. And I know that that’s fucked up. But that’s how it felt. How it feels.
And now I realize that every kiss, every touch since, it’s felt wrong.
Because it feels like Him. Feels like aftertaste.
And now; it feels like everything is about Him. All of my art. All of my poems. All of my work. It all just feels like me coping. And sometimes it feels cathartic. And sometimes it feels pathetic that I can’t get over it. Here I am; lamenting to strangers who don’t need to know this about me.
But I saw Him over Fall Break.
Driving His dumbass Honda Odyssey. Wife in the passenger seat, His two boys in the back. They were six and nine when I met them. When their father and I would canoodle in corners — dark rooms underground.
And they all looked. So. Content.
So unmoved and indifferent since the last time I spoke to any of them. Since the four years I’ve been in hospitals and attempted suicide and cried after my first boyfriend kissed me.
When I first posted a poem on Facebook about how I felt different after realizing it wasn’t okay — He called my dad and threatened to sue my family for slander.
My dad told Him that there was no way for anyone to know that this poem was about Him. That the only incriminating evidence was His own admission of guilt.
And I wondered how many other people He’s hurt. Why His heart raced at the site of His own common first name — and if He knew it was wrong, why He’d proceeded anyway.
When we came back from Fall Break, we had that lecture in Aesthetics after the midterm. About how every conceivable universe exists. That there are infinite upon infinite universes and realities, all of which are as true and as probable as this one. And every second that has or will happen in this reality is still happening. That time isn’t linear.
Which means that somewhere; I’m still 14, hidden in dark corners with Him.
Somewhere; I’m 42. I wake up in a cold sweat to the nightmares of His touch. Someone I love very much rolls over next to me — wraps their arms around me to console and kiss me.
Somewhere; I never met Him at all.
And, that’s a nice idea. And it’s very poetic.
But it doesn’t change anything.