Terminally Familiar
I fell in the shower today and it felt ever familiar. Familiar not because I experience clumsy spells while washing off the day on the regular, but familiar because of the shock. The instant panic, electrifying me from simple-minded thoughts. Simple thoughts seldom come easy; I was often inebriated with worry, so when an event shakes me from my break — my one breather from worldly bricks walling me in, I lose my breath. Maybe I hold my breath... Regardless, the airflow ceases.
My pupils expand and my limbs paralyze instantly. Maybe my mouth hinges open or maybe it's clamped shut. I feel as if I’m crystallizing. The illustration of fear is on display — helplessness ignites.
But I'm no longer in the shower, I'm in my room. A room with memories from Residence Life, friends of now and then, colors arranged in a tapestry, sea shells, and posters of fictional characters. A room that I made it home — invaded without mercy. A bed that housed girlfriend sleepovers, served as my palate for creativity with scrapbook pages sprawled out, open Bibles, and empty journals, soon to be the tenants of raw emotions. This bed became war grounds in a split second. Intrusion, betrayal, and disrespect replaced my laughter and the joy found in those sheets. A word that toddlers say more than mama or dada or even attempts at words, onomatopoeia's even, were ignored. Acted in defiance: deliberately disobeyed.
No. No! NO! NOOOOO! Stop. Cease. Ouch. Get off! Get out!
Agendas were pushed. Boundaries were crossed. And I'm left alone with the infection. Guess what? It's terminal and it will kill me if I let it. But, do I really have that power? I didn't in my own room that was the only thing that was mine, so how could I expect to have power beyond these four walls? This obstruction of justice obstructs window view, paining me further; enclosing the hurt, festering the pain, yet alleviating him home.
He gets to sleep in a bed that wasn't defiled. He gets to leave the stage of trauma, while the spotlight never leaves me. He doesn't need to bury the thing he thought was consent. He doesn't need to scrub with cleanser and then tears: bleach and scream and wash with the rage. He walks away. The epitome of a double entendre. Scott-free on every level. No repercussions. While I'm left loathing, wondering, regretting, despising, emptying, decomposing, agonizing, disintegrating...
I thought each day would be a victory; somehow I would find fruition in the whole thing, but again, I was disappointed. Each day is harder. Some days I can't stand a guy grazing shoulders with me, much less touching me intimately. Everyday tasks become crippling and a gateway to mourning this event.
Anyone or anything can be a trigger, but not anything can be pain relieving. The bullets are built of needles and swarm me like bees. Remedies are few and far between. Fuck, what I wouldn't give for a tranquilizer.
I'm not writing this because it's easy or because I'm strong, contrary to popular belief. I'm writing this because I'm a normal (well kind of) person with no extraordinary stature or story. I'm not born of extravagant means or legacy, but from two Cajuns cemented in middle class. I've never had a claim to fame, started a multi-million dollar company, or any business at that. I've never taken a job grossing over 40K because I don’t value money; I loathe it actually but, I have a big appetite for adventure and fund it as necessary. I'm not a girl seeking anything I didn't earn and I seem to have a heart too big for my sleeve — YET, I was a victim and I feel pathetic even uttering that label.
The word victim even feels dirty. It feels like you’re groveling for a pity pie with sympathy cream whipped on top. But that’s the last thing I want. That’s the very thing that’s stifled my reaction of that night. I guess the ugly truth is that I was just another fall in the shower. Another bruise, another slip of balance. Another mistake. But a mistake is the result of an action you made and this event does not qualify for such a label. It was deliberate and nearly nerve-popping. I’ll surely recover but, I’ll never forget… that’s how it goes, right? Optimism?
I’m sure it’s just a matter of seasons passing that I’ll create enough memories to fade that one. I’ve been to a Cub game in Chicago, Folly Beach in Charleston, 5th Avenue in Manhattan, and Cliff of Moher in Ireland since that night and to no avail. So I’ll keep drowning that memory in new ones, while I lay my head most often in a bed that became a war zone that humid May night.
