Originally penned/published: September 19, 2013
“If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” ― Toni Morrison.
Same goes for stories. Or poems. Anything really…
So I saw this article a few minutes ago on Sociological Images:
It’s about this Robin Thicke song , Blurred Boundaries,(which I have never heard. I reside underneath the pop-culture rock) and how the lyrics of this song are some of the very things rapists say to their victims just before they attack.
I was about to leave work in a few minutes so I didn’t really read the article. Just the sentences in the photographs.
I wanted to see if they resonated.
See… they’re painting this song to be about the blurred boundary between consensual sex and assault… though most of the sentences sound like pre-assault ones to me. I see no blurry-ness there.
So what am I writing for?
I had an experience once. With an ex-boyfriend of mine. Who was my boyfriend at the time.
I have since referred to this experience as rape – followed by hesitation, uncertainty – but I have ultimately held that even though I didn’t want to have sex and I SAID I didn’t want to have sex, that because I didn’t fight hard enough, it must not have been rape.
And maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t.
Regardless, my point here isn’t to define or label. It’s simply to express.
I want to see an article about this. About giving in to unwanted sex within a partnership. About coercion. About feeling like you can’t say “no” or feeling that you “owe” them access to your body – and about how fucked up that is.
Hmmmm….. I haven’t written here in a while and this is a hell of a first post from a very long absence.
But it’s real.
There hasn’t been much that’s inspired me to write. Or, no, that’s not true.
There hasn’t been much that I felt I NEEDED to write. That I was COMPELLED to.
But this is one of those things.
And so his last sentence to me was, “I need to believe that you’re mine again”
… we had been slipping apart… this was apparently his way of trying to keep me, his
And my sentence was silence.
And gripped sheets.
That’s a pretty shitty sentence.
I mean, mine can’t be scrawled on a poster to hold in front of my chest for people to read … I can make no visual display of my words… But if there was a picture from that moment… It’d be worth more than 1,000 words.
You would see the entire story.
I know this.
And so, I suppose I go looking now, for articles online to read about women and coerced sex in relationships.
I suppose I go looking for the other stories for my story to mingle with.
To not feel like the odd-one-out
I suppose I go looking for a community of stories to shush the quiet tears of regret
For a community of “I never thought of myself as a victim of abuse”
And though I don’t feel weak
I know there are scars.
There are days where I think I am healed….