I am about to share a post I published two years ago on a former blog. At the time, I wrote anonymously. From the activity of writing this blog unfurled a transformative journey of self-acceptance. It was sort of the fertilizer that allowed the Cornflower, as you know me, to bloom (not that cornflowers need fertilizer).
I am sharing this post for two reasons: (1) because it’s time (#timesup, am I right?!), and (2) because I have another post in the works about the interplay between psychoanalysis and trauma recovery, and I intend to refer to/link to this post as an anecdote to describe how language facilitates healing. With that said, please proceed with caution…
Trigger Warning: this post contains a detailed description of sexual assault.
A quake began in my knees and permeated my being with the pulse of impact. I puddled the moment his lips affronted mine. His spark transmitted a virus, mutating my personhood into something bland and mechanical–no longer possessing autonomous consciousness.
Two of his friends were dating two of my girlfriends, and they set us up. We were sandwiched by two couples hoping to generate a third. Our fingers entangled before I learned his address, grade level, or that his mother shared the same first name as me. Though the immediate physicality of the burgeoning relationship unsettled me at first, my desire to be desired overcame any shred of common sense I ever proclaimed. We stood shivering in the violet night as the neighborhood gathered, preparations in full swing for the emergence of the new year. His kiss was premature–before the explosion of bottle rockets in the foggy winter air.
Not long after this first meeting, he showed up on my doorstep, intent on acquisition. I was forewarned by a friend of his professed intention to obtain and subdue me sexually (he boasted to the boys around the lunch table at school). Like any skilled confidence man, he adeptly spun the argument and effectively convinced me that he was maligned. He’d never purport a plan to use me, and how could I believe such libel?! Nevertheless, abstaining from sex until marriage is absurd! Ridiculous! People in love should be free to indulge! This particular disagreement remained unresolved as I maintained my position–abstinence until marriage…
Thus, he developed a new strategy to accelerate his conquest. He avowed that he wanted me to (one day in the unconfirmed future) be his wife.
And so he appeared on my doorstep and willed himself into my life. Left unsupervised, my defenses were unprotected. His initial advances were docile enough. Stolen kisses, a cozy embrace. Objective clear, he amplified his efforts as his kisses billowed with passion and grip surged with ambition. Stealthily, he slid snakelike fingers beneath the waist of my jeans and past the taut band of my rib knit granny panties.
Cessation of time.
My nervous system failed me; my feeble attempt to extricate his fingers from my vulva floundered.
My attempt to extricate was not feeble–I was simply not strong enough to re position his arm. I was a sorely inadequate contestant in the wrestling match. Coolly, he whispered into my ear, “You know it feels good,” dismissing my protests as one might swat a pesky fly. Resolutely, he strummed his fingers, and I meekly implored that he spare me penetration. “I won’t go in,” he assured me, but as the sensation crescendoed, a tight, piercing, pinching unnerving jarred me. Propelled by a jolt of adrenaline, I wrenched his arm away and heaved a petrified sob.
Then, my assailant pulled me into his chest in a charitable embrace, soothingly wheedling, “It’s ok. You are just so innocent,” as if it were a complication in need of imminent remedy, and he the compulsory physician responsible to administer treatment.
By the end of the day, I stood accused for resisting sexual advances, an unwarranted transgression in dire need of remediation.
My trial had only just begun.