Then he tried to kiss me and sulked all the way back after I pursed my lips tightly and didn’t reciprocate. He tried many times to coax me on the drive back, to appeal to my emotion, to make me change my mind, somehow thinking that it was easy to do so. He didn’t stop the car somewhere and do the unthinkable. But he made me believe that it was me who was being unreasonable. That if I was in the car alone with him, and if I cared about him, then somehow he was entitled to my kisses, my caresses, and all of me. But never mind, I was alone in the car with him, it was my fault. Must have led him on somehow.
Six months ago, when I was sitting in a dark corner with a friend, high out of my mind, he somehow thought it was okay to take his hand and put it on my thigh, making me incredibly uncomfortable. Because apparently, “Hey, let go, live a little, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” translates to “I’m going to get laid tonight.” My fault, I should have known this is how it works.
Two years ago, when I was alone in a room with the guy I was flirting with, he thought it was okay to casually throw me against a wall and proceed to violently make out with me. Because of course, that was okay. Never mind that flirting doesn’t mean I’m okay with you touching me, but sure. It was my fault, shouldn’t have been alone in a room with him. Should have seen this coming; after all, I was flirting with him.
Three years ago, my first boyfriend decided that it was okay to randomly stick his tongue down my throat. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up because I didn’t like the idea of someone else’s spit in my mouth. Poor guy, must have really hurt his ego. Never mind the fact that this wasn’t how I wanted my first kiss to be. But it was my fault. After all, he was my boyfriend. I shouldn’t have dated someone like that. Better yet, I shouldn’t have dated at all.
In none of these instances did any of these guys rape me. No, it wasn’t my body so much that they violated; it was my mind. It was my spirit that they broke. My dreams of finding a decent companion slowly withered away with every big and small incident. Because that’s not how all beautiful love stories start. “Hey children, today I’ll tell you the story of how I met your mother. I got her drunk out of her mind/I guilt-tripped her/I saw her on the street and yelled obscenities at her and then forced myself on her.”
It’s all my fucking fault. Sorry, I’ll take my existence and just shove it up my ass, because apparently, even existing is my fault.
