The Week of Terror

Four Days Later
         I cried today.  It was the first time since it happened.  I was told that I was probably in shock, that it hadn’t sunk in yet, that it takes time to sort thoughts into realization.  When I cried, I was not alone, but it still scared me that I was alone in this secret…even though I had told other people.  They knew, but the advice I got and my mind’s perception collided and made everything worse. 
         He started by kissing my neck.  When I got home, I realized that he gave me a fucking hickey, a present to remind me of a horror that at the time I couldn’t comprehend.  Then, he took off my pants and I just tried to say something…but I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move.  His fingers were so forceful that it made my body shake, and he must have thought that they were twitches of excitement.  But they weren’t.  They were spasms of uncontrollable fear, the manifestations of the unmoving fear of the rest of my countenance. 
         He never looked at my face.  I only looked at him while he was undressing me, and his eyes were fierce and focused only on my freshly shaved pubic area.  Instead of watching his face filled with passion and dominance, I stared blankly at the ceiling, pathetically demanding-hoping-praying-wishing-yearning-requesting-demanding-longing for deliverance.  Finally, he said, “I don’t think that you are into this.”  And I, with feeble voice and the temptation to run, replied with, “Ok.  Good.  I’m leaving.”  If only I had been strong enough to say that thirty minutes before. 
         I was on my way to strip at amateur night at Fantasy World, which I had done the prior week.  It was liberating, exhilarating, and the biggest instance of confidence that I had ever felt, even though I did not win.  I wanted to return, to dance naked on the pole and grind for the customers throwing one dollar bills on the stage.  “There is empowerment and pride in being a woman that can command the attention of perverted men and supportive friends.” 
         Leaving, I realized that he had dropped my phone on the floor when he was taking off my clothes.  I walked back into his dorm room, and walked back in on him masturbating.  I left in a hurried rush, mumbling “sorry” and nearly running toward the door I had left open. 
         A boy I had already fucked; the word “don’t” made him horny I already knew, and I consoled myself with the feeling that my silence didn’t really affect the outcome of the night. 
         When I was driving back to Santa Fe from Albuquerque, I kept thanking him for not raping me:  forgiveness without hesitation.  Apologies from me toward him to atone for my weakness gave me the thoughtlessness to ignore the truth.  I had said no too early, and then I said nothing too late.  I am frail, so I suppose it didn’t matter that I didn’t try to resist.  I couldn’t protect myself from such a big man.  “It’s not going to happen, dude.” But then it did.
         Nothing hit me until four days later.  Obsessions of my own guilt flooded my conscience, restricting me to only blame myself.  Thoughts of guilt and regret… and thankfulness.  I deserved it.  Whatever, I wasn’t raped.  This gives me even more reasons why I must be a slut.  If I had just started my period three days earlier!
         Toward the end of the day, I was able to tell someone.  “Um, I was basically…well not basically…”  I was given advice, which spurred thoughts of mace and numb chucks.  I came to the conclusion that I was too weak to trust anyone anymore.  But I can’t tell my mother.  This was the point in time where the abandonment of what I was sure about deserted me.  Am I prone to only having creepy suitors and to believe in goodness without foresight?  Why did this happen?  It must be my fault.  Now, I didn’t want to be alone, and I couldn’t be touched. 
         Fuck fuck fuck!  What do I do about my boyfriend?

Five Days Later
         The experience traveled from my memory into that place where dreams and reality converge to confuse me.  I doubted that this even happened, and I decided that it didn’t.  But I could still see him, at my feet, struggling intensely at removing my underwear from around my ankles.  I could still feel him, laying beside me, caressing my ass and biting my neck.  I could still remember how I left, but not the drive home, except for the fact that he must have been justified.  I convinced myself that it didn’t count because I didn’t try to stop it while it was happening.
         I didn’t want to change my tampon; I didn’t think that I could touch myself.  Bloody underwear and stains on my pants, I decided that I had to.  I cried when I inserted the tampon in the same vagina that he inserted his fingers into.  It felt the same, even though I was so careful to be gentle with myself, like he wasn’t. 
         I called him, and hung up (twice), so scared to confront him.  Sitting in my friend Natalia’s living room, on the leg rest of the chair that she was in, holding my hand and consoling me while I dialed, threw the phone on the floor, dialed, threw the phone on the floor, dialed.
         “Hey,” like nothing had happened. 
         “I-I [stuttering terribly] I just want to say that I am mad at you, and I don’t want to see you again and [a pause that lasted too long] fuck you.”

Six Days Later
         Still plagued with self-doubt, my fears of guilt were vindicated by others’ comments.  “Well, yeah, it was K----, you should have known.”  “You should have expected this.”
         Those messages in hindsight did not help my insignificance mentality.  I thought about how I put myself in that situation so many times, and I was lucky—until now.  I must have set myself up for it.  It’s been long enough:  get over it! 
         A bombardment of advice came to me from everyone I encountered.  Of course, I had to explain why they had to walk me from the college’s cafeteria to the Tutoring Center, where I work, or why they couldn’t touch me, or why I burst into tears with no provocation.  So, attacks of opinions, questions, phone number exchanges, and “oh I’m so sorry”-s were waged on me. 
         Boys are just horny and weak; you have to accept that and avoid them.  They are lurking in the dark corners, waiting and strategizing their next move for domination of the opposite sex.  They fly by the zippers of their pants, their dicks act as keen navigational machines that lead them to their next conquest. 
         Platonic friendship does not exist.  Guys never function with no alternate plan hidden inside their boxers, and they prove themselves by luring a girl into friendship and then plot to get more.  They want to prove that they are attractive, and, apparently in my case, he wanted to prove that I was still attracted to him. 
         I can trust boys in public, but not in isolation.  I can eat lunch with a boy at school, but not at his house.  I can hug a boy at the store, but not in the parking lot.  I can laugh at the jokes of boys while I am working, but a nervous giggle shouldn’t even be voiced when I am alone with him.  I can talk on the phone with a boy, but not in person without supervision. 
         I cried with no immediate reason, I glanced behind my shoulder in paranoia, I suspected everyone and trusted no one.  Frantic calls my parents made to my psychiatrist, frantic messages my psychiatrist left on my cell phone, and I was officially over- exaggerating my reaction to the situation.  My dad visited me at the Community College while I was working, and I had to lie to him that nothing specific happened to make me this scared.  I blamed it on missing a morning of taking pills, that I had PMS, that I was stressed out about school.  He did not believe me.
         Toward the end of the sixth day after, I was doing better.  Someone touched me, and I didn’t cry, even though I thought that I should have.  I just wanted to stop being such a melodramatic pussy. 
Seven Days Later (The end of the week of terror)
         I walked from my car into the school by myself, not even talking on the phone to one of my parents.  I still looked behind my shoulder to see if anyone was there, threatening to repeat what I’ve already gone through, but not as often.  Women, even when weak and vulnerable to fear, still can overcome the worst experiences.  This makes us strong.  I thought that at the beginning, I would never get better.  I thought that at the middle of my sadness, I needed more support to get through it.  Here, at the end of my venture into self-acceptance and closure, I feel empowered and female.