#metoo

I’m sitting in the car, listening to the rain pour down all around me. That sound, combined with the dryness of my car – is like freedom to me. Every single time I am in my car I am reminded about where I was, and where I am.

Everytime I’m going somewhere, I am really actually deeply reminded that I am going somewhere. 

My first class doesn’t start until almost an hour from now, and then my afternoon class I have my second mid term. I intended to get here early to get some studying done but I find myself too comfortable sitting here in recollection of all the good in my life.

Then something keep popping up on my feed. It’s this #metoo movement, where people are opening the door to speak about whether they have ever been sexually harrassed or assaulted. I have been wanting to put #metoo but I don’t feel like the weight has been heavy enough.

Like just being treated like an object, wasn’t enough. Because really – I think that I thought I wanted it. As an adult, I always felt like I was asking for it. Because I thought that’s where my value lay.

I have always thought that I didn’t have it bad, because I was never raped. Like attacked by someone and forced to have sex. But there have been times, when I was younger and I trusted the men I was hanging out with. 

I trusted them, and they took something from me.

This was back in the day of dial up chatboards, where the girls were all in their teens and most of the guys were pushing twenty, or well into their twenties. I was attention seeking, I wanted to be acknowledged as something worthy. 

I remember going to a new year’s party at the sysop’s house. Sysop means system operator. He was a really nice guy, and I never felt anything but friendship with him. I felt safe, so I went to his house party and hung out with all my virtual friends, in real life.

I had a small bottle of sambuca, and I remember chugging it. I thought I was pretty cool, but I was an absolute lightweight and I was wasted. I had my analog camera that I had signed out from photography class with me and someone grabbed it and took a picture of me sitting on the couch talking to some girl. The camera flash did something to me, and I ended up vomiting all over the couch only seconds after the photo was taken. I still have that photo in my box of old black and white developed photos from high school.

So after that camera flash, I ended up outside in his backyard – kneeled down on the concrete just at the edge of the grass. This is what I remember. 

Then I remember two guys standing over top of me, and they told me they were pissing on me, but I think it turned out to be beer they were pouring on me. I couldn’t do anything because I was so wasted, I couldn’t even defend myself. I stayed in this kneeling position.

One of my ‘friends’ who was much much older than me, came to save me. He brought me inside, and layed me down right next to the fire. He gave me a blanket, and I felt thankful, but I felt too warm. Something happened, and when I woke up his fingers were inside of me. And he didn’t stop. And I couldn’t say no, because why would I? Isn’t this what young girls are for? Entertaining older men?

I didn’t say no. So was it my fault?

I remember going in and out on consciousness, and wondering when he was going to stop. Why wasn’t anyone stopping him? We were laying right out in the open. Why was he doing this to me? The fire was so hot, it was making me feel even more sick. His fingers wouldn’t go away. But I was finally validated.

I knew what my value was.

And even after that I still would talk to him through that virtual chatroom. And even when I joined Facebook, I looked for him. Is that not fucked up? That I looked for someone – numerous times – that sexually violated me, but I didn’t say no.

And it wasn’t him having sex with me.

So it couldn’t have been that bad.