I'd always thought it had to be violent and sinister. A stranger in a park. A moment of ripped clothes and torn dignity. A cloudy figure who jumped out and took.
It was, almost that. But I knew him and at the time, I was drunk enough to believe he loved me, and old enough to tell myself I'd consented.
Sometimes when I'm nearly as drunk as I was that warm summers afternoon I convince myself I'm over it. I've understood it all.
I tell people about being a rape victim.
You're always past tense. Raped. It happened. The implication, it's over.
It never is. It's always there.
Tonight I told my husband I loved him and as he took me, I trusted him. The biggest compliment possible. I genuinely consented. As much as I ever can. There will always be part of me that isn't sure.
My body creates things I don't consent to. I am angry with it. How dare it. Such a betrayal.
Why tonight?
I said out loud that I'd been raped to people I know and like. I was drunk and empowered by their care. It felt true to say it. It was true. It was my past. But now I'm worried. Because what if they felt uncomfortable. because they might feel uncomfortable.
Always worried about it.
Getting it all out.
I wonder how many of us don't know how to feel about it.
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