When talking about rape

When talking about rape, it seems important to me to note: the weight, the emptiness, the unease. To be reminded that I and we live among predators. We love them, trust them, cherish them, forgive them. And it may not be their fault, blame society, upbringing and porn. Yet the knife cuts with the same force, the same depth, leaves the same bloody mark, no matter its motivation.

I do not mean to say that all men are rapists or evil. I want to let the world know, that to experience it as a woman means to be part of a collective trauma. When he puts his hand first on your shoulder, then on your arm, then on your knee; those are just seconds, there and gone. To anyone not part of it, it may seem trivial, inconsequential, hysterical to make a fuss about it. But to all us members of this esteemed society, its just one cut in a thousand. It may be a scratch; it may be a flesh wound. Yet it reminds us of the bigger picture, it opens up all of the others cuts and scars and bruises, long healed or still fresh. When his hand touches my knee, I am reminded of every man who’ve overstepped my boundaries, used me, betrayed my trust, hurt me. And then I am reminded of the fear. I told myself last time to be careful around them, to look for signs, to smile less, be less inviting. But nothing has happened for such a long time and I thought I made it, I was safe, I did something right and can relax. So as the shock slowly fades to anger at myself for letting my guard down, as the pain of all these wounds crushes in a wave over me, he moves his hand up on my thigh and smiles. Such a friendly gesture. And what am I to say? Cry out loud, scream and wail about having been touched, just for a second, just this once? Am I that fragile? Whenever in shock or fear, I cover it up by politeness and smiles and go on with my day, the gnawing feeling of fear in the back of my head. I look at my boyfriend, my friends, my father, my brother and all I see are knives and claws. All I see are predators.

So, I try to put it into words, but how am I to say, what this one touch, brief as it was, did to me? The moment I hear myself say it out loud I sound ridiculous – so I stay silent or make it into a joke. My smile is a defence mechanism, the louder I laugh, the more I’m afraid. Just smile and wave.

But these are not just touches, not just moments. Sometimes it’s a no, said with conviction yet a smile. It is the unheard repetition and rephrasing, all so polite and gentle. Until the mental energy for defiance is bigger than just letting go; than surrender & the violence that follows. Because not even letting go saves you from having your arms pinned down, your cheek flush with pain after an unexpected slap in the face, your hair pulled violently. The judgment in his eyes that you are not enjoying it, not doing enough. And now you are so far gone that you do everything, just to make him happy, just to make him stop.

I know this emptiness to well, I fear. Although I’m barely able to put it into words, I know the weight, the taste, the colour of being made into a doll. And object, without will or words, to be moved around and used, to be looked at and enjoyed. And sometimes, when my boyfriend hugs me, I feel it still and wonder: does he see me, a person, or just the softness of my flesh? Could he forget that I’m not a doll, just as the others did? He is not bad, just as they weren’t.