I wore shorts and a tank top that night, does that mean I was asking for that?
Did that mean my lacey black bra and Victoria secret underwear mean I was begging for your touch?
So when I said no, was that an open invitation?
What about the fact that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to consent, or the fact that you were 36 and I was seventeen?
Does that matter? I bet it doesn’t.
Because no amount of therapy will erase my flashbacks. It won’t make me forget the way you pinned me down or the way you roughly touched me. I won’t be able to forget your eyes or your tattoos. And nothing will amount to the pain of my memories or each time I retell my story.
I take Viststaril three times a day to attempt to ease my anxiety.
I was hospitalized in a mental facility, for 10 weeks of broken sleep and night terrors. I’m scared, scared to see you on the street or to even overhear your name because every time I hear your name I am overcome with a wave of nausea.
And trust? I can’t, because I’m afraid someone will damage me as bad as you did. I can’t even manage to touch anyone but my mother and my close friends.
So Why me?
Why out of a party filled with young girls did you choose me?
The girl with her shoulders and knees showing. The girl too drunk to consent. Why did you ignore my pleas and continue on for your pleasure? Rape is a hard word to say but that’s what you did to me.
So once again I ask, Why me?