I’ve realized now that talking about it, doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t make it any easier and it doesn’t give me back my virginity. It doesn’t do anything, but remind me of the fact that I could have prevented it all. It reminds me of how I should have been stronger and pushed harder. I should have voiced my opinions louder. And more simply, it reminds me of how I shouldn’t have gone back to his room. The first time. Or the second time. And more importantly, the third time.
I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I didn’t want that.
I’ve told one person. My outcry witness so to speak. She advised me to speak with a counselor. I did. We did an initial session, but they’re booked and I don’t know when I can speak with someone again. But, I’d rather talk to a professional than my friends, because my friends can’t do anything for me, other than feel bad. Also, most likely try to convince me to press charges. (I’m not going to).
I guess I don’t want them to know because I don’t want to go into details again about what happened. Because, I don’t want to have to convince myself again that it wasn’t my fault. I know it’s not, I’m starting to believe that now. I’ve just come to this good place and I don’t want to go back to the self blame game.
But, two of my friends are now pressing the issue. What do I tell them? Do I have to tell them? I don’t, right? But, I don’t want them to guess and or continue to harass me. But, I also don’t want them to know. But, I opened Pandora’s box when I said,
“All men are trash.”
I say it with my other group of friends all the time, and they don’t pry, they just agree. That wasn’t the case here. But, maybe I did it on purpose. Maybe I let it slip that I had a bad experience with a guy because I wanted them to know. Subconsciously. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a accident.
Either way, I’m stuck in a dilemma. I’ve told them that I don’t want to talk about it. But, one came back with and I quote..
“I think we need to talk through it. What else is the point of having confidential girl friends”
I get that, I truly do, but I don’t like talking about me anyway, at least not anymore. And I definitely don’t know how to say this. Like, oh yeah, by the way, I was raped in California.
Not really dinner conversation.
I guess I’m just not ready to let my friends know that I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.
So for now, writing is easier than talking. It always has been and I’m afraid it always will be. Because here, I don’t see your reaction immediately, so I feel more comfortable with giving more details.
Here, I feel like I’m talking to the perfect listener, my imaginary perfect best friend, or my perfect psychologist. The only person who won’t be burdened by my problems. They are always available to listen and they never judge, or say something that I don’t want to hear. Also, I trust you to never get sick of me and stop responding (even though you might not respond now).
There’s something freeing about laying your story on the line for everyone (strangers) to read free from judgement and ridicule. But, in the same breath there’s something confining about not being able to let your friends in and constantly keeping secrets..
It hurts a little. Okay, well a lot. But, I’ve been hurt before when it comes to telling my stories and secrets and I don’t want to be hurt again. I don’t want to lose another friend. So, I just keep my emotions to myself and write it down later and process it on my own. Until, I can’t anymore and then I break down and tell someone.
So for now, this is my solution. This is all I can do. And this will just have to do.