What not to say

I wonder that I may be a bit too understanding sometimes. That my benevolent patience and tolerance (and not to mention humility) could abound to a fault. Despite these very admirable qualities I possess, someone has still managed to successfully piss me off today. Lemme tell you about it. Hold on, I'll preface this by saying that I understand social awkwardness and I know that some conversations can leave one without words, but this is something else. This is a complete disregard to... to everything.

A male friend of mine (someone I used to date) had been asking me to take some time and catch up with him lately, especially since the recent events (if you don't know, click here and read all the posts following because I haven't written about much else). He's been behaving like a very concerned friend, intent upon making himself more than available to my needs right now whether they be talking, listening, whatever. Today was the first day we saw each other since the incident and that was on purpose. I simply wasn't ready to see him. I wasn't ready to see him because... because of what I knew he'd say.

We were getting on fine, I was updating him on how I've been handling everything when he asked who the men that abused me were. I told him they were co-workers at my old job. He took this information in and then said,

"Well, be wary of the people at your new job. The guys I mean."

Only a few words, I know. But it came out feeling like, "Well, I hope you've learned your lesson."

"What are you saying?" I asked, "that this may happen again?"

"No, Porscha," he replied. "I'm just saying that this is a really silly situation."

Ummmm... WHAT?!!! This is why I avoided seeing this person. This is the reason right here.

I managed to keep calm but I got up and left shortly after that. I understand the depth of the topic we were discussing and how it can loom overwhelmingly between two people. I understand how difficult it can be knowing the right thing to say. Nothing spoken can heal me. Some words, however, smooth over my wounds like a balm while other words scrape into them like sand. If you don't know what to say, here's what to do: lean your body toward me with a concerned look on your face and be silent. If you're afraid of saying the wrong thing, don't say anything at all.

Later on I called to tell him how his words made me feel, but I decided against it and hung up mid-ring. Instead (in a more passive-aggressive way, perhaps) I decided to write it out.

DO NOT EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN.

Thanks.

Innocence

"You were so cool that night, Porscha. You totally wanted it. I don't know why you're saying this," that's my rapist talking. I can see him sitting on his couch in front of the television. Bare feet on wine stained carpet. He's holding his phone while using his left hand to gesture for emphasis. "Porsch, rape is such a strong word. You don't just throw it around like that. I didn't hold a knife to your neck or anything. I didn't do anything wrong."

And for a while, as his voice comes through the my phone's speaker and slides against my eardrum, I feel sorry for him. I feel guilty for what I've said. I feel bad for feeling like I was forced to have sex with him against my will. I feel guilty for the panic attacks, the nightmares, the uncontrollable crying fits and the need to speak to a counsellor twice a week. I feel bad because I might be ruining his life by telling people that he may have ruined mine.

"I don't know what to say," I tell him quietly.

He's called out of nowhere. It's 7:20 on Wednesday night. I'm at home, instant messaging my sister on Skype while watching that horror flick with John Cusack, 1408. My phone rang, it was a private number. I answered. Cut to present-tense.

"Porscha," he starts. My name in his mouth makes my stomach churn. I imagine his hot breath against my face as I slipped in and out of consciousness. I feel my body rocking with his movement. I remember curling up and turning over to sleep but him continuing to penetrate me, despite my exhaustion and unresponsiveness. "One of the girls at work said you think I did something really bad to you."

I take a deep breath and prepare myself, "I just need you to listen for a little while." My voice sounds like it's fighting to escape my throat, it sounds tired and worn through. "That Sunday when I woke up, I looked around and couldn't, for the life of me, remember how I got there. I couldn't remember anything that happened the night before or anything..."

"Well what the fuck, Porscha. So you had a bad hangover. Now you think I raped you. You can't remember what happened? I'll tell you what happened." He goes on, "You were good, we had fun. I just wanted to have a good time."

Is there ever an absolute truth? Postmodernism says that truth lies in our relative perception. My truth is that I was raped. Someone used my body simply as a means to orgasm and didn't bother with asking my permission, though I was in no state to give it. His truth is that he and I both had a good time. That I wanted it and was okay with everything. The law states that it is completely illegal to have sex with someone who is under any influence whatsoever because it is impossible to fully gain that person's consent.

"Rape is sexual intercourse without consent or with indifference to consent. Indifference to consent is a legal term that means, for example, if a man has sex with a woman who is drunk or drugged and who does not protest, because she is not in a condition to give consent, it is rape. This means that the man does not care whether she gives consent or not (indifference)." CYH.com

"So, Porscha, if you ever want to talk, I mean it doesn't have to be about this, it could be about whatever, then just call me," he finished.

I hung up my phone feeling very confused. What was I supposed to say? I called my counsellor.

"Wow, Porscha, I'm sure that has got to be really difficult for you. Now that he's called, you're going back on things and doubting yourself?"

"Yeah, I just feel like maybe I'm wrong. If he thinks that it was all fine, then maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion."

"This happens so often and it's normal to feel confused and doubtful. Sometimes all we can go on is our perception of what happened. If you believe you were taken advantage of then that's right. He could have waited till you were sober; he didn't. He could have stopped at anytime; he didn't. If he thought you were okay, he was wrong because it turns out you weren't but he didn't bother to check," my counsellor assured me.

After making sure I wasn't feeling self-destructive, she told me she'd schedule another meeting for early next week for me and I thanked her and hung up.

I feel a little better now. My feelings are real and I know that. This is my truth.

A Few Changes

It's been a little over a week, well, it's been about nine days since the incident and a lot has changed.

For starters, I'm thinking about leaving Australia early. My sister is in Georgia and my mother is in California and it would be nice to see the both of them for Christmas. I'm not completely sure about that yet so I'm not stocking up on boxes and looking at flight rates but I'm definitely considering it.

I'm really focused on finishing my thesis. I want this time in Australia to be worth something. I don't want to remember it as "that place where I was raped". I want it to be "that place where I proved how strong I am and got my Master's degree... sucka". "Sucka" was added for emphasis.

I'm feeling better. I'm not crying as often; I've almost fully gotten my appetite back (after eating like a bird for five days); and when I'm feeling good, I'm really feeling good. It's almost like the happy times when I'm enjoying a friend's company mean so much more because those times are pretty rare right now.

I started a new job. After the panic attack I mentioned in the video in my last post I knew it would be impossible for me to recover while still working at the same place. I had to find a new place. I told my manager that I couldn't work there any more and the very next day I was hired someplace else. No one at my new job knows about what happened and I don't plan on telling them. I just don't want to be known in that way, I know I'm a victim and that's something I need to learn to live with, but I've noticed that it changes the way a person is received. I don't want someone coming up behind me, rubbing my back and asking if I'm okay every five minutes.

I'm understanding that some days are just bad and that's that. If I wake up and feel melancholy, that's my right. I'm learning that if I take a walk and think through the pain, sometimes it goes away and I can be around people and have a good time. If it doesn't fade (and I don't have to work or have any other pressing engagements) then I'll mope for a little while and allow myself to feel that way. What's interesting is that a few weeks ago I wrote in Oh, Apathy that I was having trouble sussing out my emotions. I couldn't stir any feeling for anyone. Now it seems like all those tears were stored up for this reason. Strange, isn't it?

So I know the writing in this post is a bit different from my usual stuff so I'll get into writer-mode and tell you a little story.


***********
My Voyeur


Sometimes, most of the time, when I'd look up from the dishes I was washing or the vegetables I was dicing, I'd see him standing there. It used to give me a start, but I got accustomed to it, believe it or not. He stood at his bedroom window and watched me move about my kitchen and living room with such still interest, I wondered that I might have had him hypnotised. When I came home from work late and turned on my kitchen light, he'd turn on the light in his bedroom like he'd been waiting for me.

The idea of having a voyeur used to excite me, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the idea of being interesting to someone else, that watching me vacuum my rug might be a form of entertainment for someone. It's nice to be considered fascinating, especially when you feel your life is anything but. When I had a boyfriend, I'd make sure the kitchen window was open so the stranger watching me from the apartment opposite mine could see us kissing.

He never waved hello to me from his post at the window or said anything when I passed him on campus. I never told him I saw him standing there all those times, even during the times when it was obvious he was trying to hide his silouette behind the curtain. I never did anything about it except pull my shade down when I wanted to be alone.

Then one night, I looked up from the sink full of dishes and saw him pulling on a coat. He ran his hands through his hair a few times as he stood evaluating himself in a mirror. He didn't even look toward his window. I watched him adjust the collar of his shirt, spritz on a bit of cologne, shut off his light and leave his bedroom.

Since that night, he hasn't been around at all. When I come home from work and switch on my kitchen light, his bedroom remains dark. He shuts his curtains more often as if he doesn't want me looking in on him. It all seems a bit silly but I'm a little offended by it. I was the one being watched and now he's out and about while I'm at home entertaining no one. And where the hell is he going? How is it that the wierdo who used to stand at his window, sip tea and watch me clean out my fridge has a better night life than I do? I find myself sneeking into my kitchen just to peek out the window and see if his light is on. Does he have a girl in there? What's he doing right now? It looks like he might have gotten a life of his own and perhaps I've become the voyeur.

How I'm doing.

First Session

The woman sitting across from me has a compassionate and engaged look on her face. She is leaning forward and nodding her head as I speak. During the silent moments, she doesn't talk, she just lets me breathe and figure out what I need to say next.

"... and when I woke up, I was naked, lying in bed next to this guy I barely know. He doesn't even really speak English. I know I would never give my consent to sleep with him."

"Well, there you go, Porscha," she says assuringly. "You've just said it. You know that this was not your choice..."

We move on, she asks me about how I'm feeling physically.

"I haven't slept for more than two hours, I just keep having these disturbing dreams."

"Like what?" she asks.

"They don't have anything to do with the incident, well, only one of them does. My other dreams are abstract. Like there's a loaf of bread and it's perfect except there are two ants crawling on the bottom of the crust. And there's another one with a man who looks like the epitome of masculinity and he's standing naked and as my eyes trace his body, I discover he has a vagina."

"Hmmm, that's interesting," she says thoughtfully. "And what about the other one?"

"Ummm, well, I guess that one's more linked to the incident. I'm in bed with two men and I'm having sex with both of them, but I'm enjoying it."

"Are these the two men who raped you?"

"No. These look like older businessmen. It's weird, one of them leaves the room and I continue with the other one until he comes back and then I switch."

"Wow, that is disturbing isn't it? How do you feel when you wake up from this dream?"

"I remember feeling peaceful at first and then confused."

"Alright. How else are you feeling?"

"I'm experiencing waves of intense nausea at random moments. I haven't been able to eat since the incident, so that's been about three days. I stare off into space for long periods of time and at any given moment, I will burst into tears. I can't seem to control it. It's almost like a sneeze or something and all of a sudden I'm hunched over my kitchen sink, sobbing into the dishtowel," even as I'm saying this, my eyes are stinging with fresh tears. I reach for a new Kleenex, I already have three damp balls of tissue in my lap.

"Don't worry about the food, you'll eat when your body is ready. This is all common when you experience a trauma. Your digestive system shuts down, your body is on auto pilot. It is very important that you try to stay active, go for a walk or something each day. You're at a point where you can very easily sink into depression. Are you having morbid thoughts?"

I think back to the taxi ride home from the hospital and the calmness I felt about crashing the car, part of me hoped the driver would become distracted and swerve the car off the road.

"Yes," I say quietly, shifting my eyes to the floor.

"That's normal, but don't indulge in those thoughts. Spend some time in nature and enjoy the beauty of life around you. Porscha, I know you're trying to make things go back to normal. You don't want special treatment and you don't want anyone to know. Pushing this away will only hurt your recovery. I hate telling victims this but your life will never be the same. What you've experienced has, in some way or another, changed you."

Do you want to talk?

On the way home from the hospital, the taxi driver was pleasant. The car smelled of tobacco and vanilla deodoriser. He made small talk about his night so far and asked me about mine, obviously curious about my pickup location. I rested my head against my hand but immediately jerked my head upright because of the sharp pain the tender bruise on my temple caused when pressed.

"You'll have to direct me, I've only been taxi-driving a short while. The university student housing?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just turn right up here." I calmly thought about leading us into a car crash. The streets were dark, I could lead us down a dead end, maybe we'd crash into a light pole. These morbid thoughts flipped through my mind like slow-turning pages.

I paid the driver, got out of the cab and into my small apartment. I locked the doors, set my purse on the floor, stood in front of the full-length mirror and began undressing. I took great consideration in the removal of my clothing, how each layer revealed more and more of my skin, until I stood in front of the mirror, naked except for a pair of panties. I gazed at my reflection, noting the way the dim light cast small shadows beneath my breasts and defined the muscles on my stomach. I examined the scratches and carpet burns on my elbows and thought about my state of helplessness.

After I pulled on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I rifled through my purse and pulled out the card the doctor had given me. I grabbed my phone and, with trembling fingers, dialed the number. The woman who answered took my name and phone number and said I'd be receiving a phone call soon.

I hung up and sat there waiting. I thought about what I would say to whomever called. I thought about telling my friends and how I would go about doing that. I thought about how I would tell my mother.

My phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello," the soft female voice came through. "May I please speak to Porscha?"

"This is her," I replied.

"Hi Porscha, this is Lisa. I'm a counselor from the Perth Rape and Crisis centre. Do you want to talk?"

"Yes," I replied timidly, my voice sounding weak and cracked. "Yes I do."