It feels like bone pain, like having a length of solid metal pipe dropped on your shin from a tenth floor apartment window, prone when it comes hurling down, laid out vulnerably like a child making an angel in the snow, trusting and unexpectant when the metal pipe crashes, breaking skin, shattering bone, and the pain sears not just the leg but chest and brain, too. A pain so profound all else stops existing, a pain that runs through the body twisting everything.. .the color of blood, thickness of saliva, bladder, nerve endings, brain waves, body temperature, heart beat, breath.
Forgiving seems impossible, not forgiving you, but forgiving me…me for spreading out to make a snow angel, for letting go under pressure, for not being strong enough to continue saying “no”, for not being able to stop you. It’s an emblematic disgrace of many times I’ve been fucked, when I was blind, didn’t foresee, was too weak to stop a predator. I am unforgiving of my ignorance, my weakness, my vulnerability, the access I allowed, the room I made for violation. The child in me has not learned, I have not learned a thing…not to look up and scour the windows for those intent on cruel acts. I keep looking for birds and snowflakes. For all I have been through, I am none the wiser.
The little girl is curled up now, in a ball, inside herself, depleted, cocooning, hiding, afraid, maybe gone forever. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about any of the times I’ve been fucked because “no” wasn’t enough, because common human decency didn’t apply to me just because I’m a woman. You take my body as if you have more of a right to it than I do - but that’s common knowledge, that’s commonly accepted. What you may not know is that it is me I hate…for not having the strength to stop it, you, the others. For allowing the humiliation.
The snowsuit isn’t warm enough. The snow is cold. And now I think it is snowing again. But the pain, the pain is hot, so very hot. It is burning me on the insides while the snow slowly covers me and I huddle, holding myself, hating myself, unable to get free, unable to breath, unable to move forward. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. Forgiveness…it seems as distant as the place where snow is made. I can’t say I am sorry. I’m too weak and anyway why be kind to someone you disrespect, someone you hate, someone who can’t protect you. That someone is me.
Not really a Biography
I have always been inclined to move forward, roll the stone, down, and often up, hills. I've tried to write through it all. Everything on this blog is written by me.