“Abstract Feelings” Painting by Pixie Cold – via deviantART
**Trigger warning – rape is discussed**
I read the poem. It didn’t describe me, but it reminded me and inspired me to lay down another of my stones. I need to let this go.
This post is a little disjointed, but I’m trying to articulate something I haven’t shared for 23-years. To anyone.
When I was 17, I went to Vancouver with some friends for a weekend. It was supposed to be to visit my friend’s boyfriend, because he had recently moved there. She missed him, and didn’t want to go alone, so I went along with her and another friend drove.
Over the course of the night once we got there, I was separated from my friends. I was with two of the boyfriend’s buddies, Trevor and Chainsaw. Yeah, I know. In hindsight being with anyone named “chainsaw” is a bad, fucking idea.
We wandered around for a while, and ended up crashing on the floor of another friend of Trevor’s.
I remember distinctly: being freaked out in a city I didn’t know, and having no way of finding my friends; I had no idea where I was; I was tired as fuck; and I didn’t know the guys I was with.
Vacillating between exhaustion and terror, I lay there on my stomach on the floor, fully clothed, drifting in and out of sleep.
Trevor was sleeping on my right side, and Chainsaw (I’m still annoyed with myself for going anywhere with him) was sleeping off to the left.
At least I thought he was sleeping.
I had just slipped into a fitful sleep, when I suddenly felt tugging at the back of my jeans.
Then tugging at the front of my jeans.
My eyes flew open and I slowly sucked in a breath of air, as he had succeeded in his efforts of removal.
Trevor opened his eyes slowly at first, looked at me, then opened his eyes wider.
He saw me laying there, on my stomach, refusing to move. Too scared to move.
He glanced sideways at Chainsaw. Seeing his efforts to force himself on me. Getting frustrated. Angry. Watching me lay perfectly still.
Trevor shifted his weight a little, as though to get up.
As he did, Chainsaw gave-up. He shoved me roughly, and muttered: “Fucking bitch!”
Then he got up and left.
I grabbed at my jeans and pulled them back up as I still lay there.
I was in shock.
Trevor looked horrified and sorry at the same time.
He asked me if I was ok.
I shook my head and mumbled something about finding my friend and getting home.
Trevor did help me find my friends that day.
The one wasn’t much of a friend after that, though. We drifted apart. I never talked to her again.
At least one of the guys I was with, that horrible night in Vancouver, wasn’t awful.
I’m positive the events would have unfolded much differently had Trevor not been there.
I needed to write this post so I could let it go.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you.