Choke pinned down sex
A tight pain in a place I never knew could hurt. Too scared to tell my parents what had happened, I learned to sob soundlessly into my pillow. Anyone could see us, but the streets were empty. Once, my university roommate saw the gashes on my upper arms. After that, I began to dissociate more and more during sex. And that scared me.
I craved any sort of control because I felt I had none. At night, I huddled under my stars-and-moon comforter and wished I could die. Why did I act like nothing had happened? I liked her immediately. It took me hours to fall asleep, and the nightmares kicked me awake. In many ways, that person was a stranger—she was worth good things, love, support, happiness. I wanted to feel invincible, even if it was fleeting, even if it was fake. He told me that he had gotten carried away. I pushed at his head, my fingers a starfish in his hair. I passed my one-year mark at therapy recently. In , an Alberta judge named Robin Camp berated a year-old girl who was testifying about her sexual assault. No and no and no. I was outside on the backyard patio when I saw my high school rapist walk in with a date. Thumbprint bruises on my thighs. Oral sex often triggered my panic attacks—it was too intimate, too vulnerable. It reminded me of something my dad had told me once. My hamper barfed dirty clothes, pizza boxes made pyramids under my sink, and the fruit in my fridge reeked of rot. Harder still when I told him to put the condom back in his pocket. The Ghomeshi case was a turning point in the new politics of sexual assault. Like my last rapist, Turner was quick to downplay his actions and blame his behaviour on alcohol. We resorted to blunt butter knives for months, crookedly sawing carrots, cheese, peppers. I wanted to reduce myself, to abuse my body back into submission. I also learned how many of my friends had stories similar to mine. Then I made him pancakes for breakfast. Blood on my underwear.
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