I Still Don’t Have A Name For What Happened To Me

Well here I am. A year later and I’m still writing about all the men in my life who have disappointed me. There’s a new one to add to the list but, I don’t want to talk about him just yet. As it turns out, that timeline of distrust can’t be erased. Not with the biggest eraser I could find and not by the hands of someone I love(d).

Also, not by ignoring it or not talking about it.

The only way to deal with it all is to sit across from my therapist one hour a week and tell her about the time my dad tried to kill himself and why whenever he posts on his Facebook about being depressed or upset the first thought on my mind is I have to reach out to him or he will try it again because I’m all he has. I have to worry about his mental state and ignore my own.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on you, being responsible for someone’s livelihood.”

“If I don’t do it, no one else will and I can’t take that chance.”

What do I call that?

Do I call it the ultimate sacrifice because I put his needs before mine?

We talk about my friends, the ones from when I was a kid. The one who made me feel uncomfortable from across the room just by staring. The one who begged me to come over and hang out because he wanted me there. He wanted me there but he never spoke up, not once. All those times he saw and heard things that he could’ve stopped. My voice was never loud enough but his was and he may not have known everything but he knew enough. All he had to do was tell him to knock it off or leave me alone, instead he kept bringing me back into the fire to get burned because he knew I would for him.

What do I call that?

Do I call it the ultimate betrayal because that’s the way it felt, knowing I couldn’t confide in my best friend?

I don’t mind talking about what happened but, I never know what to call it. He didn’t rape me. He told me about a fantasy he had where he did rape me but it didn’t happen. He said things about me, about my body and then he took advantage of my vulnerable mental state. He placed his hands where I did not want them. He tried to kiss me, put his arms around me and held me against him while I tried to push him away. I told him I was uncomfortable. I told him having his hands on me didn’t feel right.

What do I call that?

Do I call it the ultimate wound because it will never fully heal and he was my friend?

I haven’t told my therapist about the time he put his arm around me to console me after my Nan died. I haven’t told her about me going over to his house to help him with his homework and how I ended up wearing his hats and taking silly pictures. I haven’t told her that I was the one who let him in my window. I invited him to come in and sit on my bed. I willing shared my stories with him. The most personal thing, the thing I love more than anything and he listened.

He cared…or pretended to, I don’t know anymore. I can’t tell the difference.

It’s not easy talking about something when you don’t have a name for what happened. So many people have had worse trauma, real traumatic experiences and I guess I don’t feel right saying what happened to me deserves to be told.

It was only traumatic to me once I realized how hard it was to be with someone. Once I realized that I had to figure out what might trigger me and tell them to my boyfriend at the time who just wanted to be with me…or not, I’m not really sure anymore to be honest.

I was open and honest with my boyfriend at the time. I told him what happened to me and how I wouldn’t feel comfortable with certain things for a while. I told my therapist how patient he was with me and how he would never pressure me into doing anything. I told him I loved him, let him get closer than anyone ever has with my consent. But I could see how often the topic of sex came up. It didn’t make me uncomfortable, well not really. I just never knew what to say other than I’m sorry.

I wanted to, so badly but, I couldn’t get there quick enough. We weren’t on the same page, that’s clear to me now and because he won’t talk to me I have to tell my therapist that I don’t think I’ll ever be close to someone again. I tell her that I’m scared that no one will ever be able to love someone like me. It’s one of my biggest fears.

What do I call that?

Do I call it the ultimate reminder because you proved that my greatest fears can become my reality?

I don’t have names for what happened to me, just the scars that no one can see except for me.

Do I call that trauma or just the inevitable?