On the Fear of Violation

Wherever I go I can't get away from them...

That’s it. No more school- I’ll the great big introspective post for some other time, I want to talk about something else now.

I want to talk about the boys.

A few months after my thirteenth birthday two boys in at my school decided they were going to use me.  They would put their hands on me and stroke various parts of my body; my face, my hair, my back.

It’s been three years since it happened. I don’t see them much around school; they’re not in any of my lessons. but I always thought that when I did see them I’d hate them- I’d feel scared and I’d run away.

That never happened- every time I saw them I felt nothing, just a big empty ache inside. I’ve tried and tried to feel something- to feel scared.  I’ve stared at them as they walked towards me down the corridor and tried to feel scared so many times, but I’ve never felt anything.

It’s always worried me, if I’m not scared then I won’t stay away from them, if I’m not scared I won’t stay away from their friends, if I’m not scared, if I’m not truly terrified, then won’t have the adrenaline running through my body and I won’t run fast enough, I won’t scream loud enough.

I’ve never felt anything- until Friday night.

We were at the leaver’s ball and I was sat around a table with my friends. It was good and we were all laughing and joking.

Then he walked past me  and started talking to some people on the table next to mine. I think it was the sound of his voice that did it, it seemed to flip a switch inside me and I remember looking at him, at his face and feeling sick.

I started shaking, I couldn’t breathe, it was like I was thirteen again- stuck in that room and waiting for them to start. I reached out and grabbed the knife from the table, it was just a blunt little table knife but I grabbed it so tight that it left marks on my hand. I wanted to cry, I was so scared. He kept walking around behind me- he brushed against the person I was sitting next to and I jumped a mile in the air.

I was sat there, surrounded by people, with teachers only metres away, but in my mind that was no safety net. I was sat there, waiting to feel his hands on my shoulders again. It was like it was just me and him.

Across the table my friends kept telling me to cheer up and smile- I just shook and shook, I felt angry and bewildered and so scared. I wanted to run but I knew I couldn’t. I knew that wherever I went he would follow me. He would always find me. Because it’s not just him- it’s the knowledge that someone can hurt me- anyone can hurt me, even when I’m surrounded by people. I sat there in a crowded classroom at the age of thirteen and cried whilst they rubbed their hands over my skin.

I can remember all of it now. All the stuff that I shoved down so deep that I started to doubt whether or not it actually happened, I can remember it all. I remember his voice and his smell; I remember how much I cried when they wouldn’t stop. I remember it- and I have no idea what to do with it now.

Listening to: The sound of dad drilling downstairs, he’s repainted everything in the house and is generally driving me nuts.

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2 thoughts on “On the Fear of Violation

  1. I don’t know if it’s better to remember or better to keep those demons in the darkness. Sometimes I envy people who remember. It might help me out on getting over all this.

    • I know what you mean- either way there are down sides, I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I can remember everything. I think that the reason why it’s all come back to me now is that I’ve done about eighteen months of therapy, I’ve got all my issues out in the open and talked about everything that’s happened to me, and in doing that I’ve sort of freed up enough space in my head to actually think about this… if that makes any sense.
      An interesting point that’s just come to mind is that I remember thinking (on friday night) that if he touched me I’d turn around and stab him with the butter knife on the table, but I then thought that it wouldn’t be enough, that he’d have already done the damage and whatever I did afterwards as revenge wouldn’t be enough to undo it. I think that’s similiar to the whole problem with remembering- it doesn’t matter if we can remember or not, we still have to deal with it. The only thing that changes is the form it takes- either a covered wound (a wrong that you can’t properly remember), something throbbing under the surface that makes you feel unsettled and sick- or an open wound (one that you can remember) that makes you yelp and scream and want to run around pointing at it and trying to get help.
      Thanks for the comment, you’ve had me pondering philosophy for half an hour which has been entertaining!
      Wren

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