on gravity


Rape is not the same for everyone.

For me, it left a strange gravitational pull. The kind that would lead me drunkenly to stand outside our freshman dorm in the other three years of college, the kind that let me recognize the shape of my rapist’s body standing across the football field, the kind that led me over there to sit on a bench near him and pretend to read. It was a gravity in me that didn’t want him to forget, or didn’t want me to forget. Both. I orbited around him and his former dorm room for four years.

I wish that instead we had been magnetic fields that repelled each other, that I could have transferred to a faraway school and led an entirely different life, found new friends. It was early enough into the school year that if escaping had been my focus, it would not have been hard.

It happened on September 3rd and now I want today erased from my calendar, or I want to linger in it forever, or everything at once

Rape is not the same for everyone.

Some people kill themselves. Some people kill their rapists. Some people decide to lead life to the fullest. I did a lot of just hanging around. I took a lot of classes and joined clubs and drank too much and cried in public.

Rape is not the same for everyone.

Probably he doesn’t know that this day is significant. Maybe he thinks I’ve forgiven him (for awhile, I thought I had). There is no such thing as forgetting. There is just: five years ago this happened. It was nothing special. It was not how I thought college would go. It changed me forever or I am just the same as I would have been. I want this day to not exist or I want to tattoo it on my body so everyone knows. I want my friends to hold my hand or to pretend that nothing is wrong. I want to be alone or surrounded. Rape is not the same for everyone, it’s not the same for me from moment to moment. Maybe I’ve said all of this before, in different words. Maybe I should stop talking about it. 

We orbit from afar now, no longer stuck on the same small college campus. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he knows where I am. but I feel that gravity, still. I feel the pull toward a little dorm room in the middle of nowhere, Connecticut. I feel the pull toward familiar darkness. There’s not a distinct light at the end of any tunnel, there is no tunnel, there’s only some vague idea of forward, of breaking free. Floating, maybe.

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