*Trigger warning, assault
I can’t remember your face and that used to really bother me. I told a therapist once that I was terrified I would run into you in public spaces and I wouldn’t know that it was you, because try as I may I can’t remember your face.
I remember your hands a bit. I remember them fumbling with my bra straps and opening the condom. I remember the weight of you. In my memories I remember you occupying space and that you spoke and that you left my room so easily, but, where as the memory of so much of you was hid from my memories, the pain you left behind was not.
I couldn’t even say the word for years. Rape. Date rape. Assault. I would call it a one night stand. I would call it a mistake I made. I held all that weight and guilt as my own, it makes sense that it would come out eventually. There I was in the arms of another lover, we were falling apart, in part because I was unraveling from the turmoil within. I started to sob, “I said no, I said no, I said no” the words tumbled out marked by tears. The lover had no capacity to hold it and soon he was gone.
But the word was out, and I could not go back. The questions changed once I gave it a name, once I called out the violation for what it was. No longer did I ask, “what sort of woman am I, that would let this happen?” Instead I was asking, “what sort of man are you, that you really thought this was the way to start a relationship?” What sort of person feels their right to be pleased trumps the right to hold onto a sacred sense of my being? What kind of person leaves scars with such ease and such precision?
For a while in my thoughts your were two dimensional. The flatness of your character made it easy to fold your faceless memory up and store you with the likes of other shallow villains. You must be bad through and through. You must have no spirit, no soul, no empathy, no goodness; because what sort of person does evil things? Evil ones, and as I am not evil that put me over here and you far over there.
But you are not a fictional character. You are real as I am real–and our realness is what put our lives in a collision course of choices, our embodiment is what made this wound on my heart possible. Our realness also makes it impossible for you to be a paper villain. While you do not have a face, you gave me enough details to know that you were part of a family. While I suppose it is possible that you were born from villains, it is more likely that you were just born as a son, trained in the family business, living in this city and has hopes and desires and scars and triumphs.
From: Draft 2.20.18 “That is the thing about scars, about pain and about memory–in them is not always the easy labels of “right” or “wrong,” they don’t have villains with evil at the core of their being, or heroes with hearts of gold. In the vilest of my memories the one that hurt me is still nuanced, a person with soul and strengths (I assume), weakness and scars of their own, motives of love and motives of malice–what they did left marks across my heart, but who they are is more than the sum of the pain they left in their wake.”
Is this what forgiveness looks like? Is your face erased so that if I saw you, you would have a second chance to see me as the real person that you hurt? Or has my face disappeared too? Perhaps the wound on your soul and heart has been eased by the passing of years? Perhaps you have asked all the questions about “what sort of man am I?” Maybe you have repented and asked God to clear your account. Maybe.
But I still hope to never see you again.