But I Was in His Bed

This poem may be graphic and triggering to sexual assault survivors so proceed with caution.

And they all tell me that it was not my fault. I tell them that I know because I want to know. I want to believe them, I really do. But I was drunk and in his bed… and I was just reading an article on a girl who was drinking one night with some older guys whom she did not know very well. She was drunk and in his bed… and she was raped that night. And I thought it seemed shockingly similar to my situation. I believe she was raped and I know that if my situation was like her’s than I should allow myself to believe that I was too. But I scroll through the comments on the article. There were numerous words of encouragement. But one comment caught my eye. A woman stated that “maybe we need to be teaching girls to not get drunk with strangers.” And I don't know why but that hit me like a ton, make that 10 tons, of bricks; but it did. The positive comments no longer mattered because I was most definitely taught to not get drunk with strangers. I did it anyway. Still everyday I tell myself that it was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. I have to say it over and over again because it is almost impossible for me to let myself believe it. The more I think about it the more I doubt myself because I did so many things wrong that night. In all actuality I did absolutely everything wrong that night. Is there anything I did right that night? I was drunk and in his bed… I knew how poorly I handled liquor. I drank it anyway; with people whom I barely knew. I spent the night with them. How did I not see how stupid that was? Maybe I did? Maybe I didn't care? And then I think that maybe I deserved it for being so goddamn stupid. I ponder on this before I let my logic kick in. I let myself remember my fractured wrist. I let myself remember the bruises which started as bright red spots on my hip bones and arms. Turning slowly to a purple, green, yellow, and disappearing. And I know that I must have been fighting him; even if I cannot remember it. I tell myself that you do not get bruises like that from consensual sex. But it is so very easy to forget about bruises which I can no longer see. It is so easy to minimize them and alter their presence in my memory. And so I let myself remember waking up and seeing the deep scratches on his back, left behind by my hysterical finger nails; the patches of purple my teeth scattered pleadingly across his shoulders and arms. I remember how that image nearly made me vomit. These could be taken for signs of struggle, right? But what if he mistook them for signs of rough or kinky sex? I do not remember saying anything at all. But did I have to? Afterall, I was drunk and in his bed... I do not remember saying no. But did I have to? Afterall, I was drifting in and out of conscious. And so it continuous. The constant cycle of this fervent internal conflict. A never-ending battle between logic and emotion. All because I was drunk and in his bed… And they tell me that I have control over what I do with this pain. If that is so, explain to me how I can feel so helpless. I tell myself that I have a choice in this. But I do not think the choice is black or white. Because they also tell me that my pain needs to be felt. What they don't understand is that my sorrow came like the rain and not just a dainty sprinkle in spring on a warm afternoon. When it rains it is the thunderstorm on a dark day in July. It is strong winds, hail, and lightning demolishing anything that dares to brave the storm. It is heavy rainfall, accumulating quickly and I had no choice but to build a dam. The water level rises steadily but one can only use so much water. Without a break from this chaos, the dam is bound to overflow. If the dam break, the town will be overwhelmed with flooding. I am the town and I cannot afford a flood. I can only pray this rain will stop. And I know that I was drunk and in his bed…but Lord I am begging you to calm this storm.