Choking on the Truth

We don't always tell our partners what is going on inside our heads. We don't always have to. Sometimes they know just what to do.

You ask me why I can’t sleep.

And I want to tell you about how a stranger once robbed our house while I was taking a shower. I was fifteen years old and ever since my life has been a series of what if’s. What if I had left the shower two minutes earlier? What if this stranger was someone we knew? What if I hadn’t locked the bathroom door out of habit? What if my sister hadn’t left the kitchen door unlocked when she left, leaving me home alone without warning?

Ever since I have spent my nights listening to every single sound in the house, because I am terrified of burglars. Terrified because every nightmare ends with strangers entering my room and holding me down as they do unspeakable things to me. Terrified because some nights I can’t tell the difference between a having a nightmare and being awake. Because sometimes when I wake up and turn on the lights, those figures don’t disappear. Because every time that happens I am frozen to the spot, unable to scream of run or do anything, and I’m afraid that’s exactly what would’ve happened if I had left the shower two minutes earlier that day.

But instead I tell you I’m worried about my deadlines.

 

You ask me if it feels good when you touch me like that.

And I want to tell you about how the last time someone touched me like that, right there, it hadn’t been consensual. I was nineteen years old and it took me way too long to tell him to stop. I didn’t know what to do. My body froze up and I let him touch me. I allowed him to roam his hands where I didn’t want them, because I couldn’t get my voice to work. And when I finally managed to speak up, it felt like I had encouraged his actions with my silence. It felt like it was my own fault for getting into that situation. Maybe it was. Even now I’m not so sure about it.

I was nineteen years old and when I confronted him about it the next day, he told me I had enjoyed it. I was so taken aback that the conversation ended there. It took me weeks before I finally told a close friend about it. They told me he had no right to do that. So why did it feel as if I was in the wrong?

But instead I tell you it feels good and I run my hands through your hair before kissing you.

 

You ask me why I’m always so loud.

And I want to tell you that in order to be heard in my family, you have to really speak up. In order to be listened to, you have to scream. It’s what I grew up to. Most of the time my mother is too busy talking over me to hear what I’m saying. Most of the time my voice fades under the weight of their opinions and nobody asks me what I wanted to say afterwards.

I want to tell you about how all these things happened to me, and how every single time my voice failed me. I want to tell you that my most common nightmares are about people wanting to hurt me, and me being unable to do anything other than beg them to stop. They never listen. It makes me feel utterly powerless.

But instead I tell you I’m enthusiastic and that I’ll try to tone it down.

 

I tell you I’m worried about my deadlines and you pull me closer until our bodies fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. You don’t realise it, but you make me feel protected and I finally manage to stop listening to every tiny sound in the apartment.

I tell you it feels good and the kiss is gentle and passionate and your hands discover every inch of my body, but it’s consensual this time.

I tell you I’ll try to tone it down and you laugh it off and say that at least you’ll always know where to find me, you just have to listen to my voice.

And you'll never know how you manage to comfort me without even realising I needed it.