I’m starting this post in between coats of nail polish – a very pale baby blue, in case you were wondering – which seems like an odd thing to be doing, tonight. Tomorrow, I have my first appointment, maybe my last, at the Rape Crisis Centre.
And that’s where I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Crisis? What crisis? It was years ago. That’s hardly a crisis, you attention seeking drama queen. Think of all the women who really need a slot and you’re wasting time that could be spent on a woman in a real crisis.
I’m grinding my teeth.
The back of my mouth is tingling, the pre-puke warning.
My throat is clenching down hot bile.
My heart is pounding, and skipping over its own beats.
My legs are melting bones.
My fingers are long, awkward spindles of uselessness.
My mind is mouldy custard.
I don’t want to be alone tonight, or in the morning or tomorrow afternoon when I am due to go but I don’t want anyone to touch my pringling skin that feels like the crumbling scales of a dying fish. Touch it, and the fish falls away from itself.
How do I explain how sorry I am? How do I let them know that I’m aware I’m a time waster?
Why can’t I remember it all?
The Thing That Happened.
And then, that other time. What was it? It wasn’t right. I said no, I cried. I gave up. I just lay there, drinking my salt tears silently, watching my hip bones jerk and thinking they’d break.
Tonight I feel lonely. And scared. And guilty. And ashamed.
Tonight I could do with a boyfriend, a good one, like that one good one that I had, to tell me it will be ok. Tonight I feel very single.
This is what happens when you cut yourself off.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk out through my door and in through their door and tell this story again. I would rather not taste the words in mouth again or hear my voice grating against shameful memories.
I’d rather a truckload of earth and bury the damn thing under a new oak memory, solid and safe and solitary.