I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t tell him no enough times. Did I laugh? Is that why he did it? I remember telling him no, but the click of the door made it final. ‘I’m not going to fuck you,’ he said, and then unbuckled his pants.
None of that matters. Nothing matters. I don’t matter; I’m a shadow, a sheer scream pulsing through shattered glass. I hated myself. I felt dirty beyond any promise that could have ever saved my soul before. I’m ruined, filthy. God, please just let me die.
Night skies blurred into daylight; some days I didn’t get up, and others I scrambled to my feet just to keep the bare minimum going; to keep my parents from worrying that I wasn’t alive and to pay for gas in the car for the days that I drove without end, hitting the dashboard until I bled.
That clear liquid that would burn my throat, and divulge my thoughts, if only to regurgitate them hours later. The burning liquid was my best friend; my only friend really. Just like the stretches of flat land in the oil field world surrounding me, my world was barren, empty, depleted of hope far beyond my previous crises, which is a statement.
Through every pore of my being, despair flooded. I would meet eyes with those who knew my desperation; not by talking. A sad soul has a way of knowing its company. It didn’t get better. Work went from bad to worse, I began stealing petty things from my housemates for no reason.
Moving home – this was the worst of it. Back in the innocence of my parent’s home. Not leaving my basement room apart from showering, sometimes twice per week. Sleeping and waking were as one. I have no desire to live, God. Please, if you have mercy please let me die.
Weeks turned into months. Dormant, flat. No affect. No pain, no emotion. I simply existed, breathed, drank, ate. I thought about suicide, but somewhere beyond the barricade around my anger and shame, I knew it wasn’t the answer.
To be continued . . .