You haunt me some times, when the flicker of your memory flashes in my head. Your voice nauseates me when I hear it faintly in my ear. You are a tainted awful sliver of a thought, the poignant scene of the last time ever I would let you near me.

I’ve never had violent sex before. Not until I pissed you off somehow and you pounced on me, unannounced from behind. Pinning my arms to my back, there was nothing gentle or loving about what felt like an assault on my body. I feared for my safety; it felt dangerous. It felt ugly and violent; I felt powerless to stop you. I remember trying to free myself but you tightened your grip on my arm and continued, unaware of how I felt. I don’t think you cared. Truly don’t feel it mattered.

My mouth was dry by the end; cottonmouth couldn’t have come at a worst time and I was too sober for this shit. The high was gone as I prayed you’d just finish so you can let go of me. I felt my heart space hollowed; a cry lodged in that emptiness and a rude slap that this was the disgusting ending to our story. I couldn’t get the words out at any point to tell you to stop. I was in shock that this was even happening.

Later, I would tell my confidant about this. She would then tell me that the way I felt and what you did could be counted as rape. Rape. An assault by a person involving sexual intercourse with another person without that person’s consent. That word sounds foreign. I’d always equated it to dark alleys, a stranger and an unfortunate meeting that ended in medical attention and years of counseling. She told me that rape can come in different forms.

I would have never used that word to describe what happen. Even right now, it’s hard for me to say it in relation to you. It sounds like something I never would associate with my life or as an action that would happen to me, ever. That word slapped me in the face as she and I walked through the woods after I recounted what happened.

I realize that my normal response is to think that I’m overreacting by calling it that. But I do know it was a violation. It was an assault; a very unwelcomed one. And that I felt powerless. And scared. And that it was terrible. That you ripped into my soul in a way that no one had ever done. And that I have to forgive myself for the actions that happened, no matter what I call it. I will not be your victim. I am not a victim or survivor. Just a woman who is letting herself remember who you really are beneath the facade and the bullshit you present to others.

-Carmen Mojica

Hija De Mi Madre – Carmen Mojica

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