On Solitude: Untitled (7)
I thought I might not be able to recognize him. I waited, and then meters away, I saw him, the way he walks. He took a look at his watch and walked in and out of the bar, waiting. Something never changes, like the way people walk.
How do you measure 5 years?
I was reminded again why I liked him so much. Perhaps I would still like him if we met just now. He felt so familiar. The way he laughed. The way he smelled. He brought up the past. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look back. Was it really 5 years ago? I was curious to see how 5 years could be embodied as a person.
“Even if it hurts, do you think I will let you carry it?” My bag hurts my shoulder as soon as I put more than 5 items inside.
“I always offer.” I said.
“And I always say no.” He readjusted the bag on his shoulder and we continued the walk until the last moment.
I thought about how I used to think letting men carry your bag was such a stupid idea. About how I don’t remember if he used to offer to carry my bag. About how he used to get frustrated when I didn’t wait for him to open the door for me. And now I let people do that for me.
The differences still remained. How he sees life. How I do life. And at the end of the day, how those differences manifested in our relationship. I ran too fast, too far, and too impatient with life. He couldn’t keep up. He wouldn't keep up. And he didn’t want to keep up. Not with me, but with himself. At the end of the day, 5 years feel like everything has changed and nothing has changed.
It was never too late. It was never too young. It was just the right time for the right reason.
Which one is more difficult?
Is it admitting to yourself that you’ve been violated? Or admitting to others that you’ve been violated so you can ask for help? Or admitting to others that you’ve been violated so you can ask for help and bear the risk of being judged, questioned, or, even worse, taken advantage of?
I cannot tell. I think they’re all extremely difficult. And people keep asking me what I want to do.
Every time I try to talk about it, I risk the chance of being triggered again and again by various questions, by their shock, and by the millisecond of their facial expressions of wanting to know what happened. Whenever I am triggered, I feel an indescribable sensation in my head. Tickling and pressured. Then I would try to do some deep breathing. I would imagine being hugged by the people I love. I would imagine lying on their laps and being caressed gently. I would name the items I can see, the smell I can smell, and the sound I can hear. I would think about children, dogs, and flowers. I would wait for the sensation to subside. Then I continue my life.
There is always a deep sense of sadness coming out after I try to talk about what happened to me.
Every time I try to talk about it, I cannot help but want to explain and defend myself. To say, hey I was really violated and this is what I’ve done to resist it. Some ask me what I want to do about it. To do what? Haven’t I done enough? Isn’t it already enough that I haven’t fallen apart at this point? That I still remember to do some deep breathing? Why is it my responsibility to inform the perpetrator of what they have done? Why do they ask me if I was drunk or if he’s drunk? What does that have to do with imposing violence on others? Something doesn’t add up here.
Why do I feel the need to convince others that I’ve been hurt? Where does that come from? Is it because the damage was something unmeasurable and invisible? Is it because if something “cannot be documented” it doesn’t happen? People show me their support by saying “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.” But I don’t want to talk about it.
I just want to be loved.
On September 27th, 2024, a man named Blagoy Yordanov sexually assaulted and raped me.
And I refuse to be silent about it.
