On Sex (or, Why I Still Doubt My Own Self Efficacy)

Something I never thought I'd write about is sex.  I'm all for sex positivity, body positivity, comprehensive sex ed, and all sorts of other things that hang around in that category, whatever it is.

But I never thought I'd write about sex because -- to me -- it's a highly private experience.  I don't recount sexual encounters with friends.  I don't even feel that comfortable when someone else recounts theirs with me, though I generally try to play it cool.  It's just... my own business, yeah?  I don't feel the need to share.

And yet, here I am, writing about sex.  Partially because I write to get things off my mind.  Mostly that, I guess.  And also partially because I like to put things out there into the world that I think other people might be feeling but not expressing; things I wish I'd read before I'd had the experience necessary to write about them.

It's taken me a long while and many tries to get this on paper (/screen), many attempts cut short by crippling fear, doubt, and some tears.  I desperately do not want others to see myself the way I have seen myself, to see myself the way I am about to portray myself.  But I think it's important that this time I just do it.

So, here I am.  Sex.  Let's talk about it.

About a year ago, I read a short piece on Medium about sexual assault, and I haven't been able to shake it from my mind since.  It opened up a can of worms inside of me that I had tucked away so carefully.  It forced me to ask myself questions I desperately did not want to ask.  The biggest, scariest question at hand: had I ever been sexually assaulted?

The answer still eludes me to some degree.  What I can say for sure is that I have had sex I did not want to have.

This admission alone made me want to crawl into myself, ashamed, never again to face the throngs of feminist activists I'd so happily surrounded myself with before.  Because the idea that I allowed this to happen -- that I knowingly, consciously, willingly participated in it -- seemed like a huge slap in the face to everyone who never got to make that conscious decision.  How could I give up so easily when others never got the chance to even fight back?  Was I a hack?  Was I a victim?  What the hell kind of place did I have protesting sexual assault of others when I let the lines blur for myself?

The difficulty I faced answering these questions overwhelmed me.

I didn't feel comfortable landing on "I'm a victim of sexual assault."  And I still don't, for multiple reasons.
One, I didn't count what happened to me as assault.  And claiming victimhood without that cheapens the stories of those with rightful claims.
Two, I could not bear to imagine myself as a victim of sexual assault.  It was absolutely out of line with everything I believe about myself.  I am strong. I have no problem saying no. I am radical. I am not to be fucked with. I am NOT a victim.

The problem was, and continues to be, that I cannot tell which of those two reasons is the true reason why I don't say I was sexually assaulted.  It is because I wasn't sexually assaulted, or is it because admitting I was would tear apart my entire identity and break me down into a person I believed in my heart of hearts I'd never be?

The real hard honest truth is that I don't know.  I think, maybe, it's a little of both.
"Assault" doesn't feel like it accurately describes me agreeing tepidly to act in a way I thought would please someone else.
"Assault" doesn't feel like it accurately describes me, worried about what aggressive mood swings I'd have to deal with if I declined, giving in so the night would be easier.
"Assault" does not accurately describe what happened to me, because I was an active participant.  I made it happen.  I could have refused, I could have ignored the bad mood afterward, I could have gone home, I could have ended the whole thing.

So why the fuck didn't I?

That's what haunts me.  Why the fuck didn't I just leave?  Why was I so shitless that I couldn't muster up the courage to not have sex?  Why, faced with the knowledge that whether or not I gave in any particular night, the moods were right around the corner, did I still do it?

These are questions that I really truly still wrestle with.  These are questions that have fucked me up, in a big way, for a long time.  I suppress them, mostly, and have only ever voiced them out loud maybe once.  But they chip away at me when I read a blog post about rape, or I hear a friend question the truthfulness of another's claim to victimhood, and I can only wonder: what would they say about me if they knew?

(By the way, let me tell you: that cannot be a fun claim to make.  I have spent so much energy warding it off because it feels humiliating to even consider it.  To stand up and say to the world: "I was too cowardly to fight. I let it happen. I was weak" is not something I, or anyone, clamors for.  If someone makes that claim, for goodness sake, believe that they have spent hours, days, months, or years carefully considering whether or not they can do so truthfully, and whether or not they can handle what happens when they do.)

I cannot, will not, and have no interest in claiming victimhood because when I get down to it, I feel that I am only a victim to my own humiliating mistakes.  After years of teaching my friends that they don't owe anyone anything, coaching them on how to say no, I found myself needing a refresher course.  I was suddenly "that girl" who stayed for too long, who said yes when she didn't really mean it, who others will say deserved it, who they'll say is just being dramatic because she regrets the decisions she made.

I guess it is all a little dramatic, to write out your feelings in a public blog post.  And yes, I regret the decisions I made in the deepest part of my heart.  I should have left.  I shouldn't have given in.  I was weak.

And these are the things I repeat to myself, that fuck me up and humiliate me: I should have left, I shouldn't have given in, I was weak.  I should have left, I shouldn't have given in, I was weak.  I should have left, I shouldn't have given in, I was weak.  I should have left...

And on and on it goes.  I have no one to blame but myself, I repeat.  I should have been stronger.  I should have been smarter.  I regret my decisions.

I can't stop feeling this way a lot of days.  Because it happened, and I feel guilty, and I feel like a fake. And I feel guilty for feeling like a fake.  And I feel like a fake for feeling guilty.  Ya feel?

But then, on my worst days, I think to myself: talk to yourself like you'd talk to a friend.  You wouldn't blame a friend for staying.  You'd recognize the intricacies.  You'd recognize that things were fucked up.  You felt stuck.  You didn't see a way out.  And even if you should have been smarter, you are not a bad person for staying.  You are not a fake for giving in.

But when I tell myself the story: "I felt bad. I was scared of dealing with the consequences of saying no. I could have left. I didn't." I just feel... fake? guilty? stupid? awful.

So it goes around in circles, or it has for the last... long time.  I blame myself, and I forgive myself, and I take back the forgiveness, and I tell myself to take responsibility for my actions, and I tell myself that I can do that without beating myself up for the rest of my life.  And I land, on the good days, in a place where I can be okay with what happened and trust myself not to do it again.

But the problem is that while I'm busy over here trying to decide whether or not to forgive myself, I know there are countless others who will never even reach that place of questioning.  There are those who will forever believe, as it is ingrained in them from every piece of pop media and peer encounter they consume, that it was their fault.  That they deserved it.  That they're being dramatic.

I feel like I can say to them what I can't say to myself:
It was not your fault.
You didn't deserve it.
You're not being dramatic.

Our culture is ripe with the examples we feed to people, but especially girls, that they are not in charge of their own bodies.  But then when they give up their bodily autonomy, we are so quick to turn around and blame them: didn't they know they could have said no??

So what am I trying to say here?  Who fucking knows.  This is not poetic or eloquent; there is no grand hopeful conclusion or call to action.  I think I'm just trying to make myself feel better.  By talking about it.  If I talk about it, maybe I won't feel so ashamed.

And I'm hoping that in putting this out there, where maybe in some distant alternate universe it will resonate with someone and make them feel a little less alone, I'll have done some good.  And I won't have to feel so fake.  And I won't have to feel so guilty.  And when I read about rape, I won't have to curl up and cry in my bed or leave the office for a walk.  The day won't be shot.  I'll be okay.

I'll be okay.

twenty three

22 was a big one,

though I guess I could say that every year.  They're all the same size, really,

aren't they.

But this one felt big.

A year of changes, of transitions.

I moved cities twice,

apartments four times;

I learned how to navigate craigslist apartment listings with some modicum of wisdom.

I graduated college,

found a job I loved

and then another job that suits me better,

a job that makes me excited to get out of bed every morning and put my feet on the ground.

I left a toxic relationship

and started a healthy one.

I tried to forget the worst parts of the former, to bury the person I thought they meant I'd become;

I learned that forgetting is impossible and healing is a big job;

I learned to talk about it little by little;

I remembered what it feels like to feel safe in someone's love.

I sat in a girl's bedroom and fell in love with her bookshelf,

and then a little later with her.

And in the interim, I took myself on a lot of great dates.

I lost my grandfather,

and in returning east for a funeral realized how badly I wanted to return for good.

I felt the pull of familial love;

I missed my grandfather and cried a lot;

I decided I didn't want to miss people while they are still around.

I learned to talk on the phone,

and I learned how much I love talking on the phone.

I learned to listen to myself when I miss people and wonder what they're up to;

I learned to ask how people are doing.

In turn, I had a lot of important phone conversations, about everything and nothing, on the way home from the grocery store or on a lap around the park.

I grew, a lot,

not physically.

I learned about what I like and what I hold as valuable and what my priorities are in work and relationships and interior decoration.  I learned about the relationship between quality and price and allowed myself to spend money on real winter clothes and nice-smelling candles.

I became impossibly more confident in my body;

I decided I am cute.

I cut off most of my hair.

I started and stopped running a thousand times. I started paying attention to my injuries.  I discovered the beauty of deck-of-cards workouts.

I fell back in love with the world.

I experienced pain and loss and suffering and watched those I love do the same.

I woke up one morning and thought the world was a beautiful place anyway,

which I hadn't thought in a while,

not really,

not like I used to.

Inevitably, I made a lot of mistakes;

I forgave myself;

I wondered if I should.

I promised to be better.

I broke that promise.

I tried again.

I thought about what "better" means.

A while ago I sat in the living room with my roommate and she reflected that she is probably the happiest right now that she has ever been.

I wondered if that was true for me.

I determined it may well be.

I've been through times in the past where I felt so happy it was physically painful, like I might explode, like I couldn't explain it to anyone without crying, and even then,

I couldn't explain it to anyone.

I don't cry like that now

but

I found a city and an apartment and a roommate and a job and a team and a girl and a cat and a family and a life that I love.

I walk home over the bridge some days with my heart so full, but not so heavy,

looking at the lights across the river,

the skyline that made me forgive four o'clock sunsets.

I am still trying to be better;

I always will be.

But damn, 22. You saw the worst and the best of me. In that order.

You forced me to check the person I am and think critically about the person I want to be.

And here's the part that's uncomfortably sappy, even for me, so leave now if you please:
For a long time I've said that when I grow up, what I most want to be is happy.

I think the marker of growing up is a lot fuzzier than I once imagined it to be,

but I'm somewhere on my way,

and right here, at the end of my year of transitions,

I am so happy to be happy.

Where did all the posts go

If you've been here before
and now you're back
and you're wondering where all the posts have gone:

I wanted a new blog but all the good and easy and free platforms already have the handle I want registered by someone else
so
here we are again

in a new (untrue)
(relatively unimproved)
(but slightly different)
blog.

I've deleted most of my old posts, and kept some for posterity.  Not the good ones, per se, but the ones I couldn't bear to delete because I remembered so so strongly what I felt in that moment,
the ones that brought me back,
that I am maybe embarrassed by but don't want myself to forget.
The nostalgic ones.

All but one from before college are gone.
Freshman year posts win in numbers.
and 2012 got entirely shafted.

But welcome back, anyway.  And if you're new, just... welcome.  Occasionally I write things.