This is my warning to anybody that may read this: this post may be triggering. Seriously, I need to unload some serious shit and some of its not so nice for the traumatized mind to deal with. I know, because I myself have read things that have had warnings, not paid them any heed, and ended up non functional for days. Do not read this if your soul is of a delicate nature. At the moment, I am suffering from insomnia and anxiety, so much so that I've stopped eating. I think the not eating part is fantastic seeing as I've already lost a considerable amount of weight...but I know better. Needless to say, my mind is not right. I may have gone a little crazy, but in my insanity I've found a brutalized clarity which is both honest and painful.
When I got sick, and was complaining about hospitals and how shitty needles were to a friend one time, he responded by proclaiming that I was a strong Black woman, and he was sure that I'd be fine. I was infuriated, and of course let him know. I was/am a strong Black woman because I had to be. I didn't have a choice in the matter, it was either live and fight another day or kill myself.
More recently while complaining to said friend about how completely fucked up I was, I got the response that no, indeed I wasn't and that I just needed to relax (or some such shit). That's when I snapped and asked:
He did have a clue. But apparently us Black women are incapable of human emotions, so anything that happens to us is no big deal.
I have no doubt that my reunion with my first family will be excruciatingly raw. Sure questions will be finally answered, but I will be forced to deal with the reality of my life. This may be good, but parts of this scare the bejesus out of me.
I first realized this fact after the discovery of my father and brother. My father turns out is a douchebag. He spreads his seed, but takes responsibility for none. From the little I've learned about him, he seems at the very least incredibly selfish and immature, and at the worst just plain cruel. But I expected that.
My brother on the other hand seems like a decent human being trying to navigate his way through this crazy world. To him I'm not just the sister he heard about, but the baby sister he had but then disappeared. My big brother remembers the baby that disappeared, and loved and missed her. And I don't know how to deal with that. Because I'm used to men being douchebags. I'm used to them being untrustworthy.
In all honesty, I hate men. What that declaration really means is a mystery even to me. Every man that has ever been in my life has done me wrong in some way or another, with maybe one exception. That exception was only because I did him wrong before he could do any real damage. To be fair, a more accurate word for what I feel might be fear. I fear men. As a woman who has only ever been with men, and probably will continue to be with men this serves as quite the dilemma.
Unfortunately, my fear in truth is of a specific type of man. The Black man. My brother is a Black man. My family is full of Black men. Not that I haven't been wronged by men of other races in my lifetime, but the fear I have of Black men is induced as a result of some serious trauma.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was there looking out for a friend while she had casual sex. It wasn't the first time I went along with her to make sure she was okay, to take a taxi with her home or give her a ride if I was driving. I'd sit on the couch and watch tv in some strangers house making small talk with people I rather not have to talk to while she got her jollies. No big deal. She was a big girl and could make her own decisions, and I could make mine. I worried about her sexcapades, but then in all honesty have had my own so I didn't feel the need to judge as long as she was ok with it all.
This time was different. Nothing about that night made sense. I remember being lead upstairs by one guy, then three grown men being on me. Me screaming for them to stop, me being held down, me crying, begging for it to stop. Me trying to persuade them to at least wear condoms. Always two holding me down. People coming in and out of the room. All men. I managed to escape, but couldn't find my clothes, so I locked myself in the bathroom and contemplated running to my friends apartment close by. The door. The door being broken open, me trying to close it...being dragged back to the room to endure more.
When it was all done I asked for my friend, we had to go. My friend was sleeping I was told. I shouldn't wake her I was told. I shouldn't worry about finding my clothes, they could be found in the morning. I cried. I fell asleep in the arms of one of my rapists.
I don't know why I am writing this. I've only ever told one person in detail the events of that night. That night. The events. The memory haunts me like a hostile spirit whom has not been properly laid to rest. Every damn day of my life I deal with what happened to me four years ago. Every time I get onto an elevator with a Black man by myself, or have to wait at a bus stop, or walk down the street. Instinctively my body reacts like the animal of prey in the presence of a predator. And I hate it. And I hate myself even more for even feeling and thinking the thoughts which go along with the uncontrollable actions of one who is afraid. How can one hate what they also love?
The first man I saw after the incident happened was my ex. A Black man. I cried to him, told him what had happened. He got mad and became physically abusive because I refused to sleep with him. The next relationship I got into was sheer stupidity on my part. I was desperate for a sense of security. I needed a big strong Black man to hold my hand and let me cry while telling me it was ok. To take it slow. That's not what I got. Instead this next man held me down too, and forced himself inside of me. I told him to get tested because of what happened, that I had contracted 2 STDs from my rapists, and that it hadn't been that long since I was advised to not have sex. I am stupid. I know. But I had just moved to a new city where I knew nobody.
Next dude tested positive for an STD. Obviously it was me who gave it to him. Obviously there could be no one else who could of done such a thing. He was oh so understanding about it though. Considering the situation, its not like it was really my fault. Then my results came back from the test I retook. Turns out I was clean. I.was.clean. His ex gave him the disease, not me. The drugs must have been in my system still, so I was fine. Followup tests, fine. Fuck you jackass.
The next man I dated, I dated out of spite to hurt the one man who never really hurt me, who was actually good to me. It was his best friend. We took it slow. Real slow. I adored him. I figured after waiting so long he must have to respect me. I waited so long because in honesty I needed to be 100% sure I wasn't HIV positive. I wasn't. We finally did the act...and...
When I finally got tired of the games, I came right out and let it be known that I wanted things to be serious. I explained to him why I made him wait...big mistake. If I had ever thought I had ever been anything other than a whore to him, a sideline ho that he called now and again for a booty call, I got my dose of Buckley's and recovered from that delusion.
This is my history. This is my life. Part of my life. A small part of my life. There are things that have happened to me in my past that I may never talk about openly. How will my first family understand? I'm afraid to meet my own brother because I don't understand what family is, I don't understand what having a brother is like, I don't get how people can love me, just because... My brother is a man, but he is my brother...so I love someone whom I hate? Or I hate someone whom I love?
Strong Black (adopted) woman....more like scared little Black (abandoned) girl.
The word whore should be in the dictionary as a synonym for damaged goods.
*Photo Credit via Revolvver