no.

[consolecadet]

i don't want pity. i don't want simpering sympathetic asspats. i don't want people to cringe and tiptoe around me like the floor is eggshells because they're afraid how i'm going to react.
i don't want you to tell me that this wasn't my fault, because a) i've already been told and b) i'm not sure i can believe you.

i don't want attention.

i don't want to be viewed as this weak and fragile woman-creature who's had a traumatic experience and needs to be coddled.
i don't want to be a fucking victim, because that isn't what is important about me. i've got a thousand other experiences more valuable and interesting than those several hundred lessons where i ended up on the ground under another woman's arm, struggling to breathe. i've got ten thousand more important than the one time she touched me.
i don't want you to think about that when you look at me. i want you to think about the time i told you about inspiration or the time i taught you what the missile gap was or the time we had a good laugh about something secretive and silly and ridiculous and wonderful.
hell, i want you to think about anything but that when you look at me. please.

i don't want you to feel sickened by what happened.
i don't want you to hate the person who did this to me.
i don't want you to feel anything about this at all. i do that enough on my own.

all i want is to be fine.