that night
The things I write here, most of them are experiences I have examined and dissected and journaled about extensively over the years, maybe even talked about at some point. This one, this...I have never written of it or spoken of it. It's fair to say I have refused to acknowledge the occurrence since it happened. I expect this to be fairly difficult to write, since it will involve exploring the memory. You can generally tell by the way my tenses get all confused.
It wasn't long after the psych ward. It could not have been, at least, because I was still taking medication.
I had a coworker at the time that was a bit of a metalhead, so we would talk about music. He was coping with severe OCD and agoraphobia with alcohol, and had finally checked himself into the mental hospital. I had always said I would not go that route, but in the end, his example gave me the courage to go.
Anyway. The Gathering and Lacuna Coil were in town, and my coworker and I were going to go, along with a friend of his. Not a date, of course, just metalheads going to see marvelous symphonic metal.
His friend lived a matter of blocks from me, and the plan had been to congregate at the friends house - I think his name was Rob - and go together to the venue.
Metal concert, goth chick - corset, heels, fishnet stockings. Does it matter what I was wearing? Should it matter? Was it any different than any other metalhead goth chick?
According to plan, I made my way to Rob's house, but at the last moment, my coworker bailed. Not terribly surprising, I suppose, given his issues. It wasn't going to change anything for me, though. He was short, muscular, pale blonde hair. To be fair, most of the population is short to me, though.
I suppose in retrospect I could see how Rob would've interpreted that as a deliberate setup by my coworker. I don't think it was, though. I don't know. I was quite emotionally fragile, a curious combination of that fragility and a medicated haze. The last round of cuts were still scabbed over on my thighs, but I was working very hard at recovery.
At the show, Rob stayed around me, instead of disappearing to wherever. As expected, I ran into dozens of acquaintances. We alternated fetching drinks from the bar, but I carefully limited my consumption. It seemed as if the alcohol was affecting me differently than it ever had.
The show was fantastic, the music was glorious. the show concluded and we quickly made our exit - I don't like crowds very much. Back to the designated meeting place, Rob's house, and he invites me in, wanting to show me some video footage of some esoteric metal band he thought I'd enjoy.
Was accepting that invitation my mistake? Is it a mistake to accept hospitality? Or is that only a danger when you're a woman with sad eyes? I don't know.
There were a lot of books, mostly belonging to the roommate. As is my habit, I went through the entire bookshelf. Why is that detail important? I don't know, but it's seared in my brain.
The offer of a drink, the DVD of ...Type O Negative, maybe? No, there were cellos. I'm on the couch, tucked into the corner on the left side. I don't like leaving both sides exposed, ever. Is that weird? I don't know. My feet were tucked underneath me, all body language signals radiating CLOSED. DO NOT APPROACH. The music is loud, far too loud for midnight in the city. I remember wondering why. Everything is fuzzy, so very fuzzy and I don't know why because I seriously only had three drinks.
Three drinks. That became such an important number afterwards. Three. Not thirteen. Three. Over at least two hours.
He's on me, forcing my legs apart. My corner of safety has become a prison, blocking escape and movement. I push at hard shoulders, I think I go after pressure points but I could tell even then my strength is feeble, inexplicably feeble. I remember what it felt like, hitting against collarbone. I know I'm crying, I remember so distinctly the sensation of tears sliding down my nose, repeating nonononono like it's some mantra, a prayer to anything that will listen.
Nothing does.
The music is so loud.
My reality is fragmented.
I lurch to the bathroom, black eyeliner streaked down my face and rifle through the medicine cabinet looking for anything sharp, anything at all in an orange plastic bottle. He comes in to find me scrabbling frantically with my fingernails to take apart a safety razor, to remove the blades from their protective casings. I just have to purge this thing that has happened, and nothing is better at deadening than that moment when your flesh yawns apart, that brief flash of surprised tissue, naked to the world before the shocked vessels and capillaries realize they've been severed. The warm trickle of blood is so much preferable to that of tears. This is how I cope. I don't know how to process what just happened any other way.
I stumble home, three blocks or so? Not far. I call an internet friend in Oregon and somehow spill out the story. I have no one else; an bad relationship that went on for years left me cut off from everyone when the relationship finally exploded four months before this. He tells me to call the police but I don't.
It's not uncommon.
I curl into a fetal position and beg him to stay on the phone with me, still fuzzy and slurring although I don't know why - it was only three drinks. And he does.