This is for all the people that have done stupid shit in their lives. And for my peace of mind, I’d like to think that everyone is just as wickedly stupid at least once.
One of these days, despite your run-of-the-mill euphoria shot of life, something about our brain, something about the frontal association area which allows us to re-experience our past filters through the exact thoughts we want to forget. And much as you may tell yourself that it’s the past, that it’s no longer worth it, or if you’re like me, tell yourself over and over again that even on the grounds of pride, you’ve standardized yourself to never regret something. There’s no point.
I say that, but the other day in which I was just mulling about, the experiences came back which made me angry. At myself and them. All the people who made me loathe myself. Myself included. Trippy aint it.
In particular, I don’t think it raises much of a hen fuss to say that everyone has somehow ended up at one party or another where they felt much too out of place and disheveled by the most unlikely people. Given that I don’t sip a lick of alcohol, I was the only one sober that night. It did hurt my feelings when the twin boys, my childhood friends of grade 4, whom I’ve watched grow from indistinguishable nerds to fawned over high school football jocks – that’s where I’d laugh at them and at the girls who don’t really know that they were and still are in fact dorks. In my head. It hurt my feelings that they had been the only people most obstinate in forcing me to take my first drink than any of the other strangers at my friend’s birthday party.
It surprised me that the people I’d been taught, and ever since feared personally, the weed, the smoke, the alcohol, were the precise people who I bonded with. Who, almost paternally gave me a pat on the back and congratulated me for staying pure because they were too far off the border.
In my mind, these are the most beautiful hearted people if there ever was one.
That said, they were still drunk, and drunk people can only be so likable for my taste. Drunk childhood friends who begins to make you uncomfortable is like being punched in the nose by your brother’s week old sock. Correction : Drunk vulnerable childhood friend, who simultaneously is able to cry for your help (literally) and still invade your privacy. That’s a fearsome combination.
I don’t know if after that I have more respect for him for being able to cry and be honest with me, or increase my distaste for party-gooers because being put as the idea of that easy going wham bam thank you m’am had always deterred me from them. A classic example would be that very girl whom I’d previously talked to that night, unbeknownst to me and the owner of the house, had shacked up with the other twin right above our heads.
When I relive the memory in which I hesitantly, but still trusted this sobbing twin to sit next to him. Then the feel of his hand against my breech. It stings. Whether it is my conscience, or my pride, or my self-employed moral standards. It stings enough that even the Duck struggles with dust in her eye. It stings more that when I gently reprimand him to stop it, then threaten to leave and sleep on the other couch, he would desperately beg, and compromise that he just wants comfort.
I’ve never known what ‘comfort’ means.
But worse of all, regardless of what the ambiguous definition could be, I knew at the least I wanted no part of it. I did not want comfort. It stung the most that I could not bring myself to release how incredibly angry, insulted, belittled, slutt-fied, and alone I was. It always crosses my mind why aren’t I good enough to be just a female friend.
With each passing time that he would think he had cleverly landed his hand on my thigh and tried to slide it towards me, I really feel like I should have been the one crying. Instead we sat out on the porch at 4am during early spring and froze half to death.
Much as he may grab onto my sweater and had muttered sorry and repentant; grabbed on for the sake of someone who was there to comfort him until the wee hours of the morning. Someone who was just as fucked up, or likely worse off in the head to advise someone that the silence is good. That being caught up with this intensity of being ‘somebody’ was really just the universal joke. Paradoxical as it may be, I don’t understand why. Why do you have to work out and be somebody. Why must you value yourself on being invited to another party in which you probably won’t even remember, nor care for that much.
Thinking back on these things, I was so angry with him. So angry that these twins had put together some drink for me which they claimed to be purely soda when it had the distinguishable bitter taste of alcoholic shit affordable for people who just wanted to get lit higher than a kite for the night. Angry that their reasoning for pestering me to try a joint or to take a shot was because I was not having fun and they felt bad. But I’m so angry at myself, for having just simply laughed off all their night’s attempt because that’s my only sense of defense mechanism. Really, one of the most ridiculous and worse kinds. Laughing off tipsy guys. Who are we kidding.
And I don’t know if my brain is just going on a riot, or maybe having been dropped onto the bed because my sister hadn’t anticipated how heavy an infant was really ruined me. I think of the days after Christmas.
It could very well be one of the most romantic nights; the christmas tree lights, a beautiful warm honey glow that made everything homely and wider. An envelope, the kind that only appears in the few moments of sun set, when it’s slanted just correctly across the window pane so that it remodels the kitchen without the slightest visible touch. But just the feeling of this magnificent moment. And it was replicated in the rebellious hours of which another friend slept by while nobody was home.
Maybe it was rather silly of me to think more could’ve came through. After all, what does somebody who openly speaks about their sexuality implies other than friends with benefits, given they aren’t capable of a real relationship. I guess even my cinderella fantasy played its hand for I actually believed, fussed, and prepped myself to wait an hour and a half past because to him it was just a friendly meeting. A friendly meeting in which he intended in every way, now that his unplanned for invitation to stay the night became substantial.
It runs through my head that we had fallen asleep, and that stupidly I had been rather happy just to have someone there. I guess that’s what they call comfort. But that’s where my definition terminates.
I guess it’s because I’m a girl.
I was semi awake. I could feel it. Being undressed. Being touched. Being orchestra-ed to feel him. Dragging my hand. I had only wanted to be semi-awake; Being violated in every way in which I wanted only to abandon all these thoughts if they’ll just go to hell. Because I need to fulfill the image in which this girl who had never fitted in among her friends because her tastes are that much darker, should be vile enough to participate in a sports of sorts, bargaining of her body.
How easy it would have been to just swooped in and hardly enjoy something that she had once dreamed about, but when discovered in grade 8 was really just nothing. It was empty. It was not pleasurable. It was total, complete awareness in which she counted the minutes on the clock, and the reactions she should cater because that is what she is supposed to do. It is only an experience. And when we roll awake in the morning he’ll prompt hey, can you try it again because I could at the least refuse to put my mouth anywhere the taste of a condom the previous night, when he leaned above her to settle for something at least since she had enough wits to evade complete fornication.
But they are not bad people. They are simply people who may have done bad things, in my view, and with my probable allowed permission. It’s not the case in which the rape victim is never at fault, but in which a completely sober female hardly rejected the advances of these looming figures, drunken by actual state of alcohol influence or sexual frenzy. They’ll always come after you with something hard in their pants. Rut. Done. Gone.
People say you should learn to forgive yourself. Release it.
I say to myself that I will not and should not regret anything that has been done. but sometimes, apart from the frequency in which I disclose to my counselor with no shame, I am angry. Suppressed. And yet still crying.