bad things can happen to us

bad things can happen to us and maybe, we don’t know that they were bad. until much later. we struggle to find the words to describe them. we’ve misplaced our emotions - like anger, like outrage, like disgust - and instead we find ways to swallow the discomfort, to soften the sharp edges, to practice our pain tolerance. we contort ourselves to fit inside the boxes of their desire, then we become boxes just big enough to hold - the blame. we say I let him do it. I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I didn’t resist him the way I could have. I didn’t say stop - I didn’t stop bad things from happening to me, which means I allowed it. which means I asked for it. he tells me I wanted it, so maybe… he is right. he was good to me before and after what happened. he is not a bad person.

but a not-bad person can still do bad things. bad things can still happen, and they don’t have to fit into narratives with clear villains and victims. when is life ever that black and white? and why do we expect it to be? bad things don’t have to be confined to a single word - like abuse, like sexual assault, like rape. one word does not always feel enough. and it doesn’t have to be.

but we are afraid of naming bad things, because it feels like blame, like accusation, like an act of self-martyrdom. it feels like unnecessary drama. we are afraid that naming bad things flattens our mutual humanity, destroys nuance and complexity. makes dirty laundry even more dirty. when we give bad things names and name who did the bad thing, the story is no longer ours to protect. we are afraid of what other people will think. are we pointing fingers in order to alleviate ourselves from responsibility? are we crying wolf, so that we can be sheep?

no. who the fuck wants to be sheep? what woman wants to air out dirty laundry for all to see? naming things is not about claiming the identity of a victim, or about exacting revenge, or even about seeking justice. naming things is about being clear with ourselves, and clear with each other. it is about making finer and finer distinctions in our lives - like what is love and what is abuse. what is flirtation and what is manipulation. what is play and what is violence. naming things is about examining the boundaries of our beings and our bodies. stating what we want, what we will allow, and what we will not tolerate — as individuals, as a culture, and as a society.

what is a bad thing, you ask. and how do I know when a bad thing has happened, or is happening to me?

oh, I think you know. you know it in your gut even if your mind convinces you otherwise. you know it in your body even if your heart is torn with attachment, and drugged with fear. you know by how it feels afterwards. by how you cry, or don't. how you want to pretend it didn't happen. never speak of it again. maybe we hesitate to call him an abuser, a predator, a rapist. we don’t want to condense humans into villains. but we can condemn villainous behavior. we can condemn violence.

there are infinite variations on violence, of course. but the one I am talking about now is physical - because it is still possible to protect ourselves from emotional harm, but there is only so much we can do for our bodies. our bodies are mortal.

and that is what a bad thing is. a bad thing feels like total disregard for our mortality. our safety. let alone our comfort. our pleasure. instead, he takes our bodies like paper cranes in his hands, prioritizes his hunger over our consent, his pleasure over our pain. it feels like being pushed down a slippery slope. it was more than just gravity. it feels like having this home of our bodies broken into and robbed, then being blamed for it. bad things happen when he’s not listening - with his ears, with his hands, with his heart. it feels like his inability to hear “no” for an answer.

having a bad thing happen to you feels like being given no choice. but now. now we do have a choice. we can decide what we want to do with it. should we continue to swallow bad things? to tell ourselves it was our fault that we were force-fed a man’s desire? should we feel flattered? have closed our mouths more tightly? gagged more loudly? sewed our lips shut to prevent it from happening?

what is the story we want to tell ourselves? and when will we say, I’ve had enough. no more swallowing. no more collecting shit in our bellies, no more passing these things down to our daughters, and their daughters, just as we’ve watched our own mothers swallow bad things, and endure. I don’t want to endure. I want to spit it out.