#MeToo: a text called “Pain”, by Anonymous.

I’m responding to this because I have had several experiences that are difficult to deal with. I have talked about some of them but not all. My way of dealing with the most serious things that have happened to me and fall under the category of sexual crime, has been not to touch it and not to think about it. I have been in tough situations as a teenager, but always having felt responsibility of bringing myself to those situations (visiting a bar at the age of 15, and there getting drugged and raped by the owner) and thus have had hard time getting angry at them or telling my parents because of the guilt and the feeling that they will not be able to respond in a good way that would make me feel safe. Because of those suffocated feelings the situation was escalating for a while, but at some point my life took a turn into a better direction when I got my first boyfriend.
The things have happened in the past and have blurred, but they still resurface on certain occasions. I have had the feeling many times that I would want to let out that energy what I’ve captured inside of me and would actually want to talk about it without having to fear of getting stigmatised or that it’s too much to others to bear.
The day before the Facebook campaign I wrote a text to a shared online blog called The secret diary of somebody else. It was about something that happened in the past and I had decided to let out in a text form. I was surprised how much blockages I felt writing. I did not want to say too much, not to go in too much detail. I felt strongly the need for it to be not that bad even if it was. I felt ambivalent in trying to reveal something I wanted to hide at the same time.
The simultaneity of the Facebook campaign and publishing my text was not a coincidence, I think. The need of wanting to end a certain loneliness is strong in me and I’m grateful of the opportunity of sharing my experience in the form I have chosen. Yesterday, writing #me too made me feel heard. I felt that finally I can say what I need to say and that it’s ok to have had those experiences. Finally someone asked. I was shocked when I started recalling of all the things I have experienced, but at the same time when so many other people also wrote #metoo, felt like I didn’t have to carry that burden alone, because the common opinion, the Facebook choir, that felt soothing like a parental voice, was now defending me and telling that I had been treated wrong.
Anyway, this needed to come out. The title of the text is “Pain”.
“Pain”
No I cannot, tonnacion,
to tell it to you nore to anyone else.-why?The people who were there have vanished. They are out of my plane, nonexistent, and without them there is no story.
All I have is a vague memory, like a dream that one tries to remember in the morning in vain. Nothing to tell about.

-I wonder. I wonder how it affected you, and how it affects you today. Maybe the fact that we are here together now is a signifier. I think it means that we have to look at the landscape of your life more in detail.

Everything is in pieces around that night which was,
even if I can easily live my life pretending it didn’t happen,
a tsunami.
A tsunami in the sense that it happened under the surface, on a hidden layer of life, where parents and not even best friends had access.
A tsunami in the sense that it broke something: a narrative, a life story.

-To recall things that happen when being in an alternated state of consciousness are complicated. You have certain sensory memories and maybe you know what was happening, but all feelings are gone. A numbness that is totally inappropriate in relation to the nature of the event is the only thing you have for working with, and you know you are not going to get further like that. Instead, you only get more confused. You are dealing with an alienated version of yourself, asking if it was really you because you know it was not. It might have been your body but it was not you, not the same you who is trying to go back in time and talk to that girl. To put life in her. To hug her.

‚Don’t step in that car!!!!!‘
That’s what I would tell her. I wonder if she would listen.

I remember the grey shapes, darker than the smoky air inside of that large room with a high ceiling, on the second floor of a building made out of red bricks, in the middle of an abandoned railway yard.
The night was turning into dawn.
We walked up the narrow, humid and dirty staircase.

They are not individuals but a group. A group of seven or six, for certain five. All of them are like shadows to me, unidentifiable.
I didn‘t ask for names and they did not ask mine.
It was a random encounter. So random that I doubt its existence. I doubt it’s genetics, it’s parents, it’s ancestors. I put everything under question but it doesn’t help me to get further.

I was there.

I wonder how I should interpret that fact. Was it karma? Was it numerology? Was it a tangent on my path which was there to challenge my logical brain, or did my guardian angel just then got knocked down by an attack of an evil spirit? Was it just fluctuation of and energy flow? A temporary hole in my protective shield? Or is it a part of me that I still don’t want to say hello to, after walking down the same streets for so many years?

When I think of it I want to scream like Laura Palmer. I want to wake up from that laconic state. I want to introduce a breaker: a sound so hard that it transcends each atom of that locality and temporality. I want my scream to break all the windows, I want that whole building to rumble down and bury those gray ghosts under its thick concrete dust.

I want daytime.

Comments are closed.