I said no.

But I must be mute.

Trigger Warning. Sexual assault, child abuse.

I said no. I said no.

So many times, I’ve said no but my no was disregarded.

Like a string of bad letters in a game of scrabble, my “no” was tossed back in the bag and the letters Y-E-S were pulled out instead.

I said no to people who should have listened. I said no to people who never should have asked for a yes in the first place. I said no to people in positions of power and authority. I said no to men who were supposed to love and cherish me. I said no when I was so young I was barely out of diapers. So many men. Most (all?) of whom I should have been able to trust. Some of whom would argue that I meant yes. That we were both “consenting” adults and I was not physically restrained. No gun was held to my head. My arm was not twisted.

No. My arm was not twisted but my mind was. This is not what I came for. This is not what I asked for. A smile does not mean “I want to fuck". It doesn’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter what I wore. The colour of my lipstick does not make me a whore.

It didn’t matter if I was dressed to kill or if I was in granny panties and a fuzzy bathrobe.

And when I was four? My bathing suit pushed aside as he carried me back from the beach. “Do you like that?” he asked. “Put me down.” I replied. And so he picked up my cousin instead. Fuck.

What the fuck. Why the fuck. How the fuck. These three questions are the questions of my life.

The first time I don’t even remember. A male babysitter. Apparently I told on him and he was not invited back. I learned this from a counsellor my parents took me to as a teenager. They had told her and she told me thinking I knew or remembered.

The second time, I do remember. It was an extended family member. I was four years old. I never told. He’s dead now. But I was forced to see him my entire childhood until he finally died when I was 18. No one understood why I didn’t like him. Because I never told. Why am I ashamed that I never told? I was four years old. I was four years old. My father still reminisces about how great he was. I can’t break his heart. Heck, maybe he wouldn’t even believe me. He’d tell me I imagined it.

The third time I was 11. It was a stranger walking behind me and two friends on the sidewalk in our small town. He grabbed me between the legs then turned and ran away. Apparently he was doing it repeatedly to women all over town. He was eventually caught.

The rest of the times were in my teenage and adult years and there are too many times to count. These are I think the worst because I said no but these men didn’t accept no. And I quickly learned that it was easier to say yes than to face the consequences of no. Or to say nothing and just let it happen and get it over with.

I don’t know why I’m writing this now. Or maybe I do.

I’m so tired. I’m so ashamed. I’m so sad. And I just want to be numb. Or angry. But I can’t even find a spark. Just shame and doubt and questioning why I’m even here.

As the tears spill I wish they could be tears of rage instead of tears of shame and frustration and guilt. I shouldn’t post this. I know I shouldn’t. Yet I don’t want to be alone in my shame. I’ve never understood the “Me too” movement as viscerally as I do in this moment. Yet I don’t wish this on anyone else. And if I click publish maybe all I do is trigger people who were well on their way to healing.

Fuck. FUCK. fuck.

Or maybe someone needs to hear “me too”. Maybe if I click publish someone says I’m sorry this has happened to you time and time again. And me too. And you helped me. Or maybe I click publish and I get pity likes or no reaction at all. I don’t think I even want a reaction.

Who am I kidding. No one wants this shit in their inbox. But I do. I want it in my inbox. I don’t want to be alone. So I’m clicking publish. Even though I know maybe I shouldn’t. Even though I don’t know if I want a response or to wake up tomorrow and see no response and click delete and pretend this post never existed.

Since I started writing this my Apple Watch has been screaming at me every 10 minutes, “Your heart rate rose above 110 bpm while you seemed to be inactive for 10 minutes….”

I’m not sure if clicking post will increase it more or let it settle. I guess it’s time I find out.