Now, I know things were bad. But I still don’t know what to call them.
I spend a lot of time reading stories of women who also have nightmares without names. These women, like me, know the nightmares are nightmares. And they know their bodies were there. But it is hard to determine much else.
For example, some days there are things worse than a nightmare. Sometimes a name brings back a memory, but sometimes it doesn’t and sometimes that is worse than a nightmare. What do you call that? The women whose stories I read have words they use. A sampling:
Melissa Febos:
empty consent
granular harm
spectrum of harm
mechanics of accommodation
Peggy Orenstein:
the water in which girls swim
body as a product
Katherine Angel:
the inequality of access to pleasure
false choice
These are helpful, but still not enough. Maybe I am being greedy. I am jealous of anyone who has a clean and clear space for their anger—yes, I know that I am angry—a name or a time or a place. I am jealous of the cut and dry; the black and white. I am jealous of words that know what they mean. Bookshelf. Table. Screen. No one is debating this. I am jealous of conversations that can be had. Because how do you talk about something if you don’t know what to call it?
The way the Merriam Webster Dictionary defines rape:
1: Unlawful sexual activity and usually sexual intercourse carried out forcibly or under threat of injury against a person’s will or with a person who is beneath a certain age or incapable of valid consent because of mental illness, mental deficiency, intoxication, unconsciousness, or deception.
2: An outrageous violation.
3: An act or instance of robbing or despoiling or carrying away a person by force.
I can’t help but notice all the or. And usually. Suddenly, I have more words to look up. How do you define unlawful? Or valid consent?
These definitions make me uncertain that cut and dry—black and white language for traumas—exists. Which is frustrating. If it does exist, I clearly haven’t found it. Why is it so hard to find?
Now that I know things were bad it feels ok to use the word trauma. That feels ok, because it has been so long and I am still carrying it with me. Also, a professional called it that first.
I spend a lot of time searching for other words that feel honest. Fear feels true and (ironically) safe. Now, I am allowed fear. Then, I was not. Which is why I stayed quiet. Which is why I said yes. Which is why I stayed. Or did not say anything. Or did not say stop. Or did not say I said stop.
My therapist uses words like power imbalance and angry and afraid and protect and belonging. These are good words, but they are pieces. I am jealous of summary. Of things packaged and put away. My therapist compares my trauma to a full closet. The door opens and everything falls out. Maybe some of it is stuff I forgot was there. My therapist loves illustrations—the point is, once you sort through everything you can close the closet and open it again without anything falling. Everything will have a place. I have sorted and cleaned and organized, trust me. There is space. But I can’t close the closet. The door is wide open and it’s not budging.
Other words that feel important (but, at the same time, might not be honest):
Consent
Coercion
Assault
Abuse
Emotional abuse
I could look these words up. Google will give me options for how to define and use them. But none of it feels right. None of them fit. They do not feel true. And I want the truth.
I don’t have a nice ending for this post. I haven’t come to a conclusion about any of this. There might not be any conclusions. If that is the case, I haven’t made peace with it. This is what I know: Things were bad. I had fear. I said yes when I wanted to say no. This is the language I have, for now.
Things that have been helpful in my search for language (other women’s stories):
Things We Didn’t Talk About When I Was a Girl by Jeannie Vanasco
The Rape Poems by Frances Driscoll
Girls and Sex by Peggy Orenstein
Girlhood by Melissa Febos (particularly, the essay “Take Care of Yourself”)
Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado (particularly, “The Husband Stitch”)
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
If I Should Say I Have Hope and Landscape with Sex and Violence by Lynn Melnick
Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again by Katherine Angel