It's Not Like I Was Raped

It's not like I was raped.

It's not. I told him yes. I let him have sex with me. So, why am I flashing back to that moment and panicking so much I can't even make love to my husband?

I can't breathe; my chest is too tight, my skin is crawling like bugs live underneath it and my throat hurts from trying not to scream.

Razors.
It feels like razors.
Or maybe knives. 
Nails. 
Nails digging into my trachea and trying to crawl from my mouth and spill this scream that's lodged inside.

My body is treacherous.
My mind betrays me.

Why? Why now, why this moment? Why at all?

I can't help it anymore and I pull back, struggling to breathe, even though I'm breathing so much my head begins to float. I shove against him so hard it hurts my wrists and scratch mindlessly at my chest like I can open it up to make the air come easier, only it doesn't.  

I can hear him asking what's wrong, what he's done, what he can do. I can feel him touching me but every time he touches me it hurts. My skin is too sensitive. Or, maybe, it's my nerves that are too sensitive and scraping at my insides when I feel his fingers on me.

It's just too much.

It's not like I was raped.

I gave permission for him to take me on the dirty bathroom floor of a drug house. I said it was OK for my first time to be a 28 year old man right after graduation. I found him thoughtful because he held my head so it wouldn't smack into the heater. 

The voices in my head cover every sound and my body shakes so much my teeth hurt. He asks me to talk, to just please explain and I can hear the terror in his voice. He's afraid he's hurt me.

I just shake my head.

"It's not like I was raped."

"Weren't you?"

I adamantly shake my head watching as tears drip down my cheeks onto the black sheets. I bunch them under my fingers - twist them, pinch, then resort to scratching my arm. I dig my nails in until it's unbearable and scratch the length of my forearm while he wraps himself around me, holding me still, forcing me to stop. 

I struggle. 

"No." My voice breaks in half; the weight of my shame too much to handle. "I was high. I was drunk. I knew better and I did it." I crack; glass breaking from the strength of everything pressing against it, shattering into pieces on our bed. "It was me!" I screech through a voice that's raspy and tear filled. "It's not like I was raped, why is this even here?!"

He grabs me again, calmly running his fingers over my shoulders and I fight the urge to jerk away because I love it, I love him, but it hurts. "You didn't choose that. You didn't choose any of it. It wasn't your fault."

It wasn't my fault?

I submitted myself this man, this child molester. I allowed him to convince me that losing my virginity on top of dirty socks and empty meth bags was a great idea.That was me.

It's not like I was raped.