Even as I write this, I don’t know if I’m making the right decision to talk about this publicly. I know how shame works, I know how victim blaming works. But even through that, I feel that the only way to exorcise the demons of self-blame and self-degradation is to let go of all that I feel.
Right now, I feel nothing. Not ambivalence to what happened to me but that I can’t really encapsulate how I feel about what transpired the other night. Physically, I feel weak. I still have sharp pains in places that I shouldn’t. I couldn’t go to work the next day, feeling like wasted space. Worrying if I’d pass him on the street or see him in the gym. That’s how I met him, that’s how I know him.
It was Valentine’s Day night. And the texts were flowing.
“I can’t lie, I’m a sexual person. I don’t know if I could mess with someone who doesn’t f***.”
I’m used to this. Practicing celibacy has taught me some things about some men: One, there’s this predatory intrigue in trying to understand why a human being would make the conscious decision not to have sex. Especially someone who is attractive, someone who could date whoever she wanted if she had her heart set out on it. In short, I don’t.
If you know my story, you know that sex was my coping mechanism to deal with the passing of my father. I had lots of it, with people whose names I don’t even remember. I didn’t know what else to do, you know. What else could give me momentary joy in the world that felt so damn painful? One 12-hour span in particular triggered the phone call that saved my life, that sent me to Pittsburgh and away from what hurt.
I still carry that hurt.
That’s why I don’t have sex. My current relationship with sex is so unhealthy. And I carry that into every interaction I have with a man because I feel that I have to put up that wall to ensure my safety.
At least, I thought.
ciara roslyn-james 