Chapter Five...Peers

“Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.” ~German Proverb


In real life, women who are depressed or troubled by an event usually turn their anger and self-hatred against themselves. Time and time again they reflect back on the events that led to their disgrace. I am referring to they as those who have ever been abused and sexually victimized. People close to us don't know what it is to be so chronically touched that an accidental contact by a stranger sends a white hot jolt of abhorrence straight to your groin. And, when asked what's wrong, you shrug it off and hope they don't continue to pursue the issue.

Until my senior year of high school, I sat at many desks feeling exploited. I was an object of objectless love and it swelled deep in my gut like stone. I was afraid one of my endless “daymares” would leave me crying out loud or worse. Everyone around me, the jocks and the snob bitches would laugh except for maybe the girl in the back of the room who everyone tormented, I think should would understand.

They would remember me at class reunions like this...

Old Bald Jock: “Hey, do you remember when that dark haired chick, you know, what's her name, had an acid trip in the biology class?”

Drunk Disco Jock: “I don't remember her name, but I sure as hell remember that day! That happened in Mr. B's chemistry class. Wasn't she screaming that the whole world fucked her?”

Still an old asshole Jock: “Man, that was some crazy shit... What happened to her anyway?”

Old Disco Jock: “Hell if I know, and it matters to any of us, why?” Laughter...and they toast the good old days...Ha!

That's the way I imagine it anyway. I never went to a class reunion, and I don't know if I would have ever gone. Nonetheless, I didn't have to concern myself about it, I was never invited. Negative, I know, but I'm working on it.

I kept a very detailed diary during that time of my life, it was probably the only time period I ever did. I created a reservoir of all the emotions I felt. I wrote stories, but mostly poems, a lot of poems. I wrote several compositions and poetry for different people regularly, it came easy to me. One of the poems I submitted in English class was wadded up and thrown in the trash in front of my wide-eyed classmates. The teacher said loud enough for everyone to hear, it was vulgar and I needed to submit something else. The jocks in the back of the room snickered while I slunk to my desk. I did not write another, I took the F. That incident further instilled what I was becoming, and as I look back now, it was a subliminal cry for help. But, who was he to judge my work when no one judged him for fucking a student or two in the supply closet. Unfortunately, a lot of young people, and the adults who should have been role models, got away unscathed with a gross amount of atrocious behavior.

I wonder what kind of life my violators led since then. Did they violate some innocent virgin more than once? Did they have a conscience, and if they are parents what would they do if their own daughter or granddaughter was raped? Would it bring to mind a remote frenzied event from their past when they were over-sexed drunk studs? I have an answer for two of them...one is no longer with us and his everlasting life is in God's hands. The second, the last I knew he was a business owner and remained active in the town I escaped from. The third, I don't know. I don't care. I would be lying to myself if I didn't wish them all, well, you know...

Yesterday's session left me numb. For the first time, I feel anger not fear.

Yes, another sleepless night...