“We are more than the worst thing that's ever happened to us.” —Clementine Von Radics
In year eight on a family holiday, I unexpectantly got my period. It was a highly inconvenient time because we'd planned a trip to the local spa that afternoon. Furious, my mother dragged me to the supermarket to buy my very first box of tampons, despite my desperate pleas - "I just won't go swimming then...I'd rather not use one of those, they don't feel right...".
When we arrived home, I took the pink and black package and examined its silky contents, safe inside my room. Surely women don't actually use these things, doesn't it hurt? I thought to myself. After fifteen minutes of awkward attempts, my mother became impatient and insisted I'd just have to learn. She held my legs as I cried, attempting to insert the tampon herself. Needless to say, it didn't work out that well. It was, "too hysterical, too tense and upset", according to my mother.
Years later, I went back to the same house with the same person. A silent 'no' hung in the air. I still don't use tampons, and the idea of something being inside me still feels other, foreign and wrong. Before we have sex, I want to sink into the Poet's skin, fall into his body, encase his mind. I want him so badly because if I lose myself inside of him, maybe I can stay there? Shed the horrible jail of my body and the guards of my mind.
But there are no sensations when legs are forced open, no emotions like the ones I felt simply touching her thigh, and definitely no pleasure other than the self destruction technique I have already perfected - pain. Or the complete absence of feeling altogether, sort of a curious disassociation. You don't get to choose what hurts you, you can only choose your response to the trauma. I choose 1400mg of ibuprofen and 90mg of codeine, I choose so much alcohol that I forget sentences, I choose keeping myself occupied so I don't have time to think. If you think that is weak, just remember that there are ten thousand ways to die and I choose none.