“I’ve been in your body, baby, and it was paradise. I’ve been in your body and it was a carnival ride.” —Richard Siken
Today another patient (probably the closest to my age) placed his hand on my back at the end of a meditation session (the room was dark and everyone had left). I jumped at his touch, but lay still as his hand traced my shoulder blades, bra strap and spine. When he stopped I couldn't breathe or say anything. I haven't felt that kind of connection for a long time; somehow his touch (perceived however indirectly through my clothes) felt more affectionate and loving than hours with both Pod and the Poet.
I know it is terrible to let him touch me. I know I should be focusing on my recovery, my needs and myself. But I thought, fuck it, if I've let men walk all over me and dictate my needs and desires up until now, maybe I can be completely selfish when it comes to intimacy and desire as well? Besides, the moment had been building ever since the nurses criticised my inappropriate attire ("I am not a sexual object, I'm a patient!") or my psychiatrist Roxy told me that it's not rape if you're drunk, or if you withdraw your consent half way through intercourse (because men can't help but finish what they started). What?! Why do I have to keep shutting down emotionally when professionals add salt to my bloody wounds?