New Years Revelations
So, I’ve been having lots of revelations lately, and they pop up when I’m doing the most random things. My mind is doing lots of work subconsciously, it seems.
On New Years Day, I woke up and my first thought was, “Holy shit! I’m in bed!” Profoundly mundane thoughts are my favorite, so it’s an appropriate way to start the new year.
Somewhere between sitting up in bed and realizing my hair was still matted with vomit from the festivities of the night before – it hit me.
I hate That Look (TM).
The look men give me. When they “want” me. When their eyes express lust and longing, and I’m the object of their lascivious desire. When they have the biological “need” to expose me, make me vulnerable, peel my clothes away. The “need” to invade my body, put their body parts inside my body cavities, explore my orifices…
He used to look at me that way. HE did. My brother. When he wanted me. Wanted me to fulfill his desires, needs, and fantasies, fuck the consequences, fuck what I wanted… fuck my protests… they meant nothing. I was no longer human, but a thing. A thing to be manipulated, posed, exposed, humiliated.
And thus, he did what he wanted.
He’d give me that look as he was touching my small body. He gave me that look as he gazed at me when he’d masturbate. How my body must have fascinated him. It was just so gosh darn alluring, he had to see it, use it, consume it, touch it… but the gaze. Those eyes, half amused, half longing, will be etched into my memory forever.
There’s nothing that strikes fear into my heart like That Look. I don’t know if I can ever get to a point in time where I can endure That Look. That Look always led to abuse. It was the sick foreplay, the warning sign, the red flag, the beacon of doom, the expression that precluded his disgusting acts… like a flare shooting into the midnight sky.
I cannot endure That Look. I get overcome with uncontrollable terror.
My boyfriends have given me That Look. Instead of exciting me sexually, my only thoughts were, “RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! RUNAWAYRUNAWAYRUNAWAYRUNAWAY!!!!!! YOU’RE NOT SAFE HE’SGOINGTOHURTYOU!!!! HELP! NO SAFETY WHO WILL HEAR YOU SCREAM?!”
In the middle of love making, they’d give me That Look, and I’d become petrified with terror, afraid to move. If I moved, the cobra would strike. And I’d be dead. Play dead, don’t move, and you’ll live.
I’ve always known this, because I’ve always HATED That Look, but my tongue finally grew back, and I can say why.
And now, That Look feels like it’s following me, the way Mona Lisa follows you across the room with her eyes. I can’t shake it. I’m blinded by fear. I hate this. Help.
