I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. Maybe that’s narcissism, maybe it’s selfishness, but I do. I think about the way I react to things, the way I acted in certain situations, and I analyze it all. Over-analyze, probably. But that’s anxiety for you. Anyway, I had a lot of time, especially with the current climate of the news cycle and all of the sexual assault allegations to think about the times that I’ve been the victim in that type of situation. I’ve done the #metoo thing, I’ve vaguely expressed that, Yeah, it’s happened to me, but then I think about it on a deeper level to myself.

I think of myself as someone who doesn’t really shy away from their feelings, I cry a lot, I feel a whole buncha crap, and honestly, when things come up, I deal with my emotions. I don’t really bottle things up (except like… frustration with other people – I’m too nice to say when things are bothering me). Yet when I think about that night many years ago when my best friend (at the time) made me perform a sexual act with her just so that I could go the fuck to sleep, and then proceeded to manipulate me into taking care of her the rest of the night as she pretended to shake and convulse and “faint,” I shut it out.

It’s something I only think of every once in a while because it still hurts to dwell on. I admit, I played a negative part in our friendship, but nothing bad I said or did to her excused the awful experiences she put me through. I wrote about that night for a creative writing assignment a few years ago. The assignment was to write a short story about an experience in your life, from the other person’s point of view. It was hard, putting myself in her shoes for that… especially since, TO THIS DAY, I still don’t know what could have made her do what she did.

I often think about apologizing to her, for all the wrong I did to her in the time we were friends, maybe that would allow me to move on from it. Undoubtedly, she wouldn’t apologize back.

I have nightmares, sometimes. Not of that night, not of anything bad happening between us, but of us being friends again. They’re not nightmares until I wake up – it’s then I realize a part of me will always miss the positive moments we shared. I wake up and I feel sick. I feel violated all over again – like she somehow consciously wormed her way into my brain and transplanted this fake scenario where we were happy friends again.

I would never do that to myself again, though. Every good moment came with three bad ones right behind it, and I’m a better person now than back then. I’m a better person for having shut her out of my life.


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