A Disagreeable Woman

CW/TW: This story contains subject matter pertaining to sexual assault, substance abuse, and suicide

Twenty-eight started with a photo. Not like the pictures you see on Instagram of sequin-donned birthday girls flanked by 2 or 3 equally sparkly friends, all celebrating with hard seltzers or brightly colored, sickly sweet mixed drinks. Smiles and silly faces in abundance, you can almost hear the mediocre club music pounding in the background. 

No, well…maybe earlier in the night…definitely earlier in the night. But, no, this wasn’t one of those photos. 

Twenty-eight brought with it the horrid chance encounter experienced by far too many people (but at this moment, I was angry about my experience as a woman). I didn’t know who he was but he was much bigger than me. The smell of his hot breath soaked in whiskey and beer lingered in my hair, mingled with the scent of my own blood. For all of the fighting my body managed to muster through the fog of whatever substance he had slipped into my drink, I still sat on this exam table a bruised and battered woman. A nurse shuffled around snapping pictures as she lifted my hair and moved my arms & legs around, gently shifting them here and there to display the purple marks. Proof that I was now a statistic because in our country, what more is a woman in this situation than a statistic?

At this moment, I realize words are bouncing around in my brain like rubber balls at a trampoline park. I fell into the fuzz of the benzo that the kind nurse had provided. Happy birthday to me.

*************************

 There were no pictures for 2 months after my 28th birthday. I sank into the depths of my room where the illusion of safety wrapped me up in my blankets. I still functioned. I ate, I showered (sometimes), I went to work, but there was no more naturally occurring joy to be had in anything I did. I turned to joy in the shape of a pill.

The world that surrounded me was suddenly the biggest danger to my survival. He lurked around every corner. I was transported right back to that night every time I slept. Back to my face being pressed into the rough concrete wall. Back to his unrelenting grip on my wrists. Back to the fight I tried to win but ended with me beaten, blood soaked, and bruised. Physically, I healed. 

Only physically.

A thousand questions raced through my head and then nothing at all once I figured out that slightly overdosing every night brought the clouds in to cover them up entirely.

I was disgusted that I couldn’t be brave enough to stand up to him. That I was allowing him to waltz around with the ability to do it to someone else. I wasn’t worth a picture.

*************************

In the 3rd month, I began noticing changes. I was sick to my stomach from what I thought was pure disgust at what I was doing to myself over this man. So much so, that my friends were becoming even more concerned and begged me to see a doctor. So, I obliged and got my sentence to serve - pregnancy. The 4th month brought with it a picture of the proof he had left behind to grow inside of me. How could anyone call this a blessing? Was I blessed to be carrying the spawn of my rapist? According to those who have taken it upon themselves to take charge of my body as a weak woman with no choices, yes. 

I burned the ultrasound photos that night. I refused to want this would-be child. I refused to call myself mother while he could stake claim as father with no punishment for the method in which he became one, by force. What other option did I have than to try my first bit of heroin. After all, abortion wasn't an option anymore.

That was the night I became what the agreeable women who clutch at the nonexistent pearls around their necks call a junkie. A junkie with a story, but a junkie nonetheless - the story doesn’t matter. I was no longer a statistic, I was a problem.

*************************

At the end of the 5th month, I was photographed in order to be admitted into a psych ward. I refused to go to the required doctor’s visits for this creature growing inside me. Despite the barrage of substances I was throwing at it to keep it from coming into this fucked up world, it was still there.

Another blurry picture of a black & gray blob - you could sort of make out various body parts squirming about. Every movement was another reminder of where this situation came from and how I couldn’t get away from it. They didn’t want me to get away from it. “It’s a blessing,” they said. “You should be happy!” they exclaimed with hungry, eager eyes looking for any sign of positive reception, which I wouldn’t give. Why would I be happy?

By the way, it’s a girl.

*************************

In the 7th month, they took a photo of me with a fake grin spread thick across my face. The model patient! According to them, I really changed it around. All toxic substances (besides the acceptable prescribed ones, of course) had vacated my body. I had become the perfect quiet and meek woman ready to welcome motherhood with open arms. 

To them.

To me, I knew the part I had played had been a success. I’d properly convinced them that I was now an agreeable woman just like them! It was all too easy. My belly was round and distracting and brought looks of pity and admiration from the ones who fantasize about the innocent, untouched, untainted life that grew inside me. Her safety was more important than mine. That is, until she’s pushed into the world where she will be draped in cloaks of the same restrictions, met with the same dangers, and the level of care from those around us would drop exponentially for each year that she grew past.

I know it’s not her fault. I also knew that being trapped in a society like this was no way to live...for a woman. The topic of where she came from had been so far swept under the rug because, to them, it didn’t matter. “Baby made, baby born.” That’s it. So, I continued to act as they wheeled me out to my mother’s cross-adorned car. I got a “God bless you” and a measly pack of supplies that would last for maybe 3 days and they continued with “for when that precious blessing gets here, we want her taken care of.”

But what about me?

*************************

My final photo was in the newspaper. They used a picture from my 28th birthday party from before he brought my life crashing to the cold ground. The piece listed off my few accomplishments in my short life and identified my relatives including my unnamed daughter who went with me. That’s how he found out that the piece of him that he had left in me was gone and, suddenly, he had a story where I was the monster. 

“She killed her own baby.” “She’s a selfish murdering whore.” “Pray for the father.” “She stole that opportunity from him.” Just a few lines that people whispered and exclaimed to one another at their church gatherings and bible studies.

It’s easy to say those things about me. It’s easy to mourn a potential infant. It’s impossible for them to pick up the responsibilities in the roles they played in becoming what they hate.

Protect the ones that matter (unless it’s a disagreeable woman).