They are just words

Written in response to the leaked video of Donald Trump's remarks about women. This reflects experiences that I and others that I know have gone through. Sexual assault is always an emotional topic for me. Please keep any commentary respectful. 

They are just words…

They said as he bragged about his latest conquest, describing in detail his sexual escapades with a drunken girl in a cave by the shore.

They are just words…

They said as he rated the women on the patio, all the while with his hand sliding up my thigh beneath the table.

They are just words. After all, he is married…

They said as he slipped me a message to meet him later in the woods.

They are just words. He’s a stand-up guy…

They said as he led me into the dark and slipped his hand down my pants.

They are just words. He would never act on them, unlike others…

They said as he thrust himself inside of me, tearing my insides and breaking my resolution.

They are just words…

They said as he forced my mouth over his phallus and pushed and pulled until I was to the point of vomiting.

They are just words…

Words I spoke, words saying, “No!” and “Please stop,” and “Not now,” and “Oh, God, why me?”

They are just words…

He said as he finished with, “God, I needed that. Now, go home.”

They are just words…

They said. Locker room talk, they said. He would never, they said.

They were just words…

Words that became actions. Words that he used and twisted and molded until he had me in his grasp.

They are just words…

That he whispered to me as he tore my pants off, my underwear, and my dignity.

They are just words…

That echo through my mind, reminding me of the nights he forced himself on me.

They are just words…

That haunt me because while I was a slut and a whore, he was *just* lonely and in need of release.

They are just words…

Because “When you are a [man], they let you do it,”

He said, bringing my mind back to the hell I tried to leave behind.

“You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy,”

He said, as I relived those moments when my tormentor shoved his hand between my legs and cupped my vagina, stuck his fingers inside of me in the middle of the theater.

They are just words…

Words like, “No,” and “Yes,” and “Not tonight.” Because words have consequences. Words mean consent. Words mean the difference between fond memories and recurring nightmares. Words can make it feel like life is worth living or like this life is hopeless.

Because they are not just words, and I hope to God that people will see that.

Tasting Memories

With a twist, the air escaped from the confines of my Dr. Pepper. That familiar, sweet scent wafted up, and for a moment I hesitated. It had been several months since I had last tasted the special 23-flavor blend. Grabbing the bottle, I pushed my thoughts aside and took a first, glorious sip. The bubbly sensation poured over my tongue, the sweet nectar filling my mouth. With the familiar taste came a flood of memories. 

My mind ventured back to that first year at McDonald’s- the late nights and early mornings endured by consuming copious amounts of Dr. Pepper. More than the nostalgia of french fries and soda, however, another memory pushed to the front of my mind: tough hands, the metallic scent of engine oil, wire-rimmed bifocals, and, of course, a Maverick mug that seemed to never run out of Dr. Pepper. My grandfather’s scruffy face and faded eagle tattoo flashed across my memory, and the medley he used to sing played so clearly in my mind that his voice almost seemed audible.

As the moment passed, I felt a pang in my heart. Another memory came forward intruding on my happy recollections. This one appeared dim and bleak- a funeral home in the middle of January. My grandpa, the man once filled with laughter, song, and buttermilk was now laying still and cold in the confines of a forever sleep. In the cemetery, three families awkwardly gathered. 

His first wife and their only surviving daughter were still reeling from the loss of the eldest daughter two months prior. 

His young third wife and her teenaged children sobbed. Theirs was the most noticeable loss. The man who changed their world now lay in a box, stiff. 

Then there was my family, the sandwich family. The jovial figure of my childhood had long since abandoned us. But it wasn’t entirely his fault. A chemical imbalance, that’s what they called it. He had fallen into a decade of madness, rescued only by his young lover and her adolescent children. Meanwhile, his disappearing act left his adoring grandchildren and devoted children. My grandmother, his second wife, was forced to live with mere memories of her sweetheart, her soul mate who had succumbed to his demons. 

Love, sorrow, bitterness, anger, and regret all stood around the burial plot, saying one final goodbye to this marvelous and tortured man.

By this point, the pang in my chest had developed into salt-water reserves, dammed up in my tear ducts. I set the Dr. Pepper down and rejoined the present company. I quietly tightened the lid back onto the bottle, picked up a pen, and proceeded to write about a beloved grandfather, a memory, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.

The D Word

Over the last couple months, that familiar shadow monster has crept back into my life. It has shown no remorse, poisoning the happy moments and acting like a Dementor, leaving death and destruction in its wake. But even in the depth of this hell, I dare not utter its name. Speaking it gives it validity. It is as if allowing this thing, this monster to be real will prove that I am weak. I've been defeated. And so, I suffer in my silent way. The monster chains me to my house, fills my hands with lead so I cannot write, puts up a wall around my heart so that I cannot feel anything other than the sorrow and emptiness it feeds through the black IV that is permanently attached to my soul.

But the heaviness has become more than I can bear. The break down finally came. I welcomed it with open arms. Only once I've surrendered my entirety to this demon am I able to speak. Only then can help come. Because even though I still can't say it - the D word - the pain speaks for itself. It cannot hide because my voiceless cries are still heard. Silence speaks if someone stops to listen.

I am lucky that way. The listener knows my demons. But what about those without listeners? How can they break free? They don't. They suffer worse fates. Broken and overcome by the darkness, the only relief comes in returning to the Ultimate Listener. Seeking a forever peace, they choose the only path that the monster shows them. Sleep eternal.

In a forest of shadows, death seems to be the sunny glade in the middle. Stop! I shout to myself from the outside. It's a mirage! I am standing in a field of sunflowers, the sun beating down on my face, birds singing around me, but I am under a spell. I can only see the dark forest created by the monster. 

A knight rides in, cutting through the black mist with his sword of light. For a moment I can see the field, the sunflowers. I look up to the knight, fall to his feet, allowing the tears to flow freely. His face is hidden. He is not here to save me, but simply to give me a momentary reprieve from my nightmare. The darkness will return, but the memory of my knight keeps me from chasing the doomed glade.

Eventually I will succumb, but until that day I will fight the shadow monster. As I stumble across others in the dark forest, I will use my sword of light to stand with them and offer them relief from their demons. But I know I will be dragged back to my hell, where I will wait. Wait for a knight. Wait for the sun to defeat the black mist. I'll cling to the memory of days before the night took over. I may have lost the war, but I will continue to win as many battles as I can.

Fighting Depression and Anxiety,

Hoping for a Sunny Day.

Alex