It has been a good couple of weeks (well, month) and a bad month / couple of weeks. If I ever start posting regularly, I will get to the bad part – a new judge in family court has changed the status of my ability to protect myself and my children from good to frighteningly fragile.
But, right now, I am grateful for another Obama term and for the fact that American voters showed their / our disgust for the various and sundry politicians who sought to redefine rape or reduce women’s rights in some drastic and frightening ways. Go country! Yeah!
The re-election of Obama, however, takes me back to four years ago. Four years ago, I will still with my ex. We voted together. We celebrated together.
Warning – if you are a relative reading this (mom?), you might be a bit freaked / grossed out by what comes next. I apologize….
What I am recalling, though, is the evening of the inauguration of President Obama. That evening in January was the last time that I have been – wow, I was going to write intimate, but there was no intimacy, not even sexual intimacy, that night – that night he fucked me. And as loud and gross and unsexy as that sounds, that was what it was.
It was not making love.
We were watching the TV, sitting on our king sized bed – on opposite sides of the bed. He looked at me and moved toward me. No words. No tenderness. Just movement.
I was so desperate for affection, though, that it was enough for me … sort of.
He kissed me. By then, I hated that. Hated being kissed by him. But I tried not to admit it to myself because it was too depressing. He undressed me.
But, though intellectually I missed intimacy, this was not what I missed. Not this. So my body demonstrated what I could not say – what my body had been demonstrating for months, for years. I was dry as a bone. My body rejected him.
So, he spat on me.
I recall that with such deep disgust and repulsion. He spat on me so that he could get what he wanted.
He got what he wanted. And it was so so sad.
It was not rape. But it was close.
I wish my memory of the inauguration of Obama were not tinged with the memory of being spat upon and used. But, that memory reminds me of where I was and how far I have come. That, indeed, is reason to celebrate.