The social butterfly, prolific writer and aspiring student nurse, Adeleah Atkis, recounts how her life was changed completely after being sexually assaulted by a male friend, she once referred to as a brother. Consequently, her identity as a writer...
"Leah, anything to read before bed?", asked Elena. Elena was one of the persons that shared my apartment in the city. We were close enough to refer to each other as a sister. She was quiet, introverted, smart, religious and beautiful. She was the decent type of human being that another could relate with. She was a gem. We shared the same group of friends from college.
I responded by telling her I had not had the time to write. "You alright?", she asked, while I fitted my feet in the sandals situated to the right of the floor mat next to my bed. I opened the door and went for an evening stroll. It was six in the evening and I was longing for the fresh air of outdoors. When I returned to the apartment, I felt more relaxed in comparison with when I left. Elena was asleep and that was perfect. I hated when anyone of the girls asked me if I was ok. I loved them and appreciated their concerns, but I was annoyed by questions such as, "Are you ok? You sure you alright? What is wrong?". I hated being asked any of those by anyone.
I admit that so much had changed. I became merely an existence...a bland existence. Mood swings were the common excuses for my inexplicable behavior. However, the truth was, I was growing to hate personal contact with my friends, family, colleagues and absolutely everyone. It had been a month of being a whole new person. It had been a month of apathy in its purest form. Each day felt like I was sinking deeper. There had been a holocaust of my peace.
One evening after the heavily scheduled Tuesdays of classes, I returned to the apartment exhausted. I had kept myself extremely busy with academics, hence I was hardly resting. That Tuesday evening, I stood in the shower, allowing the warm water to hug me. It was during that steamy encounter; a few words flooded my mind. "My body was your playground". It was in that moment that I experienced a renaissance of passion. I hurriedly left the shower, got dressed, and then sat to write.
My Body was your Playground
I moaned like a whore
While my womanhood grew sore
I bled like a river
While my door was opened by your finger
I started writing again.
I was baptized in poetry again but this time, there was so much depth. My poems reflected such darkness and they gave me the platform to release the anxiety of reality. I began composing a collection of my new poems in a folder. Writing was the only thing I did during my leisure time. I found hope again. I had freedom and that was beautiful. Undoubtedly, liberty in expression is an unfathomable beauty.
Whenever I was visited by terrible flashbacks, I jotted my thoughts down in the corners of book pages, the notepad app on my laptop, notes app in my cell phone or on any sheet of paper I could find.
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I had moments where those poignant recollections made me uncomfortable. Those were the few minutes I felt uneasy during class. There were countless days in which it was impossible to focus. I left many lessons, without learning, because when I tried, I just could not. Horrendous memories impeded my cognition.
There were many days I heard myself desperately plead, "NO!". I remembered how he adamantly pursued his quest for pleasure. The devotion of his hands to my body was an evocative memory. His gentleness when caressing my breasts contrasted his aggression when rubbing my inner thighs. I could not forget the discomfort he inflicted when he tightly positioned his sandpapered palm around my neck to make me still. That was when I stopped resisting. Consequently, he seized full control of my body.
He had no right!
I never consented. A man never has the right to a woman's body if she does not consent.
I enjoyed none of it! I received relief when he stopped his enjoyment.
Sexual intimacy is an atmosphere in which both persons enjoy each other. Therefore, if only one person is experiencing enjoyment, then it is sexual exploitation.
It was heart-wrenching. I felt like an instrument, which he played to his contentment. I remembered him slowly placing his hand between my legs and it was during that gesture that I knew I would become different. I shrieked when he mercilessly, forced his finger inside me the first time and that excited him. He repetitively pushed his finger in and pulled it out. It hurt! I groaned, uncontrollably. He smiled when I groaned. I wanted him to stop but he refused. He was sadistic.
I screamed when he thrusted two fingers. One finger was horrific, so just imagine the intense pain of two. I clasped my thighs, as tightly as I could, in response to the searing pain. Then softly, he said, "Your thighs are squeezing my hand. Just relax". How could I relax? How could I be comfortable when I was being violated? How could I? I held my legs together for a few more seconds. Then I slowly opened them. At that point, I realized that I had lost my pride. I was thinking about how exposed I felt. There I was laid on my back with my legs wide open before a man, who was not my husband, my lover, gynaecologist, midwife and certainly not a friend! That shattered me. Tears just kept strolling down the sides of my face.
