Boundaries (Trigger Warning!!!)

I wonder where my Maid of Honor (MOH) went. She left after the first drag performance and has yet to come back. She looked miserable. Then why was she here? I didn't want to go on Friday anyway. She changed the date. I don't think she wants me to like the show. I look to my sister and suggest that after this performance, we go looking for her.

Before I suppress my memories, I mention them in passing. My mom laughed. My future husband went into full blown damage control, cooing and hushing like I was a frightened child.  I had no emotions and all of them at the same time. What just happened?

We find MOH on the back patio, talking to this Dude-Bro. Does she hate the show that much? The drag queens aren't that bad. We talk to her, shake Dude-Bro's hand. He leaves and MOH whines, complaining that he called her old. I can't figure out why she would stay Dude-Bro when she has us as a convenient excuse. "Sorry, I can't talk right now. My friends are waiting for me." Easy enough.

Something happened.

One of the Mario Bros.,Luigi, comes over, carrying a tray full of shots, dressed in green suspenders and a Speedo. He offers MOH a drink. She says she can't. They engage in some coy banter. Then, he humps her.

"Tell you what," she says. "I'll buy a shot if you do to her what you just did to me." She points in my direction.

I freeze. I don't want this. But everyone is staring at me, like I should acquiesce. The word "no" becomes a grayed out option in a dialog box. I am up against the wall dirty brick wall, covering my face. He comes up to me and humps: his junk on my lower abdomen, rubbing.

"no." I squeak. He doesn't stop.

"please don't." I plead. My voice is quiet. He continues. I push him back, gently, like nudging an annoying animal you don't want to hurt. He just keeps thrusting. I think I've made myself clear, and put my arm down. He comes toward me again and again. My sister does nothing, paralyzed by our shared memory of abuse. MOH stays silent throughout the duration.

"I think that's enough," says MOH. She hands him a dollar and gives me a shot. I take it. It's over. I think he will leave. He engages in some more coy banter with my friend. I don't listen. I just want him to go.  He smiles at me, and humps at me again, rubbing himself on me. I push him back. Someone, other than me, made him stop. I look at him with disgust. He finally sees I'm upset.

"Hey," he says, "it's okay. I'm gay." My face doesn't flinch. "Not really," he adds. "I'm straight." I sneer more. He turns to my friend. I drink my shot and throw away the cup. We try to leave. MOH says she's right behind us, but we end up waiting for her again. My sister sits beside me as we wait. Although she is silent, her presence speaks volumes. I want to be angry with her, because she, too, did nothing. But I know her memories caused the same paralysis that weakened me. No, it wasn't her fault.

MOH shows up and we leave. As we walk, she apologizes profusely. Says that she thought I would like it, or he would stop when I said no. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. Later, I try to be angry with her, but I am just as impotent as I was with Luigi.

I labeled it, the "incident."

There really wasn't any way to describe it. Out of my entire weekend, one month before my wedding, "the incident" was the only negative moment. The rest of that weekend was spent with loved ones. It was fun, relaxing, and enjoyable. Except for that one thing.

Before I suppress my memories, I mention the incident in passing. My mom laughed. My future husband went into full blown damage control, cooing and hushing like I was a frightened child.  I had no emotions and all of them at the same time.

I'm angry that this guy used the excuse of being gay to sexually assault me. I'm also mad that my friend, who knew a survivor, would put me in that situation. She told me that she thought he would stop once I said no.I barely call that an excuse. But I think this is what burns me the most about being a survivor: I'm always left cleaning up after other people's messy actions. Abuse is like someone taking your pristine room and making a mess of it: breaking precious valuables and scattering trash. Only the room is your mind, and you're the only one who can fix it.

Most of all, I'm angry at myself. I couldn't be angry. I couldn't be the bitch I needed to be--the bitch feminism wants me to be. I always believed I could, but when the moment came, all my strength and effort could only produce squeaks and nudges.

I'm not friends with MOH anymore. She did a lot of other shitty things to me afterwards that made me realize how toxic she really was. I've made better friends now.