I wanted to write something entirely different.
I write bi-monthly articles for “Wedding Planner” usually about my life from the plain but sometimes funny angle of a working middle aged woman who’s not yet married.
Usually I spend nights like this -when sleep refuses to court me- thinking about which morsel of my life to share with the rest of the world, and that is what I planned to do tonight as well, but in the end I found my mind drifting lazily in other directions, and I watched it with one lethargic eye laced with the sort of indulgence that only a long and draining day can fabricate.
As my mind danced lightly over one thought after the other, a part of my consciousness noted in annoyance that Mary, my help, must have left the doors open again, as the ninjas that call themselves mosquitoes in my neighborhood where presently elbowing each other in a tussle for the parts of my body I dared to leave uncovered.
I turned in annoyance to cover myself properly and assume a more cozy position, but had to quickly change my mind. Not because I wanted to, mind you, but because the bulge in my stomach threatened to crush my bladder. I forgive you for thinking I’m pregnant. I’m not. But I have two bulges all the same. One of them bigger than the other. The report I got from the diagnostics down the road from my office told me that the first bulge is what medics call the subserosal sort, and the other, the smaller one, is the intramural type.
Yeah, even though there is no history of Fibroids on either my mother’s or father’s side I’m currently nursing two out of the three possible types.
That’s where my mind went, and as I absentmindedly used my hands and fingers to map the geography of the larger of the two vagabond cells latching on to my uterus, I let myself accept the inevitability of the surgery I was too petrified to let myself contemplate.
I wondered if I would die. I’ve heard enough horror stories of women bleeding to death, or never waking up…
Then I wondered how I would cope after surgery if I survived. I figured my mom would come stay with me till I got stronger, then asked myself how I would have coped if my mom weren’t still alive as all my siblings have families of their own to look after. That got me thinking on the sadness of having to cope ALONE, because I’m unmarried. My mind chose that moment to slide further into the murkiness. It asked me if I’d still be unmarried if I hadn’t been raped at 18. Yes, raped by three men, all of them without condoms. I know its starting to sound like a movie script right now. I’m smiling. I wandered deeper into the darkness. I randomly noted that my heart was pounding and my breath was coming in gasps as I recalled that dark 5th day of May… The fear, the muffled screams, the tearing of the hymen that I could hear in my head, the racking sobs in the bathroom when I finally managed to drag my wrecked body home, to pretend like nothing happened, the weeks that followed, heavy-laden with the terror of the possibility of HIV, some other STD, or even a pregnancy for which I wouldn’t be able to tell which heartless male donated that particular sperm…
I wondered if I’d be married now if I hadn’t been raped on that day in May. Because it dawned on me that every man who broke up with me in every one of the relationships I’ve been with, broke up with me or just faded into the mist almost as soon as I told them of that singular most traumatizing day of my life.
I take it men don’t mind that you’ve been with other men, as long as the other men didn’t rape you. They seem unable to deal with the one bit of information that I’ve been looking for someone to help me come to terms with…
I didn’t plan on writing this article, it’s turned out to be quite long hasn’t it? Your editor might think it too long or too horrifying or too something for publishing. That’s fine too, it’s just that my mind chose to wander into the dark tonight, and I chose to follow it…
PS(Franque): They say when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. Maybe so, maybe not. The one thing I do know for sure is that we cannot just hold the lemons and stare at them in wonderment or confusion. Rather, think of it as being in a valley, the good thing is you can see both sides.
We can not live in fear, or loneliness. It is at times like this that we have to come back to the middle, find our balance and take it from there.
Then again, what do I know about these things?