As a married woman, I have eaten alone with male friends many times. I have exchanged emails containing personal writings about my life and past. I have gone on long walks with a male friend. I have drunk beer alone in an apartment with one. I have stayed up talking to a male friend on our own couch after Lloyd has gone to bed and left us in the living room. We have texted and talked on the phone. Men who are not my husband have been confidantes. Sometimes we’ve hung out as a group with my husband, but I’ve had a distinct friendship with men apart from their friendship with my husband.
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Rape is a hard word to claim
When the world around me is quiet and I am alone, this is where my words begin.
I get tired of telling the same stories about myself over and over. After awhile, you can feel like you’re reading a script about a person who is no longer you–someone who is a stranger. One day you may even realize that it’s not worth telling that story anymore because you’ve outgrown it.
There’s one big ugly story that I can’t highlight in my narrative and control-v forever.
