When I Discovered I was a Hare

Image via Pixabay.com by MDeWitt

TW: rape

This is a story of an unknowing neurodivergent

teenager getting in over her head. This is the story of a girl exploring the path of sexuality too far, too late. This is the story of disassociation, of separation of the self from the experience. This is the story of rape that took me 30 some years to accept as rape, even though it wasn't meant to be that way.

I was somewhere around 15 or 16; a mix of invincibility & hormones, spending time at my grandma's, running feral on a warm Wisconsin lakeside. This is the house of my first, unrequited love, the house where I could have pumpkin pie for breakfast. A house of mostly good memories; memories that are all mine, my brothers never had this time with my grandma. I am grateful for it.

This is where there was a boy next door with greedy fingers down my pants. I liked that. Even as he pushed the boundaries further & further. Even when he led me to his basement bedroom. I can still feel that darkness in the middle of the day. I lost myself. It wasn't me in that body. It wasn't me feeling the wrongness. It wasn't me that wasn't ready.

It was the hare running away, madness in its eyes, as my body lay frozen. It was a totem being born. For too long before he realized (if he even realized) I wasn't going to give him what he wanted: a willing partner. It was terror, not pain. It was the mind escaping so the body didn't have to feel.

It wasn't until the next day for me to feel shame, when I met the leering eyes of his friends, when I knew it was wrong. It took years for the memories to fade, to stop assaulting me in jagged flashes whenever my brain fell silent. It shaped me, as experiences do. I lost more than my virginity, something I didn't realize meant more than I gave it credit for.

That societal stop sign wasn't there anymore. I didn't have to worry about it, I reasoned. It didn't matter, I lied. I thought about it too much. It was something I never thought about before he took it. It was ever present once it was gone. Virginity is a strange thing.

So, here I am, in my mid-forties, still thinking about it. It's more of an old scar than a fresh wound. There is no pain. I doubt he realized what an effect he had on me, how much shame & pain he caused. He just wanted to get laid. He thought it was ok. I don't remember his name, let alone his face. All I remember is the shadow-play of the terror I felt. I have processed it & accepted it, not as a friend, but an old acquaintance.

I most often wear a necklace with a rabbit on it. A rabbit, because I haven't found a pendant of a hare I like. The hare is one of the animals I feel a connection to, along with the fox & crow. They are animals of chaos & not the light & fun kind. I found a pin on Pinterest l feel reflects the hare best. It says: “If you don't know the difference between a hare & a rabbit you've never gazed into the cold wild eyes of a hare & known that if it could speak it would speak backwards.”

If I am a rabbit, it's one from Watership Down, that doesn't shy away from the violence of life. As I leave motherhood & enter my crone phase, I embrace the madness & cunning of the scavenger, the too clever prey. I accept my past. It is in pain I best feel my teeth. After all, what are we but the reflection of our experiences?