Do. Not. Touch. Me.

Writing connnects us. It bridges diversity, it’s a means of coping and sharing our peices is a catalyst for healing. A brave friend of mine wrote the heart wrenching composition below. When I read it for the first time my heart froze in my chest, suspended in the moment, captivated by her words. I’m in awe of her powerful words and her ability to be so authenticaly vulnerable. I’m deeply honored to be trusted with posting this one for her anonymously. This ones for you:

It’s Friday night and I finally decide it’s time to enjoy a long night out with my friends. I powder my face, I charge my phone, I change into those jeans that fit just right. I take a long look in the mirror and begin to head out, heart racing, palms sweaty, shallow breath. I stop, I turn back to my mirror and give myself a pep talk. “You’re fine. You’re safe in your own skin. Your friends will protect you at all costs.” My ritual, and now I’m ready to go. I drive around for a solid 8 minutes looking for parking. Right as I decide to go home, something halfway down the street opens up. I park, I take one last look in the mirror and I walk down the street to the bar, heart racing, palms sweaty, shallow breath. Thank god I know the bouncer. I make small talk, take a deep breath, and head inside. Thank god my friends are right on the other side of the door. I smile a smile of relief and I begin the normal human function of socializing. I am actually happy to be here. The night rolls on, I’m two drinks in, and in my zone. Out of nowhere someone bumps into me, hard, purposely, cracking my comfort zone like an egg. I freeze instantly and he puts his arm around me to apologize. I can’t say anything but manage to pat him on the back. I watch him leave. When I’m sure he’s gone I pat myself down and laugh it off with my friends. I pat myself down again, they all agree it was weird. We carry on in normal conversation and I’m shook, hoping my friends havent seen me pat myself down 7 times. I’m half looking for something that’s out of place, half trying to push my shattered pieces back together. I fight the urge to want to go home even though every fiber of my being says otherwise. I repeat half of my mantra “even if you want to leave, stay.” I try to make casual conversation but I’m broken, shattered. Someone offers me a drink. I’ve hit my limit but I take it. I hold myself together and make it a couple more hours. I walk back to my car, keys between my knuckles, scared as hell. I look back every ten steps to make sure I’m still alone. I start my drive home. I can’t get the incident out of my head…why the fuck did he touch me? I think of last night when that strange man kissed me on the cheek… why the fuck did he touch me? I think of last month when that man put his hand on the small of my back as he scooted by me… why the fuck did he touch me? I think of 3 years ago when I said stop and he laughed in my face… why. the. fuck. did. he. touch. me.

– anonymous

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