Michigan Ave

One day I am walking down Michigan Ave with my boyfriend and see these three Puerto Rican guys walking toward us. I'm watching them and feeling self-conscious in stilettos and this tight-a*s bandage dress that pushes my breasts up to here, and I hear them mutter, "Puta," as they walk on by. What the hell, I think, and anger boils up, and my white boyfriend didn't hear what they said and wouldn't know what it means. 

There are so many men here in this café and I wonder what is going on, do I feel safe here? The only other woman is the blonde barista who would be no use to me except she's thick, maybe she can kick. She's wearing this short shirtdress so I guess they'd take her first since I'm just in jeans. But how fast can I run in these cheapy sandals? I'd feel better if some of these men left. Since when is this a man's space? Since when do I feel pushed out? Since when does my safety matter more than my space? Since my spirit broke, that's when. 
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I feel restless, in need of something to make me feel more comfortable.

My question is: how far can faith take me now? I prayed to God last August, I went to that altar with a heavy heart. I had such a feeling of guilt and regret. I blamed myself. I asked God if it was my fault and I feel that God, almost one year later, has sent me the answer to that show of humility. When Lisa looked me in the eye and repeated, this was not your fault. Not in 2006. Not this time. This was not a consequence of chemical use. This was not your fault. I heard it from Patrick and now I heard it from Lisa. They are the two who bring me back to God. I was led to them not by accident. There was no mistake in that.

In some ways I have been lucky my whole life.
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I remember bits of conversation and flashes of images of where we were and when and they scathe, they burn, they are nails in my chest. It is a tortilla chip swallowed too fast: the panic that it is cutting into my esophagus and I will never get it down to be digested properly. But what I know during this second period of healing is that I am so very lucky. I know that these moments are the best, the deepest, the truest, because they prove the opposite of triggers. I am getting better, and I am doing it myself, alone. It's true that I have companions on this road of recovery and reinvigoration and further self-discovery; incredibly bright, devoted people who I truly view as gifts from God who were blessedly placed in my path. I should thank God every day for these people and for the paths they took that led them to me, and to their own knowledge of themselves. It is only by knowing ourselves that we can reach out to others in meaningful ways. We risk such a great disservice to the ones we pity when we help them out of confusion, angst or fear.

The worst thing you can say to someone in pain, turns out to be nothing.
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I opened a cider and at the first sip of the watery nearly-tasteless liquid, I flashed back to Alissa's visit to my Dallas apartment last August, just a couple weeks after the rape. She likes cider so we had bought two cases, one apple and one pear and put them in my fridge next to the pickles and ice cream and soda. What happened in that visit? Did she go into our friendship looking for a way out? Did it go too deep? Did I touch some kind of sensitive sore? Why did she leave so suddenly? Did she really feel unsafe? 
All I know is, the friendship ended there and now I have no confidence in friends forever or any real expectation that the ones I have today will be the ones around the next time I am in it deep.
It's too easy to bow out. I've done it myself, I'm sure. I don't think sentimentality is a strong enough reason to hold onto someone you can't trust. She said to me, as she left: call me when you're ready to talk. 

But I know that day will not come, save for a chance encounter in the city. 
The way she slipped the hairpins she'd borrowed under the door before she left the building, how trivial. I don't need that kind of drama and I don't need someone who can't calm down enough the next day to revisit her point of view. I grabbed her arm, I remember that. I remember grabbing on because everything was spinning and I had a sense of terror. There was such a crushing crowd in the darkness, so many leering men, and the pulsing music made it impossible to regain a sense of safety so I clung to her arm. She always seemed sturdy and strong to me, but this is where I was wrong. Aliissa was more fragile than I recognized, and my need for her, the pain I unintentionally inflicted, this pushed her to a place she could not go with me. And I don't blame her. I wouldn't go there either. And I won't go there now, and that's why we're not in contact anymore.

Reviews

[LadyKarissa]

"Puta" means b***h in Spanish and Portuguese. I would not worry about what other people think about you. You only need to be concerned what how you think about yourself. God uses people in our lives to bring us back to him. I have walked down Michigan Avenue myself. However, I have never heard Puerto Ricans call me "Puta." Lucie