My Wings Are Not Of Gossamer

It’s not something I tell many people, obviously.

It isn’t because I find it upsetting to talk about - I mean, obviously I still get upset about it, sometimes, but I’m generally ok to talk about it. It’s because often the other person in the conversation finds it upsetting. They don’t like the story, they don’t like the words, they don’t like to face it.

“You don’t have to talk about it”, they say, with a pleading look, willing me to stop, wanting to put their hands over their ears, run away.

Another reason I don’t like to tell people is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of how they will respond: I have been let down on this front. “Let down” is in fact too mild a term - I’ll have to invent a stronger version. Something along the lines of “betrayed” or “abandoned” or “denied” but none of those are quite right. In the long run, the responses from the people who were supposed to help me were nearly as upsetting as the event itself. Quite rightly, I expected more.

Nowadays, I don’t expect anything, I just wait and see. On the one hand, I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. On the other hand I refuse to be ashamed. “You shouldn’t tell people about that”, said one guy I told. “It kind of taints you”.

I thought that conversation tainted him more than it tainted me, actually.

Women always respond in the same way. Always touch you. A hug, a hand on the arm, a stroke of the cheek. And affirmation. “You are brave”. “You were strong”. “You have come through so well”.

Men, well you never can tell. Of course, I’ve only told a tiny few. And after the “tainting” conversation, I was afraid to tell men I cared for, in case they said something equally crass that diminished them and things would never be quite the same between us.

In my experience, men don’t say anything at all. Not then, not later. I can’t believe it’s that they don’t care. I think perhaps they don’t know what to say? Suddenly in that instant I seem as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, and a wrong word would crumple and break me, maybe? Men never hug, stroke, touch. Maybe the men I told, four, five in all those years, maybe they all shrank silently from the taint, but only one of them was bold enough to say?

It’s not a trick question in a test. If we are not to be ashamed, if we are brave enough to find the words and fight the fears and carry on with our lives - then you must be brave enough to hear them.

He looked at me for a moment as if I were made of spun glass, said not a word. And what he thought, I have no idea.