The first time he groped me i was shocked. Shocked at my visceral hate but also bewildered because i was habitually wont to see these gropings as an aspect of our rivalrous intersection. I've kicked him on the balls many time and he has responded with vituperative alacrity, for the moment concerned. So i was confused, titillated and repulsed at the same time. My burgeoning sexuality throbbed, my innocence was abhorred and the unaccustomed gesture dumbfounded. All these responses which i now articulate were only felt then and registered subliminally. With the passage of time and psychotherapy detachment set in and with it the ability to contextualize the lineaments of my predicament.
But confused as i then was i fell into unhealthy patterns that i partook of out of sheer self loathing and then deeply regretted which redoubled my self hatred. What happened was this. Once i allowed him to make an inroad into my flesh i let him in. Partly because it seemed an action beyond me yet because it emanated from me. I can never pinpoint, with exactitude, even now whether i ever overcame the complex feelings i experienced. I could not disentangle one and say that this is what i felt. It was all conglomerated chaotically. This ,surely, precipitated my sense of self repugnance.
When he fucked me he never used a condom. It never struck him that he might impregnate me . Procreation wasn't his raison de etre. It was pure, unmitigated desire. And i felt uncertain about my own status. Even though i was a sibling and therefore,on a more equal footing i was still a girl and he was a boy. I was never self abnegating with him. Nor do i relinquish the inadmissible fact of my own state of desire which he fomented and satiated. But desire was certainly not the only thing i sought and the contradictions that buffeted me render conscious choice inconceivable. Rather stasis became my state. But even if he never took precautionary measures i was up to date on the pill and this prescience, during those tumultuous teenage years, saved me .
With therapy i could work through stuff. I recall the sheer terror his presence inspired in me as a young toddler. He pinched me mercilessly and struck me when others weren't looking. Outwardly he remained the darling boy so my feeble protests were disregarded. Also after four he became solicitous and detached and contemptuous though i was just the younger sister. It is equally observable that i must have, as my therapist tells me, threatened his secure sense of boundaries. Before he could find his proper place i usurped the august space he had hitherto inhabited. No wonder he was incandescent with rage.
But his onslaught on my flesh reveals, in retrospect , the fact that he never accepted me for me at all. He used my femininity as an anvil to exercise his impotent inadequacy through the only way he knew, through sex. Had i been a brother there'd be fisticuffs and brawls. For better or for worse we exchange a monthly call. He is polite and i am closed in . In deflowering my soul he robbed me of a part of me i can never recapture. What is left behind is this person i am. He must make do with my makeshift profferings. It is he, not me, who is choiceless now.