I just had the wildest dream. I was in {D}’s house and I was confronting him. He decided to just ignore me. He wouldn’t look me in the eye and just pretended I wasn’t there.
He finally looked at me, but it was the look—his evil, scary look. I faced him down and looked him dead in the eye. Then I gave him my own evil look, and I saw it in his eyes: fear and remorse. I pinned him down and he fought hard. He wasn’t letting me win. He was fighting, and he couldn’t beat me.
I woke up throwing punches at my nightstand. There is a small chance I fractured my hand because it hurts.
But I made him submit. I broke him like he broke me. He had to submit.
sub·mis·sion
/səbˈmiSHən/
noun
the action or fact of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person.
Superior force. He had to yield to my superior force.
See, I think I’m crazy—and looking at it, I am crazy, fighting as hard as I am. But I refuse to submit. I refuse to allow this. Not this time. Not with video evidence. Not with me having to submit to the fact that it happened.
I had to submit to the idea that I was indeed rapeable. I didn’t have the control I thought I had over it. I thought no one could hurt me.
Then I saw it happen with my own eyes. I saw it. I witnessed it. I watched it. I submitted to it.
Now he has to. It’s only fair.
That’s the imbalance I’ve been dragging behind me for a year: I accepted reality. He didn’t. I faced what happened. He hasn’t. I’ve done the painful emotional labor. He refuses.
So my mind gave me a dream where he finally does the thing he’s avoided since that night:
He submits to the truth.
Not to me.
To the reality HE created.
And that’s what this whole fight is about.
Not vengeance.
Not rage.
Not some dramatic takedown fantasy.
Just this:
I am no longer the one who has to bear the full weight of what he did.
Now he has to carry it too.
It’s only fair.
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