And the darkness comprehended it not

I gave him my phone number. I had to, really, circumstances left me little choice. I gave him my phone number and I knew it meant he could then call my home whenever it suited him, but I wasn’t worried, not really, only annoyed by the knowledge of the access it gave him.

I thought I was strong, I thought I was no longer afraid. I was wrong. Fear never leaves you once you have it. I spoke with him three times in as many days, and felt the way my words opened up a passageway for him to tread, to worm his way back into my brain and into my life, my words, words I said, which he could repeat and twist and turn and rape and turn into words I didn’t say.

I can feel the terror clenching my breath, I can feel the fear adrenalin tightening my muscles, stiffening my joints, locking my jaw into that position, the position of fear and defence. This from three phone calls, not all of them long, not at all. But by now, twelve years of recovery have fallen off, and I stand bone-naked again, and the mere sound of his voice, the intimidations in his tone, the insinuations in his undertones, are enough to send me down the vortex.

I didn’t have a phone line. I had it connected as a present, and I loved it, but now, after three calls in as many days, I know the sound of the phone ringing will hit me with an immediate pang of panic. He can get to my house, he can get to my life, he can get to me.

My friend taught me a monologue by Ntozake Shange, from her play For Coloured Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf. I will quote it here from memory, so forgive me if I get bits wrong –

”One thing I don’t need
is any more apologies.
I got sorry greeting me at my front door
you can keep yours.
I don’t know what to do with them:
they don’t open doors
or bring the sun back
they don’t make me happy
or get a morning paper
didn’t nobody stop using
my tears
to wash cars
cause of sorry.
I am simply tired of collecting
“I didn’t know I was so important to you”
I’m gonna give some away.
Can’t get to the clothes in my closet
for all the sorries.
I’m gonna put a sign upon the door
leave a message by the phone
“If you called to say you’re sorry, call someone else.
I don’t use them anymore.”
I’m gonna let
“sorry”
“didn’t mean to”
and
“how could I know about that?”
take a long walk
down a dark and musty street in Brooklyn.
I’m gonna do exactly what I want to
and I won’t be sorry for none of it.
Let sorry soothe your soul
I’m gonna soothe mine.

You were always inconsistent
first doing something
then being sorry
beating my heart to death
talking about you sorry
well.
I will not call.
I’m not gonna be nice.
I’m gonna raise my voice
and scream and holler
and break things
and race the engine
and I’ll tell all your secrets about yourself
to your face
and I’ll play my Oliver Lake records
loud
and I won’t be sorry for none of it.
I loved you
on purpose.
I was open
on purpose.
I still crave the intimacy and close talk.
And I’m not even sorry
about you being sorry
you can carry all the guilt and grime you want to
just don’t give it to me
I can’t use another sorry.

Next time
you should admit
you’re mean, trifling, low-down, and no count
straight out
instead of being sorry all the time
enjoy being yourself.”

I loved the monologue, I loved doing it, I loved it that my friend taught me it and helped me with it, and I felt I made it my own (yes, even though I’m white), but you know, I was wrong, because the ones I picked never, ever say they’re sorry. They aren't, either.