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Throughout my life, the same phrase has been repeated to me- “no means no.”
The concept of refusing an action you’re uncomfortable abetted me towards hope; growing up, distraught was brought upon me due to my safety. When I felt as if I was in danger, that phrase comforted me; it acted as a reminder that I could fail to comply and be okay.
But I had to learn that “no means no” is just another standard of society, which is meant to be taken seriously, but isn’t.
Even if I had to understand that through my own actions.
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When I was ten, I was perpetuated to wear bras which would cover nothing but the maturity I longed for. As my mind and body matured, my everything was taken- including my choices.
Being the young girl I was, it was never my fault, but suddenly what was under my shirt decided my worth.
The “old men” I was warned about suddenly weren’t the problem- I was; I was sexual for having a human body.
My world shifted as no began to mean no only if you didn’t have human anatomy.
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Those times I was catcalled despite being a child were terrifying; though I was told by the unspoken depths of society that I was the sexual one.
When I stopped wearing bras due to a medical issue, it seemed as if my safety faded alongside my condition- it was a difficult choice of being safe or not being harassed. I chose to be safe.
I shouldn’t have thought it was my fault when they forced me- when those sexual comments and actions were brought upon me, because it was simply my body, and I refused to sacrifice my health for it.
The phrase which was countlessly engraved into my soul shifted again; suddenly, no meant nothing unless you covered yourself.
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I wore jackets and long sleeved shirts under my normal ones, claiming it was an arc of my “fashion,” but it was to avoid sexual acts.
Despite this, those horrid acts and comments continued, and suddenly nothing was comprehensible.
I matured, I did everything to stay out of it, but it was still happening- so I sat down and questioned everything until I realized. In the real world, no means nothing. Once processed, I broke down crying.
The only escape was the light of death, which I attempted but was caught- and I learned.
No means no- quite contradictory to the real world, where it means nothing. But despite this, it’s not your fault; your body isn’t sexual, the people who make out to be are. It’s hard, but escaping this cycle is acknowledging that no means no- and people who make it seem like no means nothing are morons.
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