You're Not Special by Meghan Rienks

Author:Meghan Rienks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2020-05-05T00:00:00+00:00

I’m not proud of some of the stupid shit I did, but that’s just the learning curve of teenage rebellion. There’s a part of me that really wants to skip over this next thing, but I don’t think you’d understand my future relationship with alcohol without it. So here it is.

In the spring of senior year, my friend Claire threw a house party. I had originally gone with my two best friends, Sydney and Jake. Early in the night they went home to study, and I assured them I was fine to crash there, as I had done so many times before. Without the social comfort of my best friends, I compensated for my awkwardness with more alcohol. Honestly, I hardly remember them leaving. As the night went on, it just got fuzzier and fuzzier. At some point I’m sure I deemed none of the boys make-out material, so I tapped out, settling into the extra bed in my friend’s room. I don’t know how long I was out for, but at some point I began to realize that one of my male classmates had slipped into bed with me, half-naked, his hands and lips all over me. I was wasted. That was a fact. I didn’t know how much I had drunk or what time it was, but I knew I didn’t want this. I don’t know if I said no. I don’t know if the reason I don’t remember how far he got before he passed out is because it wasn’t too far or if it was because my brain chose to spare me from replaying that night more than I already do right now. The last thing I remember was the rustling of sheets. My friend Claire was in the bed next to us the whole time.

I woke up the next morning to Sydney and Jake at the foot of the bed. They had returned to the house to reclaim me after they hadn’t heard from me all night. I blinked away the sleep, and before the tears could even come, they were silently peeling the covers off me, collecting my belongings, and guiding me to the car. We never really talked about it. We didn’t have to. They knew. It was written all over my face. The guy told people we hooked up, and I didn’t correct him. Part of me wanted so badly for that to be the truth. I tried to rewrite that night in hopes of ditching that weight I felt in the pit of my stomach. I told myself that I was asking for it, that this was just another stupid thing I’d done while drunk. I’d made out with my fair share of embarrassing guys, but this was different. I flinched anytime anyone tapped me on the shoulder, and I fought to swallow bile every time I passed the guy in the hallway. I couldn’t deal with it. For a long time I didn’t. It took me four years to relinquish the entirety of the blame onto him.

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