Musings after being sexually harassed by a patient

When I think of love, I want to think of you. I want to think about the time you bought me gluten-free cookies and we ate them in the back of your rental car, or the time you woke me up with a simple phrase that turned our relationship around. But, you’re easy to love. Not all the time, but most of the time. I can love you, because you know me. I can love you because you consider me as apart of you. When I hurt, you hurt. Like our brains are sending long axons across oceans. These axons flutter in the wind like ribbons as they withstand the heat of the sun, wind of hurricanes, and cold of hale storms, traveling so very far. You know my pain. I know yours.

When I think of love, I do not think of them. I don’t have the patience to care why they feel powerless or a need to hurt others. Patience and humility are wasted on them. Those animal who sexualize women for their own enjoyment, power, and accomplishment are low men with an even lower opinion of me to make up for their low, low position in life. They cause pain. I experience it.

It’s a symptom of death. Slowly creeping up his muscle-wasted legs, around his ready loins, under his sweat-stained shirt, tightly–so tightly–around his neck like a noose, suffocating the last deep breath of soot and cigarette-filled air he has left, through the hole where his front four teeth used to be, and down his throat. Death is a hard, long, bitter drink to swallow. He lives pain. I see it.

Love cannot come from me. I am empty and selfish only loving those who are easy to love. By letting go of my power and identity in the face of his, I also become entangled in this man’s death. I am too easily defined by a dying man. May Love do its work in me so that. I fight for his life. And Love heals him.


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