This is a revised re-post of a blog entry originally written in June 2016.
Trigger warnings for sexual assault.
A
cousin in the back bedroom of my family’s three-bedroom ranch
house. A friend who drove me home from our local dive and decided he
had to walk me upstairs “just to make sure.” Another friend who
once gave me a lift home and then stretched across the divider,
seatbelt still on. A short cab ride to Grand Central with a B-list
film and TV actor who's been in blockbuster franchises. And, most
recently, in 2016, a former bartender who kept buying me mezcal and
tequila. He kissed me until my mouth and neck bruised under the force
of his grip — the marks appeared the next morning, after a
harrowing night of throwing up in a Brooklyn bar bathroom and being
walked home by a Good Samaritan.
It's
amazing, when I think about it, how most of my experiences with men
have involved unwanted advances, or even more unwanted touch. Because
my mere proximity must have been enough consent. I sat next to them.
Or I was kind. Or I was funny. I smiled. That was the green light to
lean in, to loom, to lower lips to mine. To launch across the taxi
and tell me, “I've always had a woody for you.” To bracket my
chin and hold me in place. To tell me it would be our special secret
— we called it “couscous,” my cousin and I, thanks to a shared
love of Jamie Farr and The Cannonball
Run. I can’t bear mention of the
food or the movie now.
I
smiled too wide. I gave them the wrong impression. It's
amazing, too, the things I've told myself over the years about all of
these encounters — the judgment growing all the heavier as my few
consensual moments, more often than not alcohol-fueled, joined the
pile. I don't think I've kissed someone while sober since I was 18
years old. I'd like to think it didn't count at all when I was eight.
At
a certain point, I began to feel like the word “victim” was
scrawled all over me. Like they could read it, smell it, taste it —
like the shame was leaking from my pores. So I needed a drink to
forget that essence, that tattoo, for a while, or I needed a drink to
make myself brave enough to flirt with someone I actually liked. And
then, inevitably, I would realize the man next to me saw what I was
trying so hard to hide. He’d see it and then he’d interpret
“victim” as “easy” or “I want it,” and he’d take away
the choices I’ve been fighting so hard to get back.
I
live in terror that I do the same things to men that they’ve done
to me. Coasting on those beers or shots that boost my bravado, I lean
across a bar and I say outrageous things. I like watching a cute guy
blush. I like shocking a man who professes to be a swaggering
Lothario with my language and my off-color suggestions. I put a hand
on an arm. I cling too long during a hug. I ask — God, this is
embarrassing — but, yes, I’ve asked
people to sleep with me. Would you do
it if I paid you? I actually said
that, awash in desperation, to a man who’s married now and lives
clear across the country in L.A. He said no, obviously. And I am
very, very glad. Another guy I know wouldn’t even let me get the
question out. Don’t say it. No, he
chided. He bodily walked me back to my seat like I was an unruly
child who needed a time-out. Someday soon, I’ll be very glad for
that, too.
I’m
always immediately sorry afterward. A log of all my text messages and
Facebook PMs and beet-red in-person apologies would probably be
longer than a stack of CVS pharmacy receipts. “I would never...”
I always say. “I would never,” and “I’m so sorry,” and “I
don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable.” They always assure me it’s okay...though
maybe they scoot one stool further away, maybe they don’t greet me
quite so cheerfully the next time. Maybe that’s just my shame
clouding my perception, maybe that’s just my imagination playing
cruel tricks on me. I’m so afraid that I have become that
journeyman actor in the cab, so disgusted by the knowledge that I
could easily be that guy in the bar putting his hands on someone who
couldn’t pull away. After all, isn’t that how it goes? The abused
go on to abuse others? Perpetuating the same cycle? Aren’t a I
predator now, too?
I’m
not. On the good days, I know I’m not the same. I don’t have that
power and privilege, for one. All I have is the cumulative weight of
what’s been done to me — and it so fucking heavy. It pairs really
well with the feeling that I am not good enough, whole enough, or
sane enough, to interact with a person I’m attracted to in a normal
way.
Of
course someone once told me “It's not like you were raped.” Of
course another person asked me, so bewildered by my burdens, why I’m
not “over it.” As if penetration is the only real violation. As
if I'm not allowed to catalogue the countless moments where I felt
unsafe and guilty and betrayed, or to still be hurt by them. You get
over it. You move on. And when it happens again, you get over that
and move on one more time. There’s no FitBit to count those steps,
is there?
There's
so much of it I can't remember. So much of it I want to forget. But
it’s all still present, all still here.
The words on my skin. The reek of their meaning. The empty space
where my trust in men should be. Relatives, friends, strangers...I
still look at everyone with suspicion. And that's not even counting
anonymous groping, ass-grabs, men trying to pull me on dance floors,
online dating perverts, and guys who've called me a bitch when I dare
to shoot them down.
I
smiled too wide. I gave them the wrong impression. That
must be it, right? If I’m constantly suspicious of men, I’m even
more regularly suspicious of myself, of what I must be doing to make
these things happen. I must be
broken.
Weeks
after that bartender held me in place at the mezcal joint, I found
myself tracing my neck, like the thumbprint hadn't faded. I
shuddered, still feeling the pressure of his hold. I kept trying to
find a way to make it my fault. You
shouldn’t have been there. You shouldn’t have scooted over to
talk to him. You shouldn’t have let him buy you that first drink.
You should’ve found a way to spit out the third and the fourth.
Thirty years after being molested by
a cousin, even knowing what I know now about concepts like rape
culture, and while calling myself a sex-positive feminist, I still
wanted to make it my fault.
None
of it was ever my fault. I didn't ask for it. I just existed. I just
breathed the same air. I was kind and funny and I smiled. I'm
a woman, I had to remind myself over
and over again. That's all the
reasoning he needed.
I
wish I could say that the message took root. I wish I could say that
therapy and medication and writing a whole lot of enthusiastically
consensual love scenes for romance novels have “fixed” me, or at
least put a new narrative in my head. But there are things that never
fade — scars that never heal, voices that never stop shouting.
I read your blog, and it's excellent. Your blog content is excellent as well. MCA Leads, or Merchant Cash Advance leads, are individuals or businesses seeking financing options through Merchant Cash Advances. These prospects present opportunities for MCA providers to offer flexible funding solutions, helping entrepreneurs access capital quickly. Effective lead generation and nurturing are crucial for MCA companies to expand their clientele and support small business growth.
ReplyDelete