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When it feels like nowhere is safe anymore

Vaseline2 days ago

0 4 minutes read

When it feels like nowhere is safe anymore

Editor’s note: This essay contains mentions of sexual assault and rape.

The first time I was raped, I was eleven years old. I was sent to paddle boat with the 16-year-old son of my father’s boss. His longer, stronger legs steered us to a small island on the other side of the lake, out of sight. Then he told me to wash the blood off myself, and that if I told anyone, my father would lose his job. I never told you.

Later that year I spent the night with my cousin Marc. We played in the garden all afternoon. Before bed we placed a Styrofoam cooler under the window between the twin beds in preparation for the lemonade stand we had planned the next day and went to sleep.

Sometime that night I woke up to a conversation. Confused, I opened my eyes and looked up to see the face of a man. He held me, sat me up and talked about his cat. His hands were under the covers and on me. Once I could talk I told him that my big cousin was in the bed next to him, and he better go before he woke him up, and also the big dog Cleo was in the kitchen and might come in, and also my Aunt Jean was in the next room. I suppose I annoyed him, but I didn’t fully wake up until he left, when he tripped. His back hit the cafe’s curtain rod, which fell as he went out the window.

This woke up Marc, who ran to get his mother. My aunt called the police, who told me I had probably been dreaming. I had probably pulled down the curtain in my sleep, they said. After all, old Cleo hadn’t woken up yet, right? It wasn’t until after they left that we all noticed the large footprint print on the Styrofoam cooler.

In recent weeks, my past – like that of so many women – has emerged from the darkness.

I was fifteen when I woke up from a deep sleep and realized the man hadn’t mentioned his cat. He had said ‘pussy’. A little girl’s mind did not understand the meaning. A few cops might, if they’d tried.

I could fill more pages with “and then again,” but most women reading this would probably say, “Been there,” and most men would wonder what I had done to write so many of these stories to cause. I get it. I’ve blamed myself enough.

In recent weeks, my past – like that of so many women – has emerged from the darkness. The November election results, the impending return of convicted sex offender Donald Trump, and his Cabinet nominations rife with sexual assault allegations have elevated and released our attackers.

Most men don’t know what it’s like to live under duress, to be controlled by it. They know what it’s like to live with it, to consider it as an option; to choose when and if to use it on anything from a stubborn lug nut to a stubborn woman.

I was 19 and this time I was sleeping with my boyfriend at his father’s house in the rural woods outside Boston. I had broken up with my previous boyfriend months ago, so I wasn’t expecting a knock on the door at 2am. Before I could ask what he was doing there, he pulled me out the door and threw me over the hood of the car. As we struggled for the keys, he broke my arm, pushed me into the passenger side and drove us away. He flew across the highway and yelled at me. Every now and then he hit me with his elbow. He broke the ribs on my left side.

We were stopped for speeding and the officer asked if everything was okay. I said I was because I wanted to stay alive. He warned my ex-boyfriend, tapped the roof of the car twice and walked away. This seemed to restart my ex-boyfriend, who said nothing as he drove to the end of the long driveway where we had started, reached over me, opened the door, and told me he was sorry. I walked back to the house alone in the pitch dark, barefoot on the gravel and dirt.

READING, PENNSYLVANIA - NOVEMBER 04: Republican presidential candidate, former President Donald Trump speaks during a campaign rally at Santander Arena on November 4, 2024 in Reading, Pennsylvania. With one day to go before the general election, Trump is campaigning for re-election in the battleground states of North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Michigan. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images) — READING, PENNSYLVANIA – NOVEMBER 04: Republican presidential candidate, former President Donald Trump speaks during a campaign rally at Santander Arena on November 4, 2024 in Reading, Pennsylvania. With one day to go before the general election, Trump is campaigning for re-election in the battleground states of North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Michigan. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

My stories didn’t end when I was nineteen. They weren’t always as dramatic as an ex-husband ripping kitchen cabinets off the wall. They generally belonged more to the silent threat category; that little problem in a conversation or situation that is deafening to women and invisible to men. If I refuse now, there will be danger. And he doesn’t even know it.

I was walking the beagle the day before yesterday when I passed a couple of twentysomethings loading their car with construction equipment. They had a little discussion about whether they could do it in one or two trips. I think I laughed a little. The situation reminded me of my sons, who go to ridiculous lengths to get in just once, with everything from groceries to furniture. I didn’t even know I had done it.

“Is it funny?” said a man, then shouted, “TRUMMMMMMP lady! TRUMMMMMP.”

I kept walking. A minute later the car drove by. The man in the passenger seat rolled down his window and sang “Happy Birthday, Mister President” in a loud, drunken voice.

They felt so free to taunt me, so newly liberated. It was freezing.

“Your body, my choice” is the new rallying cry of white nationalist men in America. A social media post by journalist Jon Miller said, “women threatening sex strike like LMAO like you have anything to say,” and was viewed approximately 86.7 million times.

It took me two weeks to identify the cold, tight feeling in my chest. It’s the reminder that you can’t be safe anywhere, not even at home; of liquor-hot breath on my face and on my neck; of pretending to have fun and wanting to cry; of looking at my body when I wasn’t moving it; of not having control when one is stronger and willing to be violent.

It’s fear.

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Vaseline2 days ago

0 4 minutes read