Today
I said something I've never said before.
“The
guy who tried to rape me.”
I said
it casually. It came up casually. The conversation had absolutely
nothing to do with it except that we had been talking about a car my
friend heard that she said sounds like a truck. I said to her,
“that's the way the car sounded that belonged to the guy who tried
to rape me.” I heard her breath catch. I didn't realize why
immediately - mainly because she was the one person who knew what
happened that day. But it hit me...I'd never before said “rape”.
When I talked about it, even then, I always said that he “attacked”
me as if it reduced the enormity of what had happened.
And I
was so glad I was near the end of my day because once I released
those words I couldn't stop repeating them. I casually ended my day,
casually came home, and casually sobbed for 20 minutes.
Ok, so
there was nothing casual about the sobbing. It was ugly and snotty
and I still look like I might have been rubbing jalapeno laced
sandpaper across my eyes. And now that I've created jalapeno
sandpaper, I'd like to see it happen because I think his balls
deserve a dose of that shit.
Looking
back, I'm not sure if I was ever properly horrified.
It was
about 12 years ago. It was a Sunday. I was doing laundry and watching
the race.
He
worked at the bar we always went to and we had become friendly. We
joked around, he had helped me play pool. He had my number for weeks.
We talked a bit. When he wanted to stop by that day, I never
hesitated. We were friends.
When
he came over, he got flirty. I felt...disturbed. Very aggressively
flirty. I brushed it off at first, but he became more insistent about
it. I started straightening things and he kept trying to corner me.
The dryer buzzed and I ran for the laundry. I brought the basket back
into the room and told him I had to get him to go so I could go meet
a friend. He told me I was a liar (I was
a liar, but it was the best I could do on short notice and with
growing nerves), grabbed me, and kissed me. I slipped out of his paws
and grabbed my laundry basket and for some reason he thought I was
just playing. He kept grabbing me. I kept telling him to go. His
response each time was to try to kiss me again. He finally realized
that I was getting very upset. His reaction? Well, he grabbed me by
the collar of my shirt and asked what I expected just before he tore
my shirt in half and pushed me back into my couch. While I was still
holding my basket between us. A couple of my nails broke because I
gripped the basket so hard when he tried to push us together. For
some reason, I screamed, “you dick! You ripped my shirt!” as if
that were the worst thing he was doing and turned and ran up the
stairs like my ass was on fire. I locked myself in my room and pushed
myself against it as if that were going to give it a more secure
lock. Oddly, he waited a minute before he chased me. He pounded on my
door and called me a fucking cunt. It was a good time.
I
don't know why, but he only screamed for a couple of minutes before
he stomped down the stairs and slammed my door before revving his
engine and taking off like a bat out of hell.
When I
heard him go, I kind of melted. I slid down the door and trembled and
shook and chattered until you'd've thunk someone was popping popcorn
in me. That was when the terror set in. I'm not sure if that was
general stupidity or some version of that fight or fight you hear
about from time to time. I didn't cry until later. Much later. I
think it might have been even after I called my friend the next day
and asked her if she could get her mom to sew my shirt. That seemed
important. Hell, I still have the shirt. Somehow over the years, it
came to represent beating something that tried to beat me. But
there's a dark funny in there. Hey, some guy tried to rape me but I'd
really like to have this shirt fixed, please and thank you.
I
never reported it. I mean, I welcomed him into my home. Who would
believe me? Really, nothing happened. A million absurd things ran
through my mind, not the least of which was that I was going back to
that bar because he was not going
to ruin my Friday nights. And I did! I went back to that bar knowing
that he would be there. Knowing he might do something to me. I had to
do some deep breathing in the car in the parking lot before I'd go
in. But he was not taking this from me, too.
I
scurried in the door a bit faster. I sat closer to my friends than
usual. He wasn't working. He showed up anyway. I ignored him. My
friend didn't hit him with a tire iron. Despite everything, it was
not a bad night. Until I had to go to the bathroom; I had waited
until I thought he left and headed back. He was there around the wall
and cornered me. He yelled at me about being a tease, that I never
should have invited him over.
I
was stunned stupid for a minute, then seethed at him, “you scared
the shit out of me, dickhead!”
That
was the best I could come up with. A barely audible, angry, “I was
scared.” Grace under pressure right here.
I
ducked under him arm and started into the bathroom just as another
woman came around the corner. Given the tension in the air, heavens
only know what she thought but that was all it took for him to not
chase me into the bathroom. When I pulled myself together and went
back out he was really gone. The rest of the night was ruined because
I was convinced I was wrong again but I wasn't about to leave until
someone else was ready to walk out and I wasn't going to embarrass
myself by asking someone to walk me out. Yeah, I actually thought
that would be embarrassing. I don't really have an explanation for
that.
When
I did finally get home, I checked my messages (yep, I still had a
landlane and an answering machine and still didn't have a cell phone)
and there was a message from him sobbing like a fucking child. “I
wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't do that to any woman.”
But
he did. He was going to. I had bruises from the way he grabbed me to
rip my shirt. He would have done that to me. And of all of the
reactions I could have had, as bizarre as it seems to me now, had I
not gone to that bar he would have lived life calling me a tease and
a whore.
At
least because I did that, he has to live with knowing that he is a
monster.
He
didn't work there much longer, and I slowly stopped being nervous
about going out with my friends. Hell, it seemed irrationally fast
that I started to forget about him. But it sticks with me. I remember
him. As much as he doesn't deserve it.
I
don't know why I decided now is the time to get this out of me. Maybe
it's just my way of checking in on my mortality. I catch myself doing
that sometimes since I was given my life altering diagnosis. It
happens something like this:
“Yo,
Mortality, we cool today, homie?”
“We
cool...today, bigass, buuuutttt I'm taking away palak paneer and
jalapenos today. I need some shits n giggles” (not only does Morty
speak truth, he enjoys fucking with me sometimes.)
“Sweet!”
(I only mutter “dickbag” in whispered tones after
I turn around...I figure it's not in my best interest to make waves
with him)
“I
concur!”
secrethandshakefistbumpwiggleticklecoochycoo
Hell,
maybe it's just my way to let someone else who's haunted by something
shitty that they aren't alone.
Whatever
it is...trust your gut, people. When someone knocks you down, do what
you have to to make yourself strong again...even if you don't know
why.
I'll
never know why it was that my stubbornness made me go to that bar,
but because I did, I wasn't the only one suffering because of that day. Sometimes,
that knowledge is enough.
