In light of the recent Supreme Court decision that overturned Roe v. Wade, I post this again in the hopes that the women, the amazing, courageous, and strong women, who seek out safe and effective reproductive care for their emotional, mental, physical, and yes, spiritual, wellness will be able to find it. I also hope those who dissent will raise their voice and be heard. Martin Luther King, Jr. said thus: ‘Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust.’
This is dedicated to the women whose story will never be heard, and to those whose will…and to me, for finally learning to love myself again. Sorry it took so long.
I watched with anticipation and frankly dread the proceedings last week wherein the Senate committee questioned both Christine Blasey Ford and Brett Kavanaugh. I remember the hearings years prior when Anita Hill had been subjected to pretty rigorous questioning about then-nominee Clarence Thomas over allegations he had sexually harassed her for years before his nomination to the court.
I confess I was young then, in perhaps my sophomore year of college, and pretty passive about what was happening. I wandered into the Chi-O house after lunch with a light rain falling, no classes in the afternoon and a little laundry to do. (For honesty’s sake, I own up to the fact I probably would have skipped class just because it was raining.) The common room had a television and the hearings were on and so I settled in to watch them as I fluffed and folded.
I wish I could tell you that I was a really progressive young woman and that I had been invested in the hearings or the new Supreme Court seat that would be filled by a man who had probably made this young woman’s life a living hell- but I wasn’t. I was just a college kid doing her laundry on a rainy afternoon. I regret that. Ms. Hill not only deserved the respect she was so woefully denied during those proceedings but the compassion of a nation who should have understood the pain and frankly fear that would accompany such public and profound revelations.
The first time I heard the allegations against Judge Kavanaugh I found myself crying for no apparent reason. I felt immediate and certain solidarity with Dr. Ford and I found her description of the events that had transpired those many years ago awoke in me images I had thought long since dead.
I grew up in the era of a Mad Men society. Women were sexual objects; I was no exception. I figured out early that I was pretty. People looked at me differently. It seems conceited to say that but it’s true. My beauty opened doors and secured my place within a hierarchy built upon such things, my brain was just a nice consolation prize.
This was honestly never really okay with me and after I had the boys it only heightened my awareness of how this made me feel. Something in me flipped a switch after their births. The thought of what I was teaching them became more important, more urgent than anything else. The rigidity with which I had always watched my weight and cared about the vanities of my appearance swayed to more of a dull hum than a full-on roar.
Of course, when I began therapy after my husband left this was addressed- both the early thoughts about being just a pretty face and further, my love/hate relationship and constant struggle with the way I looked. If I continue to be honest with you, it still is a struggle. Here’s what I discovered about why.
[WARNING: descriptions of sexual assault and rape and the fallout follow. If this is a trigger for you, please do not read further and contact a crisis helpline.]
I was sexually assaulted and raped on my seventeenth birthday. I had been dating this boy for a while but had ended things several weeks prior. He was, I guess, what you would consider a family friend or maybe acquaintance. Our parents knew one another well and ran in the same circles. We swam together at the country club and saw each other at parties and other events.
Our relationship had been good at first. He was different from the other boys I had dated. He was very smart, more of an introvert- interested in art, books, and he paid attention to me for my brain, or I thought he did anyway. But the more I really got to know him there was uncertainty about him; an almost palpable need to be with me that drove me to want to the end the relationship. Remember, I was only a junior in high school. You certainly don’t have it all figured out at this point. I was still very much learning who I was and what I discovered was that I did not want him in my universe, not romantically anyway.
He told me had already made elaborate plans for my birthday and pleaded with me to at least honor those. Part of me knew that I should tell him there and then there was not going to be a reconciliation but the really good, kind part of me couldn’t do that to him and so I acquiesced. What could it hurt?
He had planned to cook me dinner at his family’s cabin some miles outside of town. I had always wanted to see the cabin and it was just as I’d imagined. It felt like we drove forever, even though it was only a few miles away. The weather was crisp and cold and clear. No wind, no sound, just the crunch of broken twigs beneath our feet as we walked. The grounds were beautiful but rough and a little rocky and it was dark- very dark. The sky was breathtaking, littered with a million stars we would have been unable to see back in town. The house was quaint but had also been curated with care; the spaces were artfully and comfortably staged. It was as I’d thought of it in my mind. It was a place I would have relished being able to visit given any other circumstance than the one that followed.
You might find it strange that I remember such details, but I can assure you, I remember everything. In fact, some details of that evening are more startlingly clear than are those of major milestones in my life.
He began to fix the dinner, precisely chopping and adding things to a large sauté pan. Oddly, the only thing I cannot recall is what we had for dinner. It completely escapes me. I have thought about this missing piece many a time and can only assume that the lapse is due to the fact that hours later in the evening the dinner came violently hurling back out of me like a scene from ‘The Exorcist’ and I wisely decided not to replay that again (though I have).
He offered me champagne, which I politely declined. I should note here that I did not drink. At all. I had, years before, tried the booze in my parent’s liquor cabinet with two of my best friends after my parents had gone to dinner. The resulting morning was not pretty and my sister’s own battles with alcohol and other substances ever on my mind, I had sworn off the stuff for good. This was not a point of contention with any of my peers because they always knew there would be a designated driver.
He persisted with the champagne, first opening the bottle and then pouring two glasses instead of one for himself. He brought a glass over to me and I suppose this is where the guilt really gets its ugly hooks in me. I took the glass. I should never have taken the glass… Why did I take the glass? Looking back as I have for going on 30 years now, I took the glass because I was already uncomfortable. I felt tense, unhappy, and wary. I remember thinking if I only had one glass I might be able to get through the evening; I might be able to relax a little and get through the hours until I would be home.
It is my recollection that I consumed approximately a glass and a half of the alcohol, maybe two; not enough to cause an immediate and profound change in my body chemistry. I will preface what I am going to say next by offering first that I have no proof of any kind for the statement that follows. I think he slipped me something. Maybe one of the Quaaludes his father had in a private stash. Again, I have absolutely no proof of this. What I do know is what happened next, as it is ever seared into my psyche as most traumatic things that break a part of who you are are doomed to be.
It got very warm in the cabin and I recall thinking it was too warm, as if the thermostat had been set to high. It seemed darker too, ominous somehow and I knew I was impaired. My vision was blurry and I could not focus. I found myself unable to form the simplest thoughts or perceive my surroundings with any sort of certainty.
I should mention here that he had broached the subject of our relationship earlier in the evening and it had not gone well. He had continued through the night the gentle pleading, the loving comments, the compliments, the flowery language every girl longs to hear. I understood he cared for me and frankly, as hard as it is to fathom, I still believe in some way that to be true. Still, I knew we were over and so the conversation grew tiresome and me, a little wary- thus the champagne.
Let me also say that in no way excuses my drinking the alcohol. It is also in no way about underage drinking. Simply, do I wish I had done what I knew I should and not consumed any? Do I wish I had trusted myself and been strong enough to know that the truly kind thing to do would have been to not go at all to the cabin? Sure. Have I thought about this and every other moment pertaining to this night to the point of exhaustion? You bet.
So there I am feeling woozy, off-kilter, very aware I am not okay and drowsy and sick and if I am being candid (which at this point is fair to say that I am) a little scared. Part of the reason I never drank was that I innately enjoyed who I was without any help from other sources. The other reason was that I never wanted to feel as if I had lost that much control again. It was something I thought about many times and made a very conscious decision to avoid- and yet here we were.
I told him I needed a restroom and he motioned me to a hallway and a left turn at the end. I made my way to the bathroom unable to stand and I felt the rough, dryness of the wood-trimmed walls as they scraped me like gross fingernails as I tried to navigate the hallway. I finally found the bathroom and the light switch and I immediately sat on the commode fully clothed trying to find a point of focus. Any point if focus. I can still see myself looking sideways in the mirror and being horrified at the person staring back at me.
A wave of nausea hit me then and I remember thinking that I needed to both throw-up and urinate at the same time and that was something that embarrassed me and I didn’t know what to do. I threw up in the sink and somehow managed to get my jeans down enough to pee in the toilet. After, I splashed my hot face with cool water and rinsed my mouth out.
I staggered out of the bathroom several minutes later and he was there waiting for me. He asked me if I was okay and suggested I might like to lie down. The bathroom was located in a small bedroom and the bed was right there in front of us. I have no idea if there was a half bath somewhere that he had neglected to tell me about, it doesn’t really matter. I can’t be sure but I imagine I thought to lie down might have been a good idea since at this point I had no balance, no evident simple motor skills, and I could barely keep my eyes even partially opened. I had the overwhelming feeling that if I moved again the dinner would come wretching forth and I just wanted the spinning to stop so I could get my bearings. If I could just get my bearings.
We laid down, me on the right side of the bed and he on the left and I remember hoping he would not touch me, even a little. I was sure if he did I was going to vomit all over the bedspread and I would be mortified if his mother knew. (Imagine thinking about such things at this moment.) He did move closer and put his arms around me in an almost ‘spoon’ position. We stayed that way for a few minutes and then he nestled his face into the crook of my neck and kissed me. To this day, the fact that my neck is a great source of pleasure for me causes me to reflect on that evening with guilt and shame while at the same time trying to remember I am human and that all men are not this man and that it is okay to enjoy someone kissing me that way.
He moved closer still and then as if in the blink of an eye, he was on top of me. The light in the bedroom was off and so there was only a small sliver of light from the bathroom illuminating us. In my mind, the shadows were unavoidable, menacing even. Demons dancing on the wall while the room grew darker still and never stopped spinning. I confess I do not remember my clothes being removed but I do remember wishing they weren’t. I kept saying ‘no’, reiterating that it wasn’t a good idea, that I didn’t want to do that…that I didn’t feel well. In my mind I thought a million times a minute about my ex-boyfriend Kevin, about my parents, about how I wanted so badly to be home in my bed; knowing at the same time exactly where I was and knowing without a shadow of a doubt what was happening to me.
His skin was clammy and cold. He was so thin, and his breath was warm and sour and made the sickness welling within me only grow. I had only ever dated athletes and I remember thinking that I should be able to get out from underneath him. If I could just move. If I could just do something. I couldn’t move, I could barely breathe. It seemed like it lasted forever, the act of it. He was saying things I’m sure he thought were comforting that seemed to spit from his mouth like venom in my mind. There was no escape. A song from my childhood popped into my mind, “Can’t over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it, have to go through it…”
If there is any light in this very dark tale it is that after he finished he seemed eager to leave the cabin. I managed (I still do not know how) to put my clothes on enough to leave. He helped me into the car and I remember the sound of the door closing. It sounded ugly, like the secrets of that night were forever trapped inside. Now when I think about it, I still hear the door and the finality of an innocence I would never recover.
The drive home was perilous at best. I had the entire passenger side window rolled down in the freezing cold and I had my head sticking way outside of the window like a dog on a joyride. My head was still turning circles and I was no better off than an hour before, although a tiny but acute headache had started to form and was growing progressively worse with every passing minute. The lights from the highway seemed harshly bright too as we drove as if a reminder I had nowhere to hide.
There were several times I asked for him to pull over on the ride back to town so that I could vomit; so many, in fact, that he grew irritated with me. I remember seeing the exit for Grand Avenue and thinking I had finally been given a life raft. I was indeed going to be saved.
I arrived at my door approximately ten minutes later. I was still vastly impaired, and managed a beeline straight to the shower, which was tricky because it was the only bathroom upstairs. A Jack-n-Jill type bathroom with the women’s vanity and bathroom on one side, the gentleman’s on the other and the shower and the tub in-between.
My point being, I did not want to wake my parents. I wasn’t even sure if they were home, but I just needed to shower. Quietly. (If I didn’t wake anyone up I wouldn’t have to talk about what happened.) I could not even stand. I turned the water as hot as it would go and I lay down in the tub whilst running the shower. We had a showerhead back then with adjustable water flow and I set it on the one that I thought would scrub me clean, beat away what had happened to me. I suppose I also wanted it to feel like the punishment I deserved and it was brutal.
I could not function well enough to wash my hair or shave, though I desperately wanted to- the thought that I could remove any trace of what happened still roiling around in my mind. I left the shower with my hair matted and my skin cold, my stomach still a turbulent mess- so much so that I threw up in the sink hoping beyond hope that it would go down without issue and remove the evidence that I had been there.
I collapsed on my bed and tried to look around my room. I had corkboard walls back then and there were pictures of my friends, my family, people I loved, and my life covering every available space. I tried to focus but all I could manage were snippets of things and people and moments that mattered to me before the tears came and then darkness.
The next morning, without pause, I made my way to my mother’s bedside and crawled in beside her. My father was already gone for an early tee time and her room was dark and cool and she felt warm and wonderful. I slept for a few more hours in her embrace. When I awoke she was gone. I had a split-second of peace before I remembered what had happened the night before and wretched again.
My mother brought me breakfast in bed (poached egg on toast, a favorite) and asked me how my birthday had been. I had hurt her feelings that year by bypassing our traditional family dinner at either Emmy’s or Taliano’s or The Red Barn to go it alone. She had never said so, of course. She had gamely put a smile on her beautiful face and told me whatever I wanted was what I should have, that it was my day. The knowledge of this soured in my stomach. If only I had gone to dinner with my family. If only. I wouldn’t have hurt her. I wouldn’t have hurt myself. He wouldn’t have hurt me. If only.
I wanted to tell my mother then what had happened. I wanted so badly to tell her. I knew she would respond with the love and care and devotion to me she always had. But you see I could not bear to disappoint her. I could not bring myself for her to know I had been soiled in that way…that I had allowed this to happen to me. I just couldn’t. So I said nothing. “It was fine,” I said mildly and with what I hoped was no inflection. “I do not think he and I will be seeing one another anymore.” “Oh?” she inquired. “No,” was all I could muster. “May I stay in your bed today, I don’t feel so hot.” “Of course you can, honey.”
My sister came in later and glared at me saying, “I know you’re hungover. You look like shit.” My sister and I are and have always been extremely close, but she was generally the fuck-up not me. She was wild and free and I was fairly rigid and rule-bound. I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to hear what had happened and to hug me and brush my hair. I feel remorse saying it now, but I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell her because I figured she would have taken some glee in the fact that I had finally really fucked it up. I knew better and thinking back on it, I know she would have given me the much-needed comfort and support and a safe place to talk about what had happened to me. I immensely regret ever doubting that for a moment.
I never told anyone. He called the next day to inquire about me and I did not take his calls, deciding instead to ‘ghost’ him, using current vernacular. Days went by, then weeks, then a month. School was becoming a somewhat delicate dance across a minefield. I felt like an x-ray. Surely everyone could see right through me and they were all studying me, judging me. Perhaps I felt this way because I could not sleep for judging myself. There was no safe place.
He was everywhere I looked- in the sun, in the shadows, in my waking and my trying to sleep. I withdrew from friends without any warning and I damn near destroyed a friendship with someone dear to me. I stopped eating altogether except for the things I found comfort in, mostly food from my childhood. Triscuits, EZ Cheez, sugary cereals, Cracker Jacks, Eggo waffles, cookie dough. I quit wearing much makeup and gave more thought to how to look unpretty than I did almost anything else. It was a desolate landscape. I didn’t know what to do. I kept my head just above water; it was all I could manage.
Then I missed my period. After that, I began to subtly feel nauseated by specific foods and seemingly at specific times of the day. Then I missed another period. Then I drove to the most out of the way pharmacy I could find and bought a handful of pregnancy tests with money my father had given me for gas. It never occurred to me I might be pregnant. Now as I drove my mind could not comprehend this new development.
I took them all over the next few days and every result was the same. I cannot describe the feeling because I am still not sure that I know. I know I hated myself more than I ever thought possible. I know I loathed him too. And I was afraid. And I felt so alone, unimaginably alone.
I remember being in my favorite armchair on a Saturday morning watching Scooby Doo and eating Froot Loops (still miraculously my favorite cereal). My mother was in the kitchen baking bread and my father had just walked through the door after finishing a round of golf. I don’t know where I found the courage or what the catalyst was in that window of time, but I asked them both to sit down. I put my cereal on the side table and told them I needed to talk to them about something. My father’s brow furrowed as it normally did when he sensed tension. They sat on the sofa without a clue what revelation would follow. I can promise you they would never fathom a moment like this.
I summoned the strength from a place in me I did not know existed and stammered and stuttered as I said the words. “I’m pregnant,” I heard myself say, the moment playing out in front of me as if it were someone else. My mother began crying immediately. I’m not even sure there was an intake of breath. My father’s furrow deepened and he audibly sighed as his gaze left me to follow an invisible line on the floor.
The next hour that passed was one I will never forget. The obvious questions were asked and answered. But here’s where I really lost myself. I never told them what actually happened. I gave them an abridged version that was a gentler, more palatable story. Why did I do this? My mother will read this blog and want to both hug me so tight I can’t breathe and throttle me at the same time. This will be a revelation to her because I never said a word. Not a one.
The story I spun put most of the blame on me. I had gone to the cabin, I had drunk the champagne and I had engaged in sex with someone with whom I had been involved in a relationship. It was my fault, not his- although, for clarification, blame is not the salve for anything. Hold on to poison and it only makes you ill. Someone profound said that, and it is true. The thing is, I was very careful to make absolutely certain that they knew I was complicit when I absolutely had not been. My heart broke a little as I told them this skewed version of events and I watched their faces grow soft, then hard, and then soft again as the tears came, as I knew they inevitably would.
I should note here that my parents responded in the way I knew (and should have trusted) that they would. They were loving and kind, gentle, open-hearted and open-minded, forgiving and comforting. At that moment I knew that there were no finer people in the whole universe I could have chosen to bring me life. (Lest you think my father is a saint, there was a lot of cussing and anger too, for good measure.)
I have no idea the private dialogue that transpired between my parents after that and the boy’s parents- or if there even was such an interaction. I can tell you that there was a very terse, tense, brief meeting in which I drove to the boy’s house and told him the news. He was visibly shaken, I recall him turning a rather whiter shade of pale (to borrow a phrase) and then asking what he needed to do. “Nothing,” I replied. (‘You’ve done quite enough already,’ I thought to myself.)
I did not linger there, choosing instead to say what needed to be said and make a quick get-away. I ended the meeting abruptly amidst his protests for me to stay before he could say or do anything that might trigger something in me. At this point, I still was head-high in the trauma and the smallest things made me fearful, frightened, and uncontrollably uncertain.
The next order of business was a visit to my gynecologist, a lovely man named Dr. David Phillips, who very literally had watched me grow up. I cannot express the humiliation, hurt and anger at being in his office at seventeen pregnant from a night of sexual assault and rape and conversely, having not told anyone, wondering what opinions he was forming about me as we spoke while he examined me with his hands inside my body.
The cold steel stirrups and the instruments he used, while necessary, felt like devices of both torture and shame. Tears slid down the sides of my face as I choked them back and lost my breath. I felt my face flush and I knew I was going to vomit. I had not had anything inside me since the night of my birthday and in one swift moment the tiny thread with which I had been holding it together unraveled.
We finished the exam and after Dr. Phillips exited, I asked my mother to give me a moment. I sat on the edge of the exam table and wondered how I had gotten there..? Had I somehow sent a message to the world, to the men I knew that somehow I was fair game? Had I been too open? Too flirty? Too…what…? Had I worn too much makeup, or provocative clothing, or listened to the wrong kind of music?
What was it that I had done to cause this? Yes, I believed I had incited this, probably even deserved it somehow. I was convinced it was about my beauty, my personhood, myself. What if I just hadn’t been ME? Would I still have been assaulted? My mind raced the autobahn while I considered these things and slowly dressed to face the reality now set before me.
What followed was a very private, very sad and despairing conversation between my mother and me about what would happen next. We discussed at length all of the options available to me. My mother told me in no uncertain terms the decision was mine.
I confess I had never had to fully think about abortion but it seemed wrong. I had always thought of birth as a miracle- and a gift. Why would anyone not want to be a mother or find themselves incapable of caring for a child? How could someone take the life of a child growing inside them? I was so naïve then. I thought all families were like my own and all children were loved, adored, accepted and sprung forth from a union of two people who loved one another. It seems like a Disney movie now. Were there birds perched on my shoulder?
With every fiber of my being for as long as I can remember I knew I wanted children, that part of whatever I was meant to do was to be a mother. “Four children,” I’d often say laughing with joy, ‘two boys and two girls… or maybe seven,” I would always tell my mom. I can still hear her laughter saying I better stick with four so that one would never be left out. She also said I better marry a prince (FYI- that didn’t happen).
The next few days were a fresh kind of hell. Dante never imagined anything so perverse. And still, at night I did not sleep; the images of that night still hunting me, the fingers of the demons still clutching my heart and trying to steal my spirit. I should note here that I still spoke to God in hushed tones about what was happening to me. As he always has, he kept me comforted and reiterated time again that whatever I decided to do he would never abandon me and he would never stop loving me- not even for a moment.
I confess I would have liked for him to have told me what to do, but that is seldom his style. Truthfully, one must walk into the lion’s den brave with the knowledge you are loved and protected and will not perish…yet it is the trust you put in yourself that allows for the first step. I decided on a Tuesday that I would end the pregnancy.
There was one clinic in all of Arkansas that performed terminations at that time. (One in the whole state.) Dr. Phillips scheduled the appointment for us and my mother drove me in silence most of the two-hour drive. It wouldn’t have mattered if we’d shared conversation; the wise and wonderful words she would have surely said to try and comfort me would have fallen on deaf and despairing ears.
I made this decision; this life-altering, life-taking, life-giving decision and I waited for the peace that would surely follow. The peace of knowing that I had done the right thing- not only for me but for the unborn child. I’m still waiting.
The office was small and stark but warm and welcoming at the same time. There were paintings of landscapes and flowers and comfy chairs and sofas. The décor was an appealing light blue. The nurses and doctors were extremely friendly and compassionate. We didn’t wait long, which I guess was a blessing, although at the time stepping through the door felt a little like an atom bomb might be waiting for me on the other side.
The procedure takes place in a doctor’s office and you are fully awake, though I was sedated a little because my blood pressure was spiking and they wanted to make sure I was relaxed. It is all very matter-of-fact, as most surgical procedures are, but the thing is, unless you close your eyes you can see the life being sucked right out of you and even if you close your eyes, you can still hear the sound. I am sorry to be so graphic and jarring but it is important you know.
I have never felt more terror, shame or sadness than I did in those moments. There is a part of me that is forever broken; a piece unable to be mended and you know, part of me feels like that is okay. It is what I deserve; my thirty pieces of silver for the decision I made.
Afterward, they put you in a large recliner emphasizing ironically, that the fetal position will be the most comfortable for the pain and cramping that will follow. My nurse held my hand as she covered me gently with a heated blanket. I slept for a while amidst bouts of vomiting and tears. My mother sat with me, carefully tucking my long hair behind my ears and stroking my face. She did not leave my side.
Hours later I was released. The nurse told my mom that I would be very sick for a few days, but that it was important for me to eat. She told her that a baked potato would be the best thing for me to eat and soon; not only would the potassium be beneficial but it was mild enough for me to be able to keep down. She explained there was a Wendy’s just around the corner and they had baked potatoes on their menu.
My mom somehow managed to pour me into the car and made her way to the Wendy’s. She ordered the potato and asked if I wanted anything else. Frankly, I didn’t care if I ever ate again. Death would never be as well deserved at it was then, or as welcome. The baked potato tasted like glue in my mouth and it grew as I spooned it in and it wasn’t long before Mom had to pull over so I could rid myself of it. It took a very long time before I could eat another baked potato.
Weeks went by and the physical scars began to heal. I resumed school (the administration had been told I was very ill) and the activities I had once enjoyed before my world fell apart. I did not enjoy them anymore, but I participated. I did this as much for my parents as myself. What else was there to do?
Several things happened after that. Patterns began to develop that I would not, or perhaps could not, identify until much later. I cut off all my hair, I began to wear pants and long sleeves rather than dresses and skirts. When I went swimming it took a year before I would again wear a two-piece bathing suit.
I started to eat again gradually (I have always loved food. So many of my greatest memories of family and fellowship and love are surrounded in meals I have shared with others) though without noticing, I also began to comfort myself with food. I found reassurance and solace in the treats that reminded me of more innocent and carefree times. I gained a little weight and while I noticed, I didn’t really care. Understand you see, that I was still reeling from what had happened to me, and I thought the weight might be okay. If I weighed more I would be less attractive and safer from harm.
The rape ruined my relationships with men. Oh I was able to have them, some even important and long-lasting but I was never fully able to give myself over completely. I told two of my romantic partnerships about what had happened to me. That was it. Well into what should have been considered the prime of my sexual experimentation I was unable to even climax. It just never came. (Pun intended, I guess.) I could not let myself go there. There was too much at stake; my dignity, my self-respect, my partner’s respect for me…my safety, my sanity. There was a very real part of me that kept itself hidden. If no one could see it, it could never be further broken.
I will also add here, because it is important, that I saw this person again. Around town, at school, even late night visits on my driveway in the heat of summer that felt like some weird try at atonement for us both. He traveled with one of my best friends for a surprise (and I do mean surprise) visit to see me at my small liberal arts college the autumn I left for school. There are those who will say someone who has been assaulted would never interact with their assailant that way. They would be wrong. Post traumatic stress reveals itself in all kinds of perverse ways.
TIme’s Up states that ‘…victims sometimes cope by focusing on their perpetrator’s loving side and shutting out the abuse, maintaining contact to elicit such affirmative behavior from the abuser. Often, victims may blame themselves for the encounter and convince themselves — or be convinced by the abuser — that an assault was not what they thought it was.’ They also say, ‘The consequences of sexual trauma are serious: large, epidemiologic studies show that sexual traumas in particular are most frequently associated with PTSD, depression, substance misuse, and other adverse health effects. That most victims know their abuser, so it is not uncommon for survivors of sexual violence at the hands of a professional acquaintance or intimate partner to maintain contact with their abuser. Doing so does not mean that the victim “consented” in any way to the perpetrator’s abusive behavior.’ (The added emphasis is mine.)
Eventually, I had children of my own; three sons who are unequivocally the very best part of me- they define my very existence and have given my life purpose. I remember the day I took the pregnancy test to discover I was pregnant with my firstborn Jack. I looked at the test and immediately felt insane joy which lasted a split-second before revulsion at me set in. The memory of the child that would never be filled my entire body; there was no space for anything else, the weight of it crushing.
I told the boys my story when they were old enough to hear it. They are perhaps the only ones who truly knew until now. It was important to me that they understood all of me, that they knew that life was wonderful and magical and mystical, but also human and flawed and scary and sometimes sad and very lonely.
I also wanted them to be very aware of the importance of how they treated women, how they thought about and viewed women, how they thought about themselves and of the power they wielded just by being men.
There will be people who will read this and say I made a horrible choice. What those people should know is that there are more days on the calendar than not, that I would agree. I made the best choice I knew how to make for myself with all the information and memories and pain that accompanied it. Do not think for one second I do not miss that child or wonder what he or she would have been like, or looked like or what joy their life would have held for them.
Somewhere after my divorce, when my life was quiet and I had repaired from the damage that it had wrought I took a long hard inventory of my life. It was about the time God definitively called me into his service. I remember telling him I was not worthy of such a task and I laid out before him all the reasons why choosing me was a mistake. “Silly child, you know I do not make mistakes.” Just then, Paxton rounded the corner and said, “I love you, Mom.”
It took me a long time to forgive myself for what happened, for all of it. I put it at the altar and I left it there for God. It was a very difficult thing to do. It felt like a betrayal, and I will tell you that I still struggle with this more than I’d like to admit. But the fact is, I continue to forgive myself and I forgive the person who assaulted me too. As hard as it will be for some to hear or understand, everyone deserves forgiveness and when you can genuinely give it with mercy and love in your heart something holy happens.
I have never forgotten about the rape. I have never forgotten the aftermath of it which I am finding I am still dodging the fallout of all these years later. It affects everything I do, I suspect it always will. I still think of the child. My child. A child of God who, hopefully having been returned with love to the guff, went on to be born anew into a family of comfort, peace, and joy.
Memories of this child still hit me when I least expect them- at the drive-in, the gas station, a football game or a funny shaped cloud in the sky. Most recently, I imagined she had been a girl and as I sat in the Sonic bay waiting for an ice water, I wondered if she were with me what we would be talking about. Would she have loved a cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper as much as I do? Would she have children of her own? A successful career? Would she know how much I loved her? Love her still?
I will always and forever respect the choices women make. No one knows what goes on in the hearts of someone struggling to make such a decision. No one but those who have lived through sexual assault and rape can speak to how it makes you feel, or how it should be dealt with, or what should be done in the wake of such a cataclysmic event. People do not get to say that the dress was too tight, or somehow she must have asked for it, or question angrily why the police were never called or why a report was never filed.
They will never know that a little bit of every single day and every single thing you do will be infected with the poison of the past. Every decision you make for the rest of your life will be viewed through a lens in which you have already had to make the worst decision you could ever dream of in your entire life.
There will never a moment before you are intimate that you do not relive what happened, There will never be a moment that you do not hope beyond hope that you can indeed trust the person you are about to share yourself with and that you do not pray for the things you lost and the decisions you made and plead that somewhere in the universe you have been forgiven and that you can forgive yourself.
It taints everything. That is what you never see coming…the ongoing history of it. The best you can do on some days is look in the mirror and love the person staring back at you. She is the one who needs it most.
#metoo
#fuckthepatriarchy
zendaughter 