When it feels like nowhere is safe

Editor’s Note: This article talks about sexual assault and rape.

I was 11 years old when I was first raped. I was sent on a rowing boat trip with my father’s boss’s 16-year-old son. His longer, stronger legs guided us to a small, secluded island at the far end of the lake. He then told me to clean up the blood and that if I told anyone, my father would lose his job. I never said.

Later that year I was spending the night at my cousin Marc’s house. We spent the afternoon playing in the garden. When it was time for bed, we placed a styrofoam cooler under the window between the twin beds and fell asleep, in preparation for the lemonade stand we planned to hold the next day.

Sometime that night I woke up to a conversation. Confused, I opened my eyes and looked into a man’s face. He was holding me, making me sit upright, talking about his cat. His hands were under the blanket and on me. When I could talk I told her that my older male cousin was in the next bed and that he needed to go before I woke him up, also that the big dog Cleo was in the kitchen and could come in and also that my Aunt Jean could be there too. He was in the next room. I think I annoyed him and pushed him away, but I didn’t fully wake up until he tripped as he left. As he was going out through the window he entered, his back hit the curtain rod of the cafe and the curtain fell to the floor.

This woke up Marc, who ran to get his mother. My aunt called the police and told me I was probably dreaming. They said I probably pulled the curtain down in my sleep. After all, ancient Cleo hadn’t woken up, right? Only after they left did we all notice the large footprint on the styrofoam cooler.

In the last few weeks, my past – like the past of so many women – has come roaring out of the darkness.

I was 15 when I woke up from a deep sleep and realized the man wasn’t talking about his cat. “Cat” he said. A little girl’s mind did not understand the meaning of this. A few cops could do it if they tried.

I could fill the pages with more “and then another time,” but most women reading this will probably say, “I was there,” and most men will begin to wonder what I did to cause so many stories. I understand I blamed myself a lot.

In the last few weeks, my past – like the past of so many women – has come roaring out of the darkness. November’s election results, the impending return of convicted sex offender Donald Trump, and cabinet nominations riddled with sexual assault allegations have glorified our attackers and set them free.

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

I was 19 years old, and this time I was sleeping with my boyfriend at his father’s house in the idyllic woods outside Boston. I had broken up with my previous boyfriend months ago, so I wasn’t expecting the knock on the door at 2 in the morning. Before I could ask what he was doing there, he dragged me out the door and threw me on the hood of the car. He broke my arm while wrestling for the keys, pushed me into the passenger seat, and drove us away. He flew down the highway screaming at me. Sometimes he hit me with his elbow. He broke the ribs on my left side.

We got pulled over for speeding and the police asked if I was okay. I said I was because I wanted to survive. He warned my ex-boyfriend, hit the roof of the car twice and drove away. It was like reviving my ex-boyfriend, who didn’t say anything as we drove to the end of the long driveway where we started, just reached over, opened the door, and told me he was sorry. I walked home alone, barefoot on gravel and dirt, in pitch darkness.

My stories didn’t end at 19. They weren’t always as dramatic as the ex-husband who ripped the kitchen cabinets off the wall. They were generally more in the silent threat category; that little glitch in a conversation or situation that is deafening to women but invisible to men. If I resist now, there may be danger. And he doesn’t even know about it.

I was walking my beagle the other night when I passed a few guys in their 20s loading construction equipment into their car. They were having a little argument about whether they could do it in one trip or two. I think I laughed a little. This reminds me of my sons who go to ridiculous lengths to bring everything from groceries to furniture just once. I didn’t even know I was doing this.

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

I continued walking. A minute later the car passed us. The man in the passenger seat rolled down the window and sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” in a loud, drunken voice.

They felt so free to mock me, they were so newly liberated. It was creepy.

“Your body, my choiceIt is the new rallying cry of white nationalist men in America. A social media post Journalist Jon Miller said “women are threatening sex strikes like you have a say, LMAO” and garnered nearly 86.7 million views.

It took me two weeks to identify the cold, tight feeling in my chest. This is a memory of a place where there was nowhere safe to go, not even home; the drink’s hot breath on my face and neck; pretending to have fun but wanting to cry; watching my body move when I’m not moving; Having no control when someone is stronger and willing to resort to violence.

This is fear.

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