A Survivor’s Memories

fractured_dollsAt one of his rallies yesterday, President Trump, my county’s president, took the opportunity to mock Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the woman accusing Trump’s nominee to the U.S. Supreme court of sexually assaulting her in high school. The Predator-in-Chief made fun of Dr. Blasey Ford’s inability to remember certain facts about the attack. People like him are why I never reported anything that happened to me to the police. They are why so many of us blame ourselves, fear the criticism we know will come, and hold silent with our pain in the shadows.

When I was sixteen, my grandfather sexually assaulted me. I don’t remember the day of the week, the time—other than that it was morning, or the date. I lived with my grandparents at that time, but I don’t know why I was home from school. What I do remember with absolute clarity was the way the morning sunlight slanted through the yellow metal blinds, the things he said to me, and the feeling of being outside my body—that this was all happening to someone else. It wasn’t the first time he had done something sexually inappropriate to me, but it was the first time I knew, with absolute certainty, that the man I loved and trusted more than any other was harming me. I hadn’t been drinking or using any type of illicit substance, but everything surrounding the event is pretty much a blank.

After clocking out from bussing tables at my first job when I was 18, two brothers who also bussed cornered me in the back of the restaurant. One pressed me against a metal table and ground his clothed erection against me. Then he flipped me over, and he and his brother took turns pretending to have intercourse with me that way. I don’t remember the day of the week, the time, or the date. I know the year only because I graduated high school that year. I don’t remember their last name. I do remember the cold of the metal table beneath my palms and against my face, the way the first guy flipped me over like a ragdoll, the happy-sounding Mexican music playing from the cheap radio in the front of the kitchen, and wondering if they were going to pull me into the bathroom or out to their car. I don’t remember why they stopped. I don’t remember exactly how I got home. I was stone cold sober.

When I was 21, I met an incredibly cute guy at an all ages show. It was in an old airplane hanger, but I don’t remember exactly where it was, what it was called, the day of the week, the exact time, nor the exact date. I don’t remember what bands played nor any of the songs. The cute guy and I talked, laughed, had a couple of beers, then went to a party in separate cars. At the party, we talked more and decided to get something to eat. His car wouldn’t start, so he got in my car. We ate breakfast somewhere–an all-night diner, but I can’t remember it at all. I don’t know if it was a chain or some local place. I don’t know where it was. We talked and talked, but I can’t really remember what we talked about except for art and music.

I offered to drive him home. Instead of going home, he wanted to go to a friend’s house. So, I took him there and we did a few shots and had a few beers. I don’t remember what the friend looked like, his name, what his house looked like, or where it was located. I thought I would be okay since I had eaten something. I didn’t drink more than I usually did when I went out. I remember feeling fuzzy. We left. He must have driven my car. The next thing I remember was lying in the back of my station wagon and feeling deathly cold. I could barely move. My jeans were around my ankles and my cute guy was hovering over me like a shadow, blacker than the darkness, trying to wedge his penis into me. I told him ‘no.’ I remember feeling like my voice was so far away. I wanted to have sex with him. I was utterly smitten. I would have done anything he wanted, but I wanted to be awake enough to enjoy it. But he didn’t care about that part, I guess.

Some time in my mid-twenties, I have no idea what age I was, I was raped by the manager of the bar where I worked. He raped me over the desk in his office. It happened really fast and was over quickly. I barely felt him. I know how I got there. I was at work and typically drove myself to work. I know that I drove myself to my boyfriend’s house, but I think I was several hours late. I don’t remember where I went. I just remember driving around in the dark feeling numb.

So, I don’t find it odd at all that there are some things Dr. Blasey Ford remembers strongly while other details have faded into the ether. What I find inexcusable is that our society continues to treat victims of sexual assault, abuse, and predation as if they are unreliable and foolish. As long as men like Trump have power, that trivialization of life-shattering acts will continue.

Truth in Fiction

My fantasy stories might not seem autobiographical, but I use elements of my own past and emotional landscape when crafting my characters. I know what it’s like to lose a parent (not to death, but to other things)–but what if that loss had been the result of a brutal murder? I take the pain I know and extrapolate. I mold and twist until I’ve wrought something unique from my own experience. I do this over and over, constantly.

I think it creates realistic character emotion and depth, and it’s extremely therapeutic. When I write, I do so with the knowledge that there’s a possibility no one will read that book, no one will connect with it, it will exist forever alone and unloved. But that’s okay, because it gave me the chance to fight my demons again, to win the battle, to put them back in their cages once more.