It wasn’t until I one evening suddenly was overwhelmed by anxiety and the need of a shower poring over me that I realized what had happened. I had the urge to sit in a bathtub scrubbing me down to my bones. Images I’ve watched so many times in movies. The classic scene. And I was thinking, is this what it feels like? I was 58 years old.
Until only three years ago I felt estranged from stories I heard from colleagues and friends of men approaching them in ways making them uncomfortable. It had never happened to me. And I had never been in a situation where I had been scared of a man. Not even on the street. All alone in Seattle or elsewhere.
I thought the reason was I was so unattractive it wouldn’t even cross ones mind to approach me. I know, of course, that sexual harassment is about power and nothing else. Yet.
Being a teenager I was the tall and skinny girl in a group of already highly developed curvy friends. I looked like a boy. Flat breasted without hips. Guys didn’t look at me twice. And that’s the image of and feeling for myself I have been carrying all through my life.
When I was a journalist I was stunned by female colleagues describing male co workers giving them inappropriate proposals or comments in editing rooms or out on a story. These were thick skinned, vociferous and highly competent women as active as any man in the conference room, always fighting for their story. Yet, somehow, this happened. I didn’t get it. It didn’t happen to me. And the only reason why, I figured, was: as a woman I was invisible.
Now. Some years ago a person crossed my path. We got along and I enjoyed his company. He entered in a time when I was in an extremely vulnerable place. He offered a supporting hand and a warm embrace. I liked the way he held me. It did me good.
He was very volatile though. One day he wanted to be my boyfriend, the next he had a different opinion. Now and then he kind of jumped me and kissed me. It happened so fast I was startled and didn’t quite know how to react. I just kind of let it happen. And felt weird.
Until that day when we had The Talk. And he announced he wasn’t interested in a relationship. And then jumped me and kissed me. And I kicked him and shouted THIS IS WHERE YOU STOP!
It was that evening the anxiety kicked in. I felt dirty and wanted to crawl out of my skin. Or scrub it away. And I was thinking: so this is what it is like. This is where they have been, all the women in the movies. This is how it is to have your body kidnapped. How can I get it back and make it mine again?
Now, expressing this, I do it very matter of fact. And I am not giving a time frame. Only two people know about this and I have never formulated it in writing before, except to my journal. I need to keep some distance in this moment.
Of course, this is nothing compared to what women go through. But to me, who during my 58 years of living never had experienced anything along these lines, it was major. Someone had crossed my borders. And I had let it happen. So why?
For one thing, in the beginning I really liked him. The other things was, if I had not been in that vulnerable place I don’t think it would have happened. I was just the perfect prey. In need of comfort. So easy for him to say, hey come here, we’ll figure this out. So easy for me to go there. I was taken advantage of.
There is also a third reason. I was a virgin in this situation. I didn’t reed the signs. I had no idea what was going on. Which is kind of cute, considering my age.
A male friend of mine and me have discussed this a lot. Why it hasn’t happened before. He is not quite buying my idea of being so appalling men would look in a different direction finding someone else to harass.
Instead he says: Maria, you have such body and personal integrity it wouldn’t even come to ones mind to approach you in an inappropriate way.
This is interesting. If that’s true, why is that? The only thing I can come up with is my father. I had my father’s eye, but he never treated me like his princess. I would say he raised me his equal. Moving in this world, I think I see myself a lot like him. Well-dressed and a head taller than everyone else. And I am not defining myself first as a woman. I am defining myself as me.
Why have I not talked about this incident before? Shame of course. And how much was I a part of it? It didn’t happen on the street. I know the criteria is when your body says no. But it took a while for it to do so. It’s those fine lines, the blurred borderland, so difficult to navigate. When a young boyfriend gets a hard on at every hug and you don’t like it. When you are having sex with your husband because it’s passed a month and you really should although you don’t want to.
So, what has this incident done to me? It has harmed me. The “feeling dirty” anxiety is easily trigged. A hug from someone I don’t know that well. Or someone taking an interest in me. I am damaged. And to that, this person is forever guilty.
Immunity. The insight I am not immune to this plague. That’s a shattering realization. This person deprived me of my immunity. Not too long ago someone made me a sexual insinuation. Has never happened before. I was so stunned I couldn’t even respond. Again, the need of that cleansing shower. Is this how this works? When you have once being robbed of your borders they aren’t visible anymore?
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