When it seems like nowhere is safe

Editor’s note: There are mentions of sexual assault and rape in this essay.

The first time I was raped I was 11 years old. I was sent paddling with the 16-year-old son of my father’s boss. His longer, stronger legs led us to a small island on the other side of the lake, out of sight. He then told me to wash the blood off and that if I told anyone my father would lose his job. I never said so.

Later that year I stayed at my cousin Marc’s house. We spent the afternoon playing in the yard. Before bed, we placed the Styrofoam cooler under the window between the two beds in preparation for the lemonade stand planned for the next day, and went to sleep.

One evening I woke up to a conversation. Confused, I opened my eyes and looked up to see the man’s face. He held me, sat me down and talked about his cat. His hands were under the blanket and on me. When I could talk, I told him that my big cousin was in the next bed and he better go before he woke him up, and also Cleo’s big dog was in the kitchen and could come in, and also my Aunt Jean was in the next room. I think I really annoyed him, but I didn’t fully wake up until he stumbled as he was leaving. His back hit the curtain rod of the cafe, which collapsed as he climbed out the window he had entered through.

This woke up Mark, who ran to get his mother. My aunt called the police, who told me I was probably dreaming. “I probably drew the curtain in my sleep,” they said. After all, ancient Cleo didn’t wake up, did she? It wasn’t until they left that we all noticed a large footprint on the Styrofoam cooler.

Over the past few weeks, my past – like many women’s pasts – has emerged from the darkness.

I was 15 when I woke up from a deep sleep and realized that the man wasn’t talking about his cat. He said “pussy”. The little girl’s mind didn’t understand the meaning. Some cops could do it if they tried.

I could fill pages with “and then another time,” but most women reading this would probably say, “I’ve been there,” and most men would wonder what I did to cause so many stories like this. I see. I blamed myself a lot.

Over the past few weeks, my past – like many women’s pasts – has emerged from the darkness. The November election results, the impending return of convicted sex offender Donald Trump, and his Cabinet appointments riddled with sexual assault allegations have elevated our attackers and set them free.

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

I was 19, and this time I was sleeping with my boyfriend at his father’s house in an idyllic forest outside Boston. I had broken up with my previous boyfriend many months earlier, so I wasn’t expecting a knock on the door at 2 a.m. Before I could ask what he was doing there, he dragged me out the door and threw me over the hood of the car. While we were wrestling for the keys, he broke my arm, pushed me into the passenger seat, and drove me away. He flew down the highway and screamed at me. Sometimes he elbowed me. He broke my ribs on the left side.

We were stopped for speeding and the policeman asked if everything was OK. I said yes because I wanted to stay alive. He gave my ex-boyfriend a warning, knocked twice on the car roof and left. This seemed to reboot my ex-boyfriend, who didn’t say anything as he reached the end of the long driveway where we started, reached through me, opened the door, and excused himself. I returned home alone in complete darkness, barefoot on gravel and dirt.

READING, PENNSYLVANIA – NOVEMBER 04: Republican presidential candidate, former President Donald Trump speaks during a campaign rally at Santander Arena on November 4, 2024 in Reading, Pennsylvania. One day before the general election, Trump is campaigning for re-election in the battleground states of North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Michigan. (Photo: Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

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

The evening before last, I was walking my beagle when I passed some guys in their 20s loading their car with construction equipment. They argued among themselves about whether they could do it in one or two trips. I think I laughed a little. The situation reminded me of my sons, who go to ridiculous lengths to go on a trip just once with everything from groceries to furniture. I didn’t even know I did it.

“Is this funny?” one of the guys said before shouting, “TRUMMMMMMP, lady! TRUMMMMMP.”

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

They felt so free to mock me, so newly liberated. It was terrifying.

“Your body, my choice” is the new rallying cry of white nationalists in America. Social media post journalist Jon Miller stated that “women are threatening sex strikes like LMAO, like you have anything to say” and it got about 86.7 million views.

It took me two weeks to recognize this cold, tight feeling in my chest. It is a memory of where it is not safe to be, even at home; hot breath from alcohol on the face and neck; pretending to have fun and wanting to cry; watching my body move when I wasn’t moving it; lack of control when someone is stronger and willing to use violence.

This is fear.

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