It turns out, I've taken a brief respite from writing. Involuntarily.
Perhaps it's the chaos of the pandemic or the luxury of self-pity, but the lure of feeling some semblance of control has kept me from addressing my soul's desires. The combination of: my crippling fear of not meeting others' expectations, living under a name without a professional acronym attached to it, and pure anxiety of the unknown, have created a cocoon of self-avoidance. And when my soul would respond to this neglect by saying, "hey, I'd like to explore today. Let me read this book and get to know myself," my head would retort: "But this doesn't help you make sense of the world around you. You have to remain sexually desirable. You have to earn your food, don't you? If you aren't on your feet for 8 hours today, you will become lazy and fat and something will go drastically wrong and you will remain unloved and undesired. Get moving." This saga of self-sabotage would continue until, eventually, I'd give in and go about my normal routine of avoiding my soul's desires to do what I seemingly needed to do to please others. Stay thin. Clean house. Keep moving. Don't make too much of a scene. Say please and thank you and I'm sorry. And look pretty while you're doing it.
Until now.
This morning, I came across a New York Times article about unwanted touch and how much women consent to touch they don't actually want because we are socially conditioned to not reject the hands of others:
"The phrase 'skin hunger,' the state of longing that results from touch deprivation, has become newly familiar to many, but we still don’t have words for the receiving of touch we don’t crave but commonly endure and even consent to because we don’t feel entitled to resist it. I mean encounters like mine with that older teenager, but also countless less disturbing ones: the impulsive fondling of pregnant women’s bellies, hugs from mere acquaintances, sex that we simply aren’t in the mood for. During the pandemic, I have been happy to live without the inevitable close-talking men at literary or work events. I do not miss shoulder squeezes, back pats, draped arms or even handshakes. Of course, plenty of people don’t tolerate touch they feel ambivalent about or actively abhor, but I suspect that a majority of them live in male-identified bodies."
This article revealed how I have consented to remaining in situations I would rather escape from in order to avoid seeming impolite. My body has been conditioned to view complacency as the only option; my actual desires (if I allow them to even exist) have become secondary to this proclivity. Within this avoidance of my own desires and wishes as a soulful human being, comes the co-dependency of everything outside of myself. "What if this person thinks I'm being rude? 'I'm sorry!'" Is a constant monologue inside my head. So I stay and engage in dialogue I don't actually want to be a part of. "What if I sat still for too long? Better go on a walk. That guy at the laundromat might think you've gained weight" is another one. Meanwhile, my soul is asking, "can we go sit now? I would like to create artwork." I wouldn't dare allow that. "How can I tell this person they are killing their plant without offending them? 'Maybe try a different watering schedule which might help maybe fix the problem" is a common way I avoid certainties. Definite answers might lead to a direct offense. Which gives others 100% ammunition to be upset with me. Plus, as a woman I am expected to be kind and polite and cater to other's needs and desires. Through my entire life, I have been socialized to not upset or disappoint people. So, if I am the first to self-depricate then I can beat them there, right?
Wrong.
It turns out, abandoning my own desires only puts my own control in the hands of others. It creates a co-dependency on the satisfaction of others, meanwhile completely abandoning myself in the process. I haven't even given a voice to the biggest abandonment. Until now.
In September of 2020, I began receiving nightly GIF emojis from my male boss at the garden center. Following those came texts asking "How are you, my love?" and the knee-jerk allure and abhorrence all at once. Responding within the societally-conditioned fear of disappointing those in power, I played along. The following month, he gave me a raise. Although $0.25 to $0.50 was the standard, the whopping $2.50 raise reinforced my duty. My job security became beholden to his satisfaction. The text exchanges continued throughout that month and the next, and escalated when my days of satisfying others were particularly rough, so I turned to alcohol. One night, drunkenly, with no judgement as to whether or not I was acting in a manner that was respectful to myself, I sent a picture. That was the first major offense to the incredibly stable and loving relationship I am in with my partner. The next day, guilt and shame hit deep, and I sobbed my apologies to my beloved. Yet, the desire to please never wavered. And I still never sobbed apologies to myself.
Soon enough, I was given superfluous tasks in order to stay later than the rest of my co-workers. He began walking me out to my car. I mustered the most conversation my fear-driven brain could come up with. I talked my moral compass down on the car rides home, justifying its discomfort with my "societal responsibility." He would hug me goodbye, and I would oblige in the least-offensive way. One day, he held me eerily close, and my body knew this path all too well. I cringed, anticipating the blow- knowing that my only option that would keep me employed was complacency. He pulled down my mask and attempted to kiss me. I managed to thwart my head to the side and allow my cheek to be assaulted. I forced a farcical laugh to hide my disgust. After all, despite warnings of undisguised sexual molestation, I was raised being taught not to reject the hands of others.
Later that month, he showed me his childhood home on Google Maps while I sat next to him in the red velvet chair. The air was stiff, his smell musky in an invasive way, his chair much too close. My clenched fists told me I was in danger. My sweaty palms secreted the truth. The pounding in my chest said to get the hell out. But the black hole gaping in the pit of my stomach yelled to fill it with insatiable desires to occupy the void left by my father on the courtroom stand when I was 8 years old. So I let him kiss me. His lips off-target and mustache abrasive. The next thing I knew I was pushing him away, just to be pulled in again. It was like a tug-of-war with the brainwash that is sexual validation: this is something you want, and it is your societal obligation to enjoy it in the least offensive way possible. Or else you're a bitch. Or else you'll get fired. Then I get 'what I want.' Then the disgust. Why do you feel disgusting for something you thought you wanted? What the hell is wrong with you? You gotta pretend like you want it now. This is your own shit you're stepping in. Time to play along. I squeamishly escaped to my locker. Fight or flight had kicked in: get things and go. Shaking, I flailed to get my backpack on. I turned around and gasped. His pants were around his ankles. His eyes looking directly into mine. "I love you," he said. I fled. I didn't allow myself to think about it again until it demanded to be thought about. In the middle of the night, I catapulted forward like the exorcist, visions infiltrating my mind reminding me that some things cannot be unseen. Sweat steaming off my back made the disgust palatable, which ignited the familiar cycle of self-blame: Why do you feel disgusting for something you thought you wanted? What the hell is wrong with you? You gotta pretend like you want it now. This is your own shit you're stepping in. Time to play along.
The following day I mechanically completed my tasks. I talked with no soul and thought with no depth. My only goal was survival. When I thought I could casually scurry to my locker and make it out in the clear, my fate was already sealed. With my backpack on, I turned around hoping this time would be different. Hoping this time would be safe. His pants were off again. Except, instead of just standing there proclaiming his "love for me," this time he moved in on me. I had not a second to think twice. His hands on my clothes. Then on my body. His mouth in places I never wanted it. But what I wanted didn't matter at that point. Even the slight chance (and it didn't seem slight) that he would listen to my "no" made me want to withhold it. It was the last opportunity to salvage ANY power, to decide what would happen and what it would mean. I decided to allow my body to be enjoyed by someone who employed me, utilized my work to get business, and knew me for 5 measly months. Gathering evidence given to me by father, I decided the only purpose my self-worth served was to be penetrated. I decided that the break room floor was my place in this business. All I wanted was respect, and this was how I was shown to earn it. I use "earn" because respect is rarely "given" to women in this world.
I barely remember the aftermath. I remember him trying to paternally clean up after me. He handed me the paper towels employees used during lunchtime. He went off to clean himself up in the bathroom I use during break-time. I lay naked on the cold tile floor staring up at the locker I open and close every day. Every bit of personal relationship with my job was carpet-bombed, infiltrated with vile memories of what seemed to be my only worth.
That night, I went on to numb myself with my newly familiar weed and wine cocktail, until I floated into an abyss that had no semblance of reality. The following day, I faced the daunting task of revealing the assault to my partner. We were on Blossom Lane, the only street nearby with a hill that I have become obsessed with walking up and down to help process my thoughts. "I fucking hate him," was one of the many explitives my gentle partner threw. I had never seen his tender heart so hard, never seen his kind face so contorted with angry tears. It wasn't until his reaction that I thought of something wild: I am worthy of the respect that I deserve. And now it is my duty to demand it.
If only it were that simple.
I went to work the following day, planning to confront my boss by the end of it. When he called me over to give me my daily orders, I didn't make eye contact. He handed me the papers flippantly. I called a question to him through the radio. "Eddie went home early," the assistant manager said. I sighed in exasperation: he's putting up a fight.
The following day, I demanded to talk to him at the beginning of the day. I sat in the all-too-familiar red velvet chair with a tinge of repulsion. It felt tainted.
"We cannot work like this," I started. "I almost completely ruined my relationship. I have James. You have a wife and two children. This. Is. Not. Okay."
He barely let me finish before cutting me off, "I can't work like this either! With you barely looking at me and ignoring my texts. I am heartbroken." I realized his 'this' was much different than my 'this.' His 'this' was working within my new confines of respect and boundaries. My 'this' was surviving the continuous assaults and intrusions he imposed upon me.
"You told him too soon," he said.
"What?" I asked, desperately hoping that I missed something, and that he was not suggesting telling my partner was a "mistake."
"You needed to let it play out. Let your heart want what it wants and keep your mind out of it."
I wanted to go for his jugular and jump off a cliff all at once. The overweening nature of his statement left an odious taste in my mouth. I no longer wanted to dignify his existence.
"Aren't you going to tell your wife?" I asked.
"When our time is done. We haven't finished yet, she doesn't need to know until later. Until we are done." Although every part of me wanted to say, "we ARE done," I felt compelled to come up with the least offensive way to do so. Through the tears, I mustered up some sort of final "This isn't okay," and left the office deeply ashamed and deeply embarrassed.
From that day on, whenever I see him, I still feel deeply embarrassed. Not only for what I consented to, but because I knew he had done wrong. Somehow it was his wrongs that embarrassed me, like it was rude of me to remember them. In order to keep the peace and keep my job, I allowed infrequent hugs. I allowed back touches when he passed me. It seemed as if the message was half-way across the bridge to getting across, then knocked off track by the meteor of power-hungry masculinity. From then on, I have been living in this microcosm of empty consent in order to protect my body from the violent retaliation of men while simultaneously feeling the need to protect those same men from the consequences of their behavior by displacing the responsibility onto myself. At some point, I convinced myself that this is what I was alive for. I had no idea that I had any other worth than providing pleasure for men and boys. I became very confused about who my body belonged to. I wanted despairingly to tell him verbatim how actress Gugu Mbatha-Raw detailed her sexual assault: "Quit telling me what to do, how to feel. I am done. How do I get you to stop? What do I have to say? I was violated. I was scared. I was powerless. That I think about it every day. Hundreds of times every day. That this is what has defined me. How I got a promotion. Who I am. How it feels. To have someone you love and respect and look up to on top of you. Using you. Using your body. Wanting you and not caring about you all at once. Wanting a parent ... and having a cock shoved up you. And then living with that eternal noise in your head for the rest of your life. The noise that says 'you are dirty,' 'you caused this,' 'this is your fault.' To see people lose their jobs and worlds fall apart because I couldn't find the words to say NO."
The fact that a character in a television series speaks the very words my soul is screaming gives me the chills. It astounds me that this very violation must be so common, that a television series has been created based on the very premise of being assaulted. Not only that, but every episode begins with a flashy warning that says, "If you have experienced sexual assault, please don't be afraid to call this hotline:..." following it up numbers for a National Sexual Assault Hotline, National Suicide Hotline, and National Self-Harm Hotline.
I now face the journey of self-reclamation. To listen to the signals my body actually desires. To piece together chords of my body's song that have been broken by the static of other people's wants. I crave to hear her song uninterrupted. Written in between the lines of this pandemic are nuanced ways of touching each other. I propose we use this respite to reset as a society. To think about whether or not we receive consent to touch one another; whether it be a handshake, an elbow-touch, or a hand to the back. To find ways of touch that don't prompt us to sanitize our hands or our souls. To be as bold as to divest from the system of manners that conditions us to censor our own bodies in ways that prioritize the desires of others. Let us use this interlude to return to a better version of ourselves, one that says, "thank you for taking care of yourself."
UPDATE: In the aftershock of this post, I decided to clarify why I wrote this. The shame that I carried along with me from that moment on became increasingly heavy. Each day I had to report to that man’s duty came with a new microagression that I flung out of my head into the pit of my stomach with the rest of them. Each time I couldn’t remember a customer’s Special Order or the botanical name of a plant, I was tempted to say, “I can’t remember the elements of my job because I spent the last 6 months trying to forget. I’m spending every waking moment trying to forget.” I can longer carry that burden and be me. I am choosing to put it down. If we can't deal with the s
So I gave a voice to it. Because we, as a collective, need to tell these stories to the world, and we will erase groups of people if we don't. Giving a voice to it relinquishes the power the assault has over me. It depletes the power toxic masculinity has over me. It gives myself and the many other survivors a platform to say "Me, too." However, being a part of this movement is not an indictment of those who are the perpetrators of sexual assault, rather it is a declaration that our lives matter in the very moments we are treated like they don't-- coupled with the subtle comfort that others, too, have felt ostracized during those moments. And that we are, too, entitled to lives filled with joy, rather than mere survival. Until recently, stories like this would be swept under the bed as ‘dirty laundry’- that which was never to be talked about. Posting this is a way to be heard, because how can we coexist when we aren’t all heard?
I would also like to note that my boss is not a villain. The problem I face is much larger than he is; it is the system that we live in which allows this behavior to unfold in the first place. The normalization of sexual assault, the hierarchy in corporate capitalism, and the ruthless power bosses are given over their employees. That is not dominion but domination. That is the very arch of dissonance in our society. That is when we start to view ourselves as separate from each other.
I’d like to end by saying I choose to stay at my job. I choose to start each day with the musk of his cologne sprayed right next to my locker. I choose to use the same bathroom he did each time I need to go. I choose to use the same paper towels I cleaned his mess up with. I choose to still eat lunch in that same break room every single day because I’m a BadAssRecoveryBitch who wouldn’t dare miss a meal. I used to find so much empowerment from running. The euphoria. The eating disorder. The societal validation of being thin. I ran from all of my problems: I couldn’t keep a job for more than a month. I would evade all criticism if I disappeared before they could give it. So now, I am re-writing my story. I choose to be empowered by staying. By demanding the respect I deserve. By putting a name to the obstacle keeping me from that respect. I am rooting to rise. I am choosing to live in the vulnerability of discomfort, because without it, we are stagnant. It is dark and it is scary, but I live here. Because the hidden beauty is exquisite.
Comments