Why didn't she tell? I keep hearing, while my own past echoes in my head.
I was 9, the first time he touched me where I was beginning to bud into my youth. "You're getting to be such an adult," he said. "You're so grown, I can't help myself."
I cried, not understanding fully why I felt shame, but feeling dirty somehow. Maybe if I didn't grow anymore, I would never be touched like that again. But it didnt' stop. I got taken to the doctor for severe headaches, and dehydration. The doctor asked "Why is a 9 year old getting stress headaches." No one had an answer.
I was 11, when I sat on the swing in the backyard, and he sat down on the swing next to me. "If you tell, I'll kill you. Here's $20 to get yourself some candy." Would you have told?
I was 12, the first time a boy in my class snapped my bra, and when I complained to my male teacher, I was told "Boys will be boys, ignore him." I ignored him alright, bloodying his nose in front of the whole class. "Girls will be girls too."
I was 13, and thought I was brave, when I finally told people, begging for someone to help, someone to save me. That was also the year I couldn't walk to the bus stop by myself, and would sometimes see his car, just far enough out of the way.
I was 14, when a prosecutor told me that since I was a teenager who was pregnant, I wouldn't look good on the witness stand. Because I didn't fit the perfect squeaky clean image that people want to have of a victim. I wasn't demure enough. I held my chin out in defiance too much. But because of that, he walked.
I was 15 and asleep in my bed, when my neighbor used his spare key to come into my room and force me. Even while I screamed and raked my fingernails down his face to fight him. I was 115 pounds. When I tried to tell, I heard "You flirt with him a lot, are you sure you didnt want it."
I was 15 when my mom's boyfriend decided to grab me, every time he was around. What was the point of telling?
I was 17 when my friend's dad walked up behind me and rubbed himself against me while I did dishes. But what's the point of telling when no one hears you? I cried that day too. Would this be like this my entire life?
I was 19, and 150 pounds when my husband told me I was fat, and gross. I guess that seems comparably minimal.
I was in my 20s, and again in my 30s, when coworkers grabbed me, rubbed against me, pulled my hair, and when I screamed to stop it, don't TOUCH ME, "You're a bitch." The guys all chuckled when those men said that. I mean, they liked me, but no one wants to speak out against the guys.
I was 30, when I was told I was damaged goods. Because any girl that has been raped isn't worth saving.
I was 35 when I bought a gun. I bought a gun because I was boxing a heavybag, in my own yard, on my own porch, and two men across the way started screaming slurs that I could hear through my headphones. "Yeah baby, that's sexy. Hit it just like that. Tough girls are always the most fun." Maybe they didnt mean it. Maybe they were joking. I've had enough experience to not want to test that theory.
I was 37, when I sat at a bar quietly playing a word game, and an off duty deputy decided to talk to me, while he drank, and kept touching my inner thigh. I moved his hand, at least three times, and pleaded to STOP TOUCHING ME. It wasn't until a friend of mine, who's a veteran stepped in, and handled the situation that it stopped.
I was 40 when I was told to smile, dress up, be pretty, don't be a bitch or a cockblock, by the males around as I stuck to my friend to keep the guys buying her alcohol from taking her home. You can't get her to talk to you when she's sober, but I'm the bitch and the cockblock? According to those men I was jealous. No dear, I know women deserve better than jerks like you, and I'll protect my friends always.
I was 41 when I took a self-defense refresher, and as my instructor pinned me to the ground, grabbing my neck, and I fought like hell, he told me "You're more aggressive than most women." I had a few days of anxiety and flashbacks from that.
I was 42, when my neighbor gave me a switch blade, and my best friend gave me a rape whistle to run with. Both knowing I can take care of myself, yet both knowing that there are monsters out there.
I was yesterday years old when one of those guys, who called me a cockblock two years ago, messaged me on Facebook, after seeing I had a recent breakup and saying "So, do you need some lovin? No, because you're gross. No because you're hateful, No, because you represent every disgusting man that hasn't been able to raise himself up without putting someone down. Instead of saying those things though, I quietly blocked him.
Why? why don't women tell? Why don't we report our harassers, our rapists? The courts and evidence will stand with us, right? The world will stand with us right? Instead of asking why, why we dont report it, instead of asking, what we were wearing, ask YOURSELF WHY ARENT YOU LISTENING. WHY DONT YOU BELIEVE US.
Ask yourself that.
