Reflecting

I miss being fearless!

I used to be so unafraid. I went after any new challenge with 110% effort, only thinking of how improbable it was AFTER I did it.

A former fat couch potato run races?

Why not? I went on to complete 5 5Ks and 1 10K.

I was the former nerdy girl in high school who never got a date who ended up running for President of an organization, went after a job that was all I dreamed of, gave out my number, gave speeches in front of groups and told jokes on a stage.

For a period of time, I was fearless.

And then in July 2011, I locked her away and became the most scared person I ever knew.

Waking up in bed, he's leaving, no recollection of allowing him there the night before. Head heavy, thoughts blocked, limbs sore. I could barely get up so I laid there, letting him leave, unable to figure out what had happened.

"I didn't drink that much."

His laughter, so thankful I have blocked out that sound, "Someone like you is way out of my league. I drugged you for a kiss." A kiss on the cheek and he leaves.

I lie there. I feel sick. I stumble to the bathroom and I look like hell.

"This feels like no hangover I've ever had"

I drive to town, to his work.

"What happened last night?"

"I told you, I drugged you. It's the new way"

He laughs again. I don't believe him. No one jokes about that stuff, do they?

I drive to my friend's house. She is worried.

"Let's go to the hospital. It's right up the street. They can check you out. You don't look right."

"I just need more sleep. I'm so sick. I can't even think"

A few nights later, I'm out with a friend. He's there. I carry my drink with me everywhere. He gets angry. I choose to go home. I'm ending a conversation on the phone, heading to bed. A final text

It was good to talk to you. Good night. 

I curl up under the blankets, ready for sleep. It's early. Maybe I can sleep in the next day.

I hear a pounding on my front door. Intuition tells me to not answer it.

His voice: Michelle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

I freeze. Maybe he'll go away. All of the lights are off. I panic:

Did I lock the back door?

I run to my room, check the lock, see his shadow. He's circling the house.

Michelle! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! 

He's pounding on windows. Slowly circling the house. I run to the hall, peek out a window, he's at the back door. He's shaking the door knob, the booming knocks replaced with slight taps.

Michelle!!

I'm frozen in place in the hall, not sure what to do, wishing I had grabbed my cell phone. My heart is racing.

Michelle!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

He's at the kitchen window, tapping, tapping, tapping.

I run to the living room, grab my phone. I stand there, listening, waiting . . . .

He's at the front door again, a rattle.

He's coming in! 

I freeze, too scared to dial the numbers on my phone. Frozen in disbelief.

The front door opens, he's standing there, filling the frame. I'm no longer frozen but screaming. I'm crying I only realize later when a cop asks me if I need a tissue.

Get out! Get out of here!! Leave me the fuck alone!

He runs off. I call the cops.

And that's when the hell begins.

A report where I'm made to look like the criminal. The feeling of shame at the ER:

I'm here for a rape kit. 

There looks of pity made me want to run away. They discharge the male nurse, replacing him with a female. Escorting to my room, gently.

It was days ago. You'll find nothing. I know this procedure. I was a Victim's Advocate. 

"Why weren't you here sooner?"

I didn't want to believe it happened. 

I collapse outside of the ER. I then go numb. I always go numb. It's what I do when faced with stress.

And I became terrified. Locked in my house with chairs under the handles. Jumping, sobbing, if someone knocked too loud. Startling if anyone even bumped into me.

I stopped being fearless.

And I miss that. Being fearless. Being brave.

I can be outside alone now. I don't startle nearly as easily as I used to.

But I'm still scared. Of relationships. Of someone getting close. Of people finding out.

I'm ashamed.

Because I was made to feel ashamed.

"We tested the sheets for DNA. There is a problem."

Did you find anything? What? I thought the case was closed. It's been a year. 

"There is a sample on there. It's not his. We no longer see the necessity of doing further testing. It's expensive, considering."

Considering what? I had a boyfriend before this happened. We had sex. Considering what?

"The extra man's sperm on your sheets makes you look bad."

Me? Why? I had sex, consensual sex with someone else. That's not a crime. 

"It's expensive, Michelle, to conduct further testing, considering"

Considering they viewed me as a slut.

I cried. I was ashamed he saw me cry. I asked him to leave. He didn't look at me with pity, but of judgment.

The man who broke into my house wasn't even arrested.

Case closed. My jury a handful of men who disagreed with my sexual choices. A sample of sperm my evidence.

I wasn't worth the effort, the cost.

The bottom line: You can't rape the willing, even if the willing says no or is unconscious.

And I'm still scared.

I'm scared that someone will get close enough to know this story and see me the same way:

Too used for sympathy; unworthy of justice.

"Michelle, how often do you wash your sheets? I mean, how could there be someone else's sperm on your sheets?"

Is my sex life or my laundry habits on trial, because, I promise you, neither are your business, Officer.

A professor said to me one day:

"You're a tough soldier, Michelle, but your pain is still so evident."

This just makes me wonder: how in the world does a person hide in plain sight?

Smarter

I have four daughters. I think they are amazing. They are amazing. Yesterday, my youngest came home, walked through the door and sobbed. Fat tears, choking sobs causing her whole body to shake.

She called me names today. I did NOTHING. I didn't even sit in her seat. I didn't talk to her. She told EVERYONE I called her names. I would never call her names.

I called the school, spoke with the principal. This has been a repeated problem. I wanted to call the girl's parents.

Teach your children some freaking manners! You're raising a bully!

But I didn't. Instead, my daughter and I took a walk.

Mom, I pray for her. Every night before bed and in the morning. I pray for her. For her to be happier so she wants to be nice. I hate that this happens but it's making me stronger, right?

My twelve year old daughter is smarter than me.

Me? I have held grudges. I have played the victim. I have been vindictive.

Sigh . . . the student has become the teacher.

Thank God.

She came home today:

Today was great. We compromised. My friends and I get the back of the bus in the morning, she gets it in the afternoon. The principal said if we didn't find a way to resolve this, he'd assign seats. I didn't want the whole bus punished because of her and I. So we made a plan!

I vote for some select 7th grade girls to run for President.

I never wanted to compromise. My way or the highway! They usually chose the highway.

I want to be my daughters when I grow up. Or maybe, as someone said to me, they each have a part in me. I have to have those qualities to instill it in them.

I need to be more aware of them, I guess.

And I will never forget how a 12-year-old, cheeks still stained with her tears, taught me what it means to be a grown-up.