I thought he was my
friend. We did Midnight Yells, ball games, and concerts together. We memorized
Rocky Horror Picture Show and danced with lighters held high. We cried at
Silver Taps.
He
came into my home. I trusted him because he became family.
A
lifetime later, I still feel the heaviness of his body as he pinned me to my
bed. His invading tongue and beer breath made me gag. His fingers, shoving
brutally up and into me, wounded. His laughter as he pushed away and ran
upstairs warned me that he already had excuses. I was drunk. It’s just a joke. She didn’t even scream or fight.
I
buried his betrayal so deeply that it became a wisp of nightmare. Something
pushed down and away for so many years that I convinced myself that it never
happened. Every time my gut recoiled because he entered the room, I repressed
the repulsion and never looked for a reason. I told myself that he’d become
selfish and cruel. That was enough reason for me to avoid him whenever
possible.
Then
I began reading my journals. All of the spirals, and notebooks, and bound
volumes of my life. The words, my own handwriting, sharply focused that blurred
trauma, making my own denial impossible.
I
understand why women conceal, sometimes even to themselves, the harassment,
molestation and assaults they’ve endured because these men have different roles
than simply attacker. They are bosses or co-workers. They are husbands or lovers. They are fathers or brothers. They
are friends.
Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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