Felicity James
Jan. 31, 2018
Kesha’s compelling performance of “Praying” at the Grammy Awards left me feeling a surge of courage. As I watched her pour her heart into that heart-wrenching melody, I found myself typing his name into Facebook’s search bar, tears streaming down my face from the emotional weight of it all. Suddenly, there he was—my attacker—staring back at me from the screen.
His profile picture brought back memories of a time I’d rather forget. I recognized the same smile that had deceived me over two decades ago. The twinkle in his eyes that once drew me in now seemed to mock me. He looked older, with fuller cheeks and a receding hairline, but there he stood, married and seemingly unbothered, while I wrestled with the haunting memories of that spring night.
Twenty-two years have slipped by since he assaulted me. I often wonder if he recalls that night the same way I do. I remember the roses he brought to my dorm room, how he brushed my hair aside before kissing me. Did he already plan to hurt me then? Did he apologize for the mess in his apartment, then sweep me into his embrace, demanding sex as if it were his right? I remember how his grip tightened around me when I said, “Not tonight.”
Does he remember the scent of my perfume like I remember the smell of his cologne? When he catches a whiff in a crowd, does it make him feel sick? Or is he like some men today, who claim they “don’t remember things the same way”? Is he sorry? Did he feel any guilt after he forced himself on me? Or did he simply drop me off with a casual, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” without a second thought about his brutal actions?
I can’t help but wonder if he noticed the way I limped back to my dorm, clutching my coat as if it could shield me from the reality of what had happened. Did he ever question whether he had crossed a line? I doubt it. I’m certain he doesn’t carry any shame from that night; I’m sure my name has long since faded from his memory.
To him, I was merely an object, a fleeting conquest. In that dimly lit room, as he violated me, he took what he wanted without a second thought. As the sounds of an 80s movie blared in the background, he silenced my cries, leaving me to squirm and struggle. I said NO, but my voice was lost on him.
His grip on my neck filled me with panic; fighting back felt like an invitation to lose consciousness. I learned to stay awake, to endure. The shameful words he used still echo in my mind, waking me from sleep even now. Those terms have become triggers, pulling me back to that night in an instant.
Years later, I find myself staring at his face again, this time alongside his wife, next to a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. I search her face for signs that he has hurt her, too, but it’s impossible to tell. Those of us who endure such traumas become experts at hiding our pain. We bury our fear and our memories, even from our intimate partners. We learn to redirect their touch, to ask for different positions in bed, and replace scents that remind us of our assailants.
We live in silence, holding our trauma close as we witness the world around us. We watch as a man who has admitted to assaulting women assumes the highest office in the land, and we grieve in our kitchens, realizing that our pain is overlooked. But then, we see powerful men finally facing consequences for their actions. The stories of Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, and others serve as painful reminders of our experiences, eliciting anger and frustration as we watch them fall from grace.
While these public figures have been held accountable, what about those who remain undetected? What about the predators who walk among us, their faces familiar yet unrepentant? When will my attacker face justice? When will I find the bravery to speak up like Kesha? I am filled with gratitude for friends who have found their voices, and I long to join them.
But today isn’t that day. I’m still not ready. I wonder if I will ever reach a point where I can utter “Me, too” without feeling shame. In moments of solitude, I practice saying it to myself, preparing for the day I can share my truth with the world. For now, I remain silent, living with my trauma in isolation. I look at his face glowing on my phone screen and whisper, “Me, too.” I hope he’s somewhere reflecting on his actions, hoping for a change within himself.
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Summary
In this deeply personal reflection, the author grapples with the trauma of assault while expressing a desire for courage akin to Kesha’s in sharing their story. The piece explores themes of memory, shame, and the struggle for healing, punctuated by the author’s longing to speak out against their attacker. The author also highlights the importance of solidarity among survivors.