Escape

This week has kind of been wrecking me. Well, to be honest, this presidential cycle. I don't even live in the US anymore but I still have lots of friends there on Facebook and Twitter and so I can't escape the news. It's too much sometimes.

This week it has been all about Kavanaugh, the supreme court nominee.

And I'm just...I'm full of rage and despair in equal measures.

I still remember the first time a boy physically exerted power over me when I was maybe 9? 10? 11? -- the next door neighbour boys, one of which was my age and the other a bit older. The one had invited me over to play. Then the older one was acting kind of weird and he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go, a mocking smile on his face, insinuating that they could do things to me because I was a girl and weak and alone. I remember the feel of his fingers on my wrist still and that was how long ago? 35 years ago? I remember that surge of fear and adrenaline and uncertainty. And how, when he finally let me loose, I slunk back home, quiet and timid and I never played with the little brother again.

And I remember all of the catcalls and whistles and the groping from that age on, but especially in my teen years -- most of it from much older men. The veterans that hung around mom's job, with their grizzled beards and greasy hands that would grab my ass as I walked by, not even surreptitiously. That was after my father died, so I had to have been 15 or 16. The boys on the school bus with their hands. You couldn't fall asleep, even though the bus ride was over an hour long and picked me up before 6 AM. and I was always tired.

And, of course, John, my mom's man friend after dad died. Waking up to him grabbing my boobs or staring silently at me at night, sitting there on the side of my bed in the dark, of the "accidental" times he exposed himself to me, or the things he said. Of him driving me to take the SATs in Pensacola and getting a motel room with one bed that I refused to share with him and then never sleeping that night because he stood in the doorway the entire time in his underwear begging me to "just let him cuddle" for a little while. The fact I managed to take the test the next day and get a National Merit Scholarship still amazes me.

And the guilt, of course the guilt. Because what all of those things have in common is the boys and men telling you that you deserve it, that it's your fault, that they couldn't help themselves. I didn't sleep without a bra for years. Fully clothed. Multiple layers. I still sometimes have issues when my husband wants to touch my breasts. And it's hard to explain to him. It happened so long ago, right?

Yeah. It's always there.

And this week it's been everywhere and I just can't take it anymore. I've shut off Twitter and Facebook. I can't see that man's smug face anymore. Can't do it. He's got hair like John, which probably makes it worse but let's be honest, that face he makes when he's insisting on his innocence and victimhood -- it's the face of so many men that I have known.

Even though I count myself lucky because I was never actually raped. Groped, fondled, cajoled, messed with, frightened, whatever you want to call it. But compared to some of my friends, I'm lucky. I really am.

And I am retreating into Mystic Messenger (which I haven't even played in a while) and Kdramas because I feel alone even though I know I'm not. It doesn't help that I'm not feeling 100%. Little dude had a fever the last couple of days. I've got a raspy throat. And I'm tired. Just so, so fucking tired.