Sight Unseen
This is part of an ongoing series, “Sight Unseen” that explores the many ways in which women are unseen and also consumed.
In grade school, seating charts would reveal I’d been chosen to sit by the bad little boys. Young men who didn’t know how to behave. I was to teach them how to be good. Show them how to be kind, to get assignments done thoroughly and quietly, to be better. But little girls can’t change little boys. Instead, little girls learn how to tolerate what is unacceptable.
It was some summers ago that I didn’t feel well. Everything felt slow. Working outside in the heavy heat I had to stop when I felt my body wince from chills.
That night he was the keeper of safety. “Rest here,” he insisted. He took me to the space behind the noise. Cold air from the window unit soothed my nausea and a cup of coffee felt comforting. But even in the solace of the quiet room, I didn’t like how he made me feel. He took every opportunity to brush against me. He devoured me with his eyes. “I need to go back.” But I couldn’t shut the screen door quick enough.
Hands around my throat. Tight grip. “Stay. With. Me.” Each word punctuated by the push and pull of his grasp. He was behind me and I was thankful I didn’t have to look at him. “Why won’t you stay with me?” We were alone. He was wearing blue and strong. Anything he wanted he could have.
I hated myself for not fighting him harder. But it all happened so quickly. Sick from a virus, sick from that dark season of life, I was so tired. I knew the match up. I froze and just let go. I drifted above our awkward bodies and into the trees. I couldn’t feel anything. Oh, the relief. All that could be heard was a steady drumming from the AC in the alley.
“Why won’t it take me away?” I’ve demanded and screamed to no one in particular when I’ve waited for drugs to kick in, to force me into sleep when nightmares are too dark and thoughts too heavy.
There’s nothing new here. This is the Kavanaugh era; a time when we can dog ear our most haunting memories with a hashtag. But even still, if you’ve been taken by someone, consumed in such a way that you float above yourself and can only squint down because knowing the whole story would surely break you, you wear shame. —
Part of me is still the little girl sitting next to a bad little boy at a small desk with his gum in my hair. I’m holding back tears because I don’t want to make a scene. Even when he misbehaves, I’m still kind. That’s my responsibility; it’s why I’m sitting here. I make you feel good, like you belong. You told me this before. I’ve been asked to fix you. Is it working?
