#ChronicallyWriting - #EveryWoman You Know
Trigger Warning: Blog post mentions instances of sexual assault and abuse.
I saw the post above earlier this morning. It was shared by a friend of mine. I sat back and thought about it. She is right. Her story is not mine to tell. But I can share some of mine.
#ChronicallyWriting here. Today's blog is about every woman you know. Every woman who has looked at this picture and recalled their own experiences.
Mine began at home. My parents were not emotionally mature. Both had endured trauma in their
own way. My mother was the daughter of a Holocaust survivor and a child of Stalinist Poland. Both were immigrants to the United States. My father was the son of the local Episcopal priest and an overnight nurse in a rural community. Both were alcoholics, and the law was manipulated several times.
While my mother had a sense of propriety, my father did not. When I was born, my father was disabled already. He was drinking heavily and unemployed on and off. While my mother worked and he wasn't, he spent time with me and my siblings. This period in his life was filled with crying, smoking and drinking. My father had no filter whatsoever.
My introduction to sexual innuendo was through him. My father coped with his disability and depression by telling jokes. Unfortunately, having us with him meant he was spitting out terms I saw were funny to the adults, but I never knew what they truly meant until years later.
As I grew up, I began to catch onto what he was saying. It did not help that he would tell me boob jokes and then take me aside and tell me what men were like. Always taking advantage of women, killing them and making them trapped. I had dreams of a happily-ever-after then, sort of like a Disney princess, and that truth shattered any happiness I sought.
My mother was forever trying to hide any skin I showed. I hardly had any clothes and no makeup. When I did have something nice, she made sure that it covered me up to my wrist, chin and ankles. I started puberty earlier than most girls (I was eight years old), and my mother made me shameful of what was growing at such a young age. She explained nothing, handed me a book, and made every subject taboo. As the scapegoat, I was told to be silent and to take every abuse dished out to me.
Catholic school was no better. Traditional, patriarchal views reigned supreme there, despite the
school being run mainly by nuns. While all students were treated equally in education, the difference between the two best known genders was best displayed by our roles in society. The boys were revered and often did the heavy lifting. The girls were taught to be silent, gentle and submissive.
Being autistic in this environment is not something I would wish on anybody. It was my destiny. It was like I was a lamb up for the slaughter.
The idea of being the one who suffered brought to a lot of trouble to my door. By middle school (in Catholic school, remember), I was being teased about my body. It was already formed fully by the time I was twelve. Because of this shame, I would wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. Every time I was outside during gym or recess, if I wasn't hanging out with people, I dashed from one corner to another, hoping nobody saw me. Once, after listening to boys laugh at my body, I walked normally until I was out of their sight, running upstairs to hide in the classroom.
I was fat, I reminded myself. I deserved this treatment. That was what I was supposed to be here for.
This continued in high school and my initial years of college. I watched classmates drop their pants and demand a blowjob from me. ROTC personnel chasing me around campus after being told NO. The inappropiate comments continued, to the point where I kept my silence and walked away, hiding my red face in my books.
Autism made me silent, but it made me smart too. I made goals for myself and planned for the worst. If I made it to a certain emergency call center, or to the safety of a building filled with other students, I was all right. If I vanished into the women's bathroom and hide in a stall, there was a chance they would not come in to look for me. If I followed a certain route, I would avoid a group entirely.
I wanted nothing more than to disappear. Make the catcalls stop. Find a way to escape hints of rape. Be the ghost when I was threatened for something a sibling did.
Why didn't I report any of it?
It was reported once, when I was in high school. I went with one of my siblings to the school office. They were appalled. So was I, but I could not say the words. My mouth was closed against this abuse.
I quickly learned my lesson when the principal concluded, "Don't worry. Boys will be boys."
That response chased me for years.
At home, it was worse. At the time, my father was using fentanyl patches for his chronic pain. It made him not only groggy, but easy to manipulate and anger. During those drug-induced days, he did not protect me and often blamed me for things I did not do. I had to protect myself and deny any closeness to anyone and stay quiet.
Until 2007, when I got a job and went to college, I had no cell phone. I was forced to stick with my sibling and a group of friends. Later, when I got my first car, I got a MagLight. My father taught me how to use it to defend myself. Later, when when Scribe Jeeves entered my life, he told me anything could be used as a weapon.
As a traumatized autistic person, you think of many situations. Where to exit, what to avoid, who not to call, how to tell moods. It's not just for the people in our lives. It's going out, checking our home's security and watching our loved ones come and go.
All these lessons, and not one of them about teaching boys about consent and respect.
Can you imagine all of this happening to you? To your loved ones and friends? How does it make you feel?
And this behavior did not end in the late 2000's, mind you. Having a child and being married gained me no mercy. I take the bus to go shopping and get to appointments. I still receive calling cards and
whistles. Sometimes, I walk a little fast around the corner downtown because someone was watching me. I have something at hand in case, even my phone, which has saved me many times, either through fake calling or recording interactions.
I am better about keeping away from certain situations. I am extremely careful about my surroundings. But it should not be this way. Every women should not have to plan their trips or have a weapon handy in case of an attacker. None of us should have rules to follow after dark or stick with groups to be safe.
Violence against one woman is violence against every woman.
I am #EveryWoman you know.
Namaste!
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