First, I'm fine. What happened to me changed some personal behavior, but not my life trajectory.
In my late twenties, I lived in a suburban neighborhood in Rockville, Maryland. Many evenings I took a brisk walk on the street that ran in front of my house -- a busy one.
One evening, a male jogger approached from the opposite direction. Nothing unusual. As he reached me, he stuck out one arm, roughly grabbed my left breast, squeezed, and then kept running. I stopped, but just for a second, before walking faster to get home. I feel certain that I didn't look back.
Home was a ranch house I'd bought to accommodate my mom's wheelchair, so she, my dad, and I lived together. I assume I did as most nights and said hello and went to my bedroom in the back of the house to change.
I do remember sitting on the bed, stunned, to process what had happened. (Such a neutral word, process.) After a short time, I began to think about what to tell the police.
Then reality hit. I could remember nothing about the man who groped me except that his hand was white.
Not. One. Other. Thing.
He had passed within inches of me five minutes prior. Was he clean-shaven or did he have a beard? Was he wearing shorts or longer pants? What color shirt? Tall or short? Solidly built or slim? Nothing. In retrospect, I suppose he had on a shirt, because I think (?) I would have remembered a bare chest.
Eventually I spoke to a therapist, but I didn't call the police. I should have, but I was embarrassed at how little I could tell them. I was a smart woman who had a responsible job, loving family, and lots of friends. I should have been able to describe the man.
I can't tell you the date other than it wasn't winter and had to be between mid-1979 and 1985, because that's when I lived in that house. I might figure out a date range because soon after I joined a health club. Why? Because I was afraid to walk on that street. I never did so again. The street in front of my own home.
The therapist explained that the lack of memory was my brain's way of protecting me. He said it more eloquently, but that was his essential point.
Like most assault survivors, I told few people. I had no guilt other than not remembering enough to tell the police. I didn't tell my parents because they would have been terrified every time I went into the front yard. The couple girlfriends with whom I discussed it were sympathetic, but we'd read worse stories in The Washington Post.
Eventually I stopped thinking about it ten or fifteen times a day, and then I 'only' thought about it when I read about someone else being groped.
Since the #MeToo movement, I've remembered it more often, but distance (and the lack of intense trauma) do not bring the emotional terror that many survivors of sexual assault feel. I'm still angry.
|Two times is too many.|
Why write this? I don't find it the least odd that Dr. Ford remembers few details of her assault. That she didn't want to tell her parents she'd attended a party with beer served makes perfect sense to me. And why would she talk about it a lot afterwards? Who wants to relive terrifying experiences?
I had the benefit of being in my late twenties and self-assured. I sometimes wonder if I sold that house after six years because, subconsciously, I wanted to be away from that event. Don't know, don't care to think about it anymore.
At least I have that option. The trauma others suffered is not so easily dismissed, and we all know what happens when they confront their assailants. #WhyIDidn'tReport