I can't think of a subject line to save my life.
This week has been very bad for me (oh dear God, it's only Monday!). Beside my regular mental illness, I'm now fairly sure I have at least a mild case of PTSD. I'm not one for triggers, but given what's been going on with Trump, keep reading at your own risk.
So, if you've been around a while- which I don't know if any of you have long enough- you may remember that while I worked at Claire's when I was 21 there was an incident. I was young and hot and it was Christmas and I was pretty high on myself because I was an Assistant Manager well on my way to becoming the youngest Store Manager in the district. I was being groomed to potentially be put into the international management program. I wanted to run a store in England, Ireland, or France. It was Christmas time, and the store was busy. I was firmly in my niche as the "pop goth" girl, and I was wearing a red and green plaid pleated mini skirt, combat boots, and a Christmas t-shirt. I was just doing my job when I felt something rubbing against my leg. I didn't pay it much attention- my calf is just about little kid height, and kids are always all over Claire's. Then it got more insistent. And higher. I looked down. There was a man on his back/side, looking up my skirt. The touch on my calf was the brim of his baseball hat, and the touch on my knee/almost my thigh was his hand.
I had no idea what to do. I broke away as fast as I could and ran behind the counter. I told the girl that was there that she had to go out on the floor, and I had to stand there. I couldn't go in the back because there was only me and the other girl, and, you know... Christmas (Store Manager was in the back on break). I couldn't stop shaking, but when I'm the most anxious/afraid I'm either a total wreck or I'm over the top friendly/smiley/thank-you-please-come-again. As soon as the manager came back I told her I had to go on break immediately but didn't tell her why. When I came back I managed to tell her, but by that time she had inadvertently made things a million times worse.
The name tags at Claire's purposely do not actually have names on them. They only say "Associate," or "Assistant Manager," etc. because it's usually females- usually young, attractive females- who work there, and the world is awful and they know it's not unlikely that those young girls may be approached by not nice people. So while I was on break the phone rang. My manager answered, and the man who called asked if he could speak to the Assistant Manager. My manager (who I loved, but who was a total ditz) just said, "Oh, Mary's on break, but I can tell her you called." So now he knew my name. After I explained what had happened she felt horrible, but the damage had already been done. He called again before the mall closed that day and asked me if I always didn't wear underwear to work (I was wearing a thong). I had to call my dad in tears and explain everything and ask him to come walk me out of the mall and follow me to my car when my shift was over.
The man called the store over and over. It went on for weeks and months. At one point my car was vandalized at the mall- it was written all over in lipstick (mostly "bitch" and "I love you"), but there was no proof to link it to anyone. Eventually the calls stopped, but I can only think he got arrested for something else or died if SVU has taught me anything. Later that year was when my dad died, so my brain had to choose crises, I guess, and I convinced myself for years that this was just a kind of weird thing that happened and not all that serious.
And then Trump happened. And it wasn't just what he said. Maybe it was just so much bullshit just building up and building up, like Nate Parker plus Trump. But seeing people excusing what he said or just not seeing anything wrong with what he said? Like WOMEN excusing him? Something happened to me. I literally snapped. I started having flashbacks of what happened to me. I couldn't do anything but stop and stare and watch what I had spent so long convincing myself wasn't that big a deal. I remembered everything. I just sat there and shook and watched it and cried and I can't stop. It's like a gut punch now. I'm so stuck now between so desperately wanting to try to express how wrong it is to accept that bastard's statements as anything but sexual assault and wanting to dig myself into a hole and disappear forever because people I'm supposed to love and trust are being so completely medieval and CHILDISH. Like, Donald Trump says sexual assault is okay, but Hillary did her job as a court-appointed legal defender! How very dare she! I fucking hate Hillary. But you know what else I hate? Being scared to walk to my own damn car. And let me repeat, I was assaulted in a CROWDED, BUSY SHOP FULL OF PEOPLE. MEN LITERALLY FEEL ENTITLED TO TAKE WOMEN WHENEVER, WHEREVER THEY WANT. There were children, lots of children in that store. It did not stop that man at all. That is the culture of Donald Trump. That is what is wrong with his words. But it seems like no matter what I say, I cannot make some people understand this.
I don't know if I can even explain the utter humiliation of sitting in a police station and explaining to a detective all of the nasty, disgusting, perverted things a stranger said and did to you, especially sitting there with your parents. Having to describe exactly what you were wearing- especially your underwear- and wondering if the cop even cares or is just the one stuck taking your statement. Or even worse if he thinks you deserve getting- as our dear presidential candidate so delicately put it- grabbed by the pussy because you wore a mini skirt and a thong to work.
I know that I'm lucky that things never got any worse for me. Sometimes it's hard for me to even consider what happened to me as sexual assault (I think for me, it's the aftermath- the calls and the references and the heavy breathing, etc that makes it sexual for me) because I know there are a lot of women who have been through so much worse. And I am so, so sorry for anyone who has ever been hurt in that way. Please know that I love all of you, flist.
So, if you've been around a while- which I don't know if any of you have long enough- you may remember that while I worked at Claire's when I was 21 there was an incident. I was young and hot and it was Christmas and I was pretty high on myself because I was an Assistant Manager well on my way to becoming the youngest Store Manager in the district. I was being groomed to potentially be put into the international management program. I wanted to run a store in England, Ireland, or France. It was Christmas time, and the store was busy. I was firmly in my niche as the "pop goth" girl, and I was wearing a red and green plaid pleated mini skirt, combat boots, and a Christmas t-shirt. I was just doing my job when I felt something rubbing against my leg. I didn't pay it much attention- my calf is just about little kid height, and kids are always all over Claire's. Then it got more insistent. And higher. I looked down. There was a man on his back/side, looking up my skirt. The touch on my calf was the brim of his baseball hat, and the touch on my knee/almost my thigh was his hand.
I had no idea what to do. I broke away as fast as I could and ran behind the counter. I told the girl that was there that she had to go out on the floor, and I had to stand there. I couldn't go in the back because there was only me and the other girl, and, you know... Christmas (Store Manager was in the back on break). I couldn't stop shaking, but when I'm the most anxious/afraid I'm either a total wreck or I'm over the top friendly/smiley/thank-you-please-come-again. As soon as the manager came back I told her I had to go on break immediately but didn't tell her why. When I came back I managed to tell her, but by that time she had inadvertently made things a million times worse.
The name tags at Claire's purposely do not actually have names on them. They only say "Associate," or "Assistant Manager," etc. because it's usually females- usually young, attractive females- who work there, and the world is awful and they know it's not unlikely that those young girls may be approached by not nice people. So while I was on break the phone rang. My manager answered, and the man who called asked if he could speak to the Assistant Manager. My manager (who I loved, but who was a total ditz) just said, "Oh, Mary's on break, but I can tell her you called." So now he knew my name. After I explained what had happened she felt horrible, but the damage had already been done. He called again before the mall closed that day and asked me if I always didn't wear underwear to work (I was wearing a thong). I had to call my dad in tears and explain everything and ask him to come walk me out of the mall and follow me to my car when my shift was over.
The man called the store over and over. It went on for weeks and months. At one point my car was vandalized at the mall- it was written all over in lipstick (mostly "bitch" and "I love you"), but there was no proof to link it to anyone. Eventually the calls stopped, but I can only think he got arrested for something else or died if SVU has taught me anything. Later that year was when my dad died, so my brain had to choose crises, I guess, and I convinced myself for years that this was just a kind of weird thing that happened and not all that serious.
And then Trump happened. And it wasn't just what he said. Maybe it was just so much bullshit just building up and building up, like Nate Parker plus Trump. But seeing people excusing what he said or just not seeing anything wrong with what he said? Like WOMEN excusing him? Something happened to me. I literally snapped. I started having flashbacks of what happened to me. I couldn't do anything but stop and stare and watch what I had spent so long convincing myself wasn't that big a deal. I remembered everything. I just sat there and shook and watched it and cried and I can't stop. It's like a gut punch now. I'm so stuck now between so desperately wanting to try to express how wrong it is to accept that bastard's statements as anything but sexual assault and wanting to dig myself into a hole and disappear forever because people I'm supposed to love and trust are being so completely medieval and CHILDISH. Like, Donald Trump says sexual assault is okay, but Hillary did her job as a court-appointed legal defender! How very dare she! I fucking hate Hillary. But you know what else I hate? Being scared to walk to my own damn car. And let me repeat, I was assaulted in a CROWDED, BUSY SHOP FULL OF PEOPLE. MEN LITERALLY FEEL ENTITLED TO TAKE WOMEN WHENEVER, WHEREVER THEY WANT. There were children, lots of children in that store. It did not stop that man at all. That is the culture of Donald Trump. That is what is wrong with his words. But it seems like no matter what I say, I cannot make some people understand this.
I don't know if I can even explain the utter humiliation of sitting in a police station and explaining to a detective all of the nasty, disgusting, perverted things a stranger said and did to you, especially sitting there with your parents. Having to describe exactly what you were wearing- especially your underwear- and wondering if the cop even cares or is just the one stuck taking your statement. Or even worse if he thinks you deserve getting- as our dear presidential candidate so delicately put it- grabbed by the pussy because you wore a mini skirt and a thong to work.
I know that I'm lucky that things never got any worse for me. Sometimes it's hard for me to even consider what happened to me as sexual assault (I think for me, it's the aftermath- the calls and the references and the heavy breathing, etc that makes it sexual for me) because I know there are a lot of women who have been through so much worse. And I am so, so sorry for anyone who has ever been hurt in that way. Please know that I love all of you, flist.