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TRIGGER WARNING: Rape and sexual assault flashbacks
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I wonder if Brett Kavanaugh woke up with a hangover on his first day after being confirmed as Supreme Court Justice, as I did. I hadn’t been drinking; for me, there was no chance of blacking out. I almost wish drinking too much was the reason for my hangover.
My hangover was the kind where your jaw aches from grinding teeth in the night, and your stomach is sick from the President’s nationally aired regret over the #MeToo movement. The type you can taste in your dry mouth all day – or perhaps for the entirety of a Supreme Court Justice’s lifetime appointment.
“What are you doing,” I asked? “What you want me to,” he said, pushing my slight body up against the brick wall of his dormitory.
Dropping two large ice cubes into my steaming coffee, I look up at the melting clock on the wall and grimace. 6:58. I will be rushing to work again, hoping to reach the adjunct workroom in time to print copies of an English 101 essay assignment.
I scurry to the hall bathroom, checking to see that my hair is in place. Holding a tube of Ruby Red, I practice a smile in the mirror, and then grimace once again. I feel awful, no, abandoned. Tracked and hunted by a predator without a name. I close the lipstick back into its container. Today, being pretty feels criminal.
His hands unbutton my jeans and then slip down lower, beneath my panties. “What are you doing,” I asked? There is silence, accompanied by a shocking feeling of pleasure. From here on, I will associate this feeling with disgust, with guilt, with shame.
Driving to work, I buck my morning routine and avoid turning on NPR, for fear of more coverage on Judge Kavanaugh’s evangelical testimony. My stomach groans with a low rumble, like a machine used to running on fumes.
I feign interest in Pandora for a minute, giving a cursory scroll through my radio stations while I attempt to drive and surf. Meanwhile, the red light ahead comes quickly, and I slam on the breaks – a little too hard, dropping the phone into my lap.
‘No! I don’t want to,’ I think to myself. But my pants are at my knees, and my bra has been taken off. His hands are screaming “Yes!” now, and my mind is shutting down.
When the car behind me honks, I see the light is green, just as my right hand has unearthed a Patty Griffin CD from inside the console. Perfect, I think. She can sing what I am unable to speak.
Pushing the accelerator with full intention, I slide the CD into the player, anticipating the belting voice, the strumming guitar. When the music enters through the speakers, I am all senses, nowhere and everywhere, as half a dozen faces from my past circle around and up the shaft of memory’s stubborn well.
The ruffle of cold sheets rattles my ears. ‘I can’t do this,’ I think, as my head is being pushed towards the center of his gravity. But I am supposed to want this, so I close my eyes and brace for what’s coming. For the impossibility of words.
Arriving at school, I hurry to the bathroom, to check my reflection. It’s here beneath the halogen that I see the dark circles beneath my eyes, long shadows from so many downturned motions. My stomach growls.
I have enough time to eat the hard-boiled egg that I stuffed into the zipped pocket of my computer bag. But first, a smear of Ruby Red, a pucker, and a dab of toilet paper.
In the hallway, I pass a male colleague. He looks me up and down, resting his gaze on my ruby lips as we say “Good morning,” in unison.
From afar, I see him on campus the following day. He is smiling ear to ear, but not at me. My stomach sinks to the bottom floor of my interior. Acid rises to the back of my throat.
My colleague pops into the workroom, where I have printed fresh assignment copies for my first class. I crack open the egg, keeping my eyes on pieces of shell falling onto my napkin. He is pretending to wash his hands, but I can feel his gaze upon my neck. Soon, the egg will be in my mouth, and I will welcome the soft texture upon my tongue as the red lipstick stains the edges of something so white. I will sit in gratitude for the impossibility to produce words.
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The post No Need for Words: #MeToo, Kavanaugh, and Me appeared first on The Good Men Project.