Wounds that Never Fully Heal

The number 36 has been on my mind a lot this week.  Christine Blasey Ford is on my mind today as she testifies before the Senate Judiciary Committee. I can only imagine what her experience must have been like for a 15 year old.  I don’t have to imagine why she did not report her experience at the time.

Ours is a society that does not take sexual violence seriously. Rape kits go untested, sometimes for decades. Alleged assailants are not arrested or even detained, though accused perpetrators of cruelty to animals receive speedy and well publicized trials. The acts of socializing, dating or even marrying someone (who subsequently forces sex) are regarded as implied consent for anything that follows. The words ‘Stop’ and ‘No’ cease to have any meaning or relevance. Knowing the statistics of only 5-7% of reported rapes are followed by arrest, let alone prosecution and the lengthy, demeaning, intrusive investigation on the slim chance it is prosecuted, why would any woman make her trauma worse by reporting it?

I did not speak of my own experience for 36 years.  I have still never named him. With social media and search engines comes the possibility of the perpetrator finding me.  The only reason I spoke up was to show solidarity with Dr. Ford, Ms. Ramirez, and Ms. Swetnick, and why women delay or never report their experiences. We recover physically, but the psychological damage leaves incompletely healed wounds, scars that rip open again and again.

Time Doesn’t

“The tears are superficial”

the nurse said.

“They’ll heal with time

and a dose of antibiotics.”

I didn’t tell her.

He wasn’t a stranger.

I’d never go back to that bar.

I’d never look at sloe gin

the same way again.

I thought I’d done my due diligence.

I only had two drinks.

I trusted he knew the meaning of STOP

not just the power of possession.

It’s hard to keep saying it

with your knees

pressed against your chin.

I wanted to never see him again

but that wasn’t possible.

I kept my head down.

I avoided his eyes.

I slunk to the opposite

side of the room if he was present.

I did my work in silence.

I told no one.

The tears were superficial -

they healed with time.

Though 36 years of silence shielded, 
the shame still festers.