This post discusses the sensitive topic SA
A few years ago, I bought myself a pair of vintage Tommy Hilfiger jeans. If you’ve seen them, you know how cool they are. They were also my first new pair of jeans in over five years. Don’t judge; the texture of denim isn’t my favorite.
About a year later, they served as a painful reminder of a terrifying night sitting at the back of my closet. And since then, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn them.
When you’ve been in any kind of danger where a man is the perpetrator, the warning bells never change, at least in my experience, and you just always know. I was given a ride from my sister’s friend’s house after an already uncomfortable evening by a family friend of theirs. Well, at least I think he was.
I felt my hackles raising and alarm peeking through my eyes, setting me tense from introductions alone. I think it was his smile. Very slimy and very familiar. Very reminiscent of the first man that ever violated me as a child. I knew that nothing good would come from the way he looked at me. My dread rose when I wanted to go home and he was to be my ride.
Trauma is a curious thing; you can’t help what you remember and what you don’t. For instance, I remember spilled soup on my jeans and the zipper being broken, but I couldn’t tell you how that happened. I remember texting my cousin a few minutes into the car ride because the conversation went from awkward small talk to alarming discomfort once he found out that I lived somewhere in between two hotels in the city that don’t exactly have the best reputation, and neither do the girls at my university. It became clear as day that I was being propositioned by this old man in his expensive car who wouldn’t stop calling me a good girl. I knew the danger I was in, but reality hit me when I realized that we were in the middle of nowhere, in an area I was already unfamiliar with, so lights, no road, just bush.
When we stopped in a particularly dark spot, his friend got the car. He reached to the backseat for me, telling me to keep calm, that I was a good girl, and that I shouldn’t worry, that he was a friend. I knew that I was just going to have to accept what was about to happen. His friend stood outside my door with his pants down. The terror I felt was... it was true. It was absolute. And I was absolutely paralyzed. Where the hell was I going to go? What would I even say if I made it out of here alive? Who would believe me?
It feels ridiculous to say that my saving grace was a missing phone. I remember the back-and-forth about whether the other was sure they’d left their phone behind and if they really needed to go back for it. I remember the annoyance in his voice and the last look I got. As soon as we arrived back at the house, I ran out of the car and into the house, asking for the toilet.
You see, since childhood, the bathroom has always been my solace. I would sit in the empty tub and read until someone realized that I was missing. So the child in me jumped out in search of comfort. I’m not sure what happened after that. It’s a blur of inconsolable sobs while on the phone with my boyfriend, shaky hands, my sister’s voice, and the car ride home.
I haven’t been able to speak about that night, nor have I really been able to wear my jeans.
I miss them.
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