What Happened, What I Did, and What I Wish I Did

I don’t really know how to start this. In ways, I don’t want to. The voice inside my head that likes to convince me I am stupid is rolling her eyes, convinced I am being melodramatic. In ways I feel like I am. Nothing terrible happened. Just awkward and creepy.

But something terrible could have happened. And I would have reacted in a very similar manner to the way I did.

And it would have been awful.

So I am writing this for myself.  But I am writing this for every other woman  – and man. I am sure they are out there – who has tried to convince themselves it was nothing, while knowing that it was something.

~~~

I, usually, think of myself as this strong, independent character who will smite any man who dares to cross her.

I am learning otherwise.

The other night, I was walking home from work when a car came to a stop on the opposite side of the road, offering me a ride. Or, okay, there wasn’t an actual offer. There was a shout of “Get in”. I stared at the car because at that moment my sense hadn’t entirely drained away. Then came another shout. Saying the same thing. And, because I was desperate, I crossed the road and got in, despite the odd feeling in my stomach that was urging me to just keep on walking.

Why I didn’t listen to that gut feeling:

1. I was, as I said, desperate. My shift had ended at 4. It was now somewhere between 10:30 and 10:45 at night. When I got out of work, I texted the Mother asking if she would be willing to pick me up either at the mall-thing I work at or at the bus stop closest to our house. She didn’t reply. The 4:45 bus didn’t show up and when the bus service was called, they said hello, and hung up. So, not having money to pay for the taxi to the train station (which is now a 1/2 hour walk to my house), I waited for the 8:24 bus. As we were leaving, my mother finally texted me. I sent her what time the bus was arriving. And then my phone died. The bus arrived. I set myself up at the nearest food place with an outlet, and charged my phone. It was past 10 and the Mother had still not appeared and there was no text from her. So I started on the 2 hour walk home. 6 hours after I got out of work. When I had to wake up at 6 in the morning to get to work on time the next day. A 2 hour walk home, after a long, annoying day, in the dark, when it was chilly and I didn’t have warm clothes on because I didn’t think I would be walking home at night, on a busy road with no shoulder was not, at all, appealing. This is also the road that a car hit me on (just my arm but, still, it hurt like hell), so I am somewhat afraid of this road.
2. For months I have been walking home from various places because a lack of available/helpful people in my life and a lack of a car. I have accepted rides from numerous strangers and all of them have been lovely, nice people. So I hadn’t yet had a bad experience. (usually the creeps stuck to yelling at me from their car windows. Outside of the one guy who asked if I was a hooker and drove off when I glowered at him. Mostly because I was wearing loose jeans and a t-shirt. What kind of a hooker wears that?)
3. I trust the Powers that Be. So in that moment I muttered a little prayer. This, I believe, is in part why nothing actually terrible (just vaguely terrifying) happened.
4. And I was really, really tired. I just wanted to go home and sleep. I have a lovely romance with sleep and was missing her sweet embrace.

The voice from the car turned out to be a man, probably around my father’s age (35-45) who was friendly and spoke in broken English. This, I assumed (because I try to give people the benefit of the doubt), was the reason why the offer for a ride seemed to be more of a demand than anything else (a friendly demand, but a demand nonetheless).

Like most people, he asked my name, said it was pretty (really, it seems no one can hear my name without telling me it’s pretty. Unless they once dated a girl named Autumn and the person is in a band. Then I find out their ex-girlfriend’s name). Did not offer his name like most people did. I asked, to be polite and also because unless you are asking my name for Starbucks, there has to be an exchange. Something inside of me (intuition, not anything like the worm in Corpse Bride) said to lie about my name, but by the time I was paying attention to that, I had already answered truthfully.

I did lie about my age. I said I was 17 (I’m 21) because then I’d be a minor but not a ridiculously little minor. The guy thought that I was 15 or 16.

I lied about the store I work at.

I spent the next ten minutes lying about any possible ways to identify me.

I don’t normally lie.

Especially not to strangers (because what’s the point?).

The guy kept saying 3 things: Working at night is dangerous, the road I was on is dangerous, and “Are you scared?/There’s no reason to be scared/Stop being scared.”

I was not scared. In the least. Uncomfortable, because I was in a car with a male stranger, I was tired, and it had been a long day. But I was not scared. I was conversing. I was not being shy. My body language was not at ease, but it was not scared. So the first couple of times he said mentioned my being scared (especially the first time “you don’t have to be scared. I’m a nice guy”), I continued to not be scared, but I got a wonky feeling in the pit of my stomach. By the 4th time I was told not to be scared, I was beginning to panic a little bit.

Yes, it was creepy. But, like I said, I give people the benefit of the doubt, so instead of freaking out, I brushed it off. I don’t remember what justification I gave it, but I did try to justify it. I guess because it would have been natural for me to be a little scared, because I was alone in a car late at night with an older male I did not previously know so he was aware of that and wanted to… I dunno. I really don’t. I was just trying to not judge someone off of something that was odd, but not harmful.

About halfway to my house, he handed me his phone, the screen open to that area where you punch in the phone number (is there an actual word for that? And if there is, why don’t I know it?). I froze, staring at it. I was suddenly unable to ignore any of the discomfort threading it’s way through my intestines.

He explained that he wanted me to put my number in. He said, in case I needed a ride home again. I put my phone number in. Because it was the polite thing to do. Because I didn’t want to be rude. Because I’m a moron. My rational, non-idiotic brain, then kicked in and tried to figure out how to not have my phone number in his phone (My rational brain finally kicked in and realized how awkward this was because every other individual who offered to help me again gave me their number.). But then he asked – a couple of times – if I gave him the right number. Then he had me call my phone to make sure.

He was not being intimidating. He was not threatening violence. He was still being friendly and in good spirits. Which is part of why I didn’t know what to do. And part of what froze my brain.

I wish I had said, right there, “No. You cannot have my number. I appreciate your help and your offer of future help, but I’ll be fine.” But I was worried about being rude. I was worried about hurting his feelings. Also, he was an older male. If I was taught one thing when I was younger, it is that, especially as a younger female, you do what you are told to do. Unless it is something awful. You can say no if rape or murder is happening, but anything less, you do as you are told.

Anyway.

We were almost at my house and I said he could drop me off at the general store. He said no, which road. I then tried to get him to just drop me off at the end of my street, I could walk the rest of the way. I was going to get dropped off at my neighbor’s house, because it was lit and is on the road and he would see if anything happened, except that neighbor is included in the group of Creepy Middle Aged Men Who Have All But Said They Want to Have Sex With Me, so I had hoped the end of the road would do instead (because that gut feeling was more like a gut tsunami of LIE, AUTUMN, LIEEEEE).

I was not dropped off, He turned down the road. And, since none of the neighbor’s houses were lit up (unsurprisingly, it was late and a school night) and even if they were, I wasn’t sure any of them would actually be much help (one of the families used to throw dirty diapers at us as we played so I don’t have any hope for them ever helping someone in my family out. Ever), I gave up and pointed to my house.

The guy said he wanted to give me some money so that I could afford a taxi and not be walking home next time, and not exactly rolling in the dough, that sounded like a great offer, I waited for him to pull out his wallet once we stopped at the end of my driveway.

One hand holding the wallet, he turned to me. And that free hand started stroking my hair. Four times, from the top of my head to the bottom of my hair. I have hair that ends halfway down my back.

What I did: Froze. Deer in the headlights. Heard his friendly voice saying supposedly friendly words and managed to give him a watery, wavering, thin smile. Because I didn’t want to seem rude. Because. Because I was terrified and had no idea what to do but as long as I wasn’t rude maybe it would be okay? I don’t know.

What I wish I did: Slammed my elbow into his arm, slapped his face, and screamed “what the fuck are you doing? Do not touch me.”

His hand, finally, joined his other and he procured a 20. I accepted, grateful – even in those circumstances – for an unexpected 20. Then, as I took the 20, he held his hand out for a handshake (not a good one, either. His hand was in the submissive position. Which I found odd and I sort of stared at it for a moment before shaking his hand), he pulled me close to him for a hug saying “friends?” and then his face moved towards mine in a way that had never meant anything besides a kiss coming from anyone else. Or maybe he was leaning in to smell my hair. Either option is NOT OKAY.

What I did: Mumbled “yes” and ducked my head, turning it completely to the side. Not screaming. Not doing anything but trying to be polite.

What I wish I did: Jerked away and said No. No we are not Friends. No you cannot touch me. No you cannot assume that you can hug me and no you cannot put your face near mine.

What I did: Ignored the screaming in my head and flashed a smile and spouted some bubbly, friendly I’m-Fine-and-You’re-Fine words. Something about appreciating the ride and lots of grateful crap.

What I wish I did: Slammed the door and walked away, thanking him for the ride because I was home a hell of a lot faster than I would have been, but making it clear that the friendliness was not returned and that his actions were in no way permissable.

Like I said, nothing terrible happened. But it was terrifying. It could, easily, have been worse.

Almost a week later, I still don’t know entirely what was wrong with me. Not that I am blaming myself for his behavior, but why I couldn’t just say no. I mean, I could. I have working vocal chords and all that. I have said the word “no” multiple times. But something somewhere in my brain would not let me.

It’s not something new.

There have been so many times when something was happening to me that I didn’t directly say “no”. That I didn’t let the man know he was making me uncomfortable. That I didn’t say “This is not what I want. You need to respect that.” Or “This is inappropriate and it needs to stop”.

There was a man that I worked for at his home office. He often made comments that were extremely inappropriate for our kind of relationship (I babysat his kids since I was 12. I was a minor. I had a boyfriend. He was older than my father. I worked for him.). More than once he walked around in his underwear while I was there. Not in the same room as me, but with his door open. Or he’d walk around in his robe while I organized his files. He set up the office area in his bedroom one day. He sunbathed naked while I was there and informed me of it. His sunbathing was on the deck connected to the room I was in, the door open because there was no air conditioning.

I didn’t say anything.

For years.

I don’t know why.

It took my little sister mentioning, offhandedly, his behavior around her. Behavior that was as creepy as what I witnessed, except worse, because she was 12.

If it had happened to a friend, I would have to be convinced not to show up on this guy’s porch to punch him. I would drag her away from that house and try to convince her to inform the police. Even if there was nothing they could do, but if anyone else had any complaints, I wanted them to know this was a recurring problem.

In that specific situation, I felt ashamed. Of myself. I don’t know why. But if I opened my mouth and told someone, I was sure that I would suddenly be walking around dirty. That they would know (know what, I don’t know. Know that I was extremely uncomfortable with the father of the kids I babysat making thinly veiled advances? Knowing that I… I dunno).

I do know that both times (and every other time a male made me uncomfortable) I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.

Probably because when at a party my family went to and some guy tried to kiss me and kept putting his arm around me/grabbing me despite shoving him, kicking him, and verbally telling him no, I do not want to be kissed, I have a boyfriend, I was told it was my fault. I must have been flirting with him. I was inviting him to. It was just a joke. I was taking it too seriously. I wasn’t being direct enough. Boys will be boys. Even though I had to hide in a bedroom with little children. Even though he followed me to the bedroom and made extremely sexual comments directed at me from the doorway and when we locked him out he appeared at the window and tried to break in.

Probably because I have no self-worth. Probably because I have been taught since birth that standing up for yourself in those situations makes you a bitch, it makes you undesirable as a person, it lowers your value. It’s bad.

Probably because most of the time, the guys making advances on me/crossing lines and boundaries I did not invite them to cross in any way shape or form were all “nice guys”. They were friendly. They were helpful. They were creepy and awkward but I wasn’t worried about violence. At least, not the kind of violence that leaves bruises.

When the guy wasn’t nice, when he wasn’t friendly, when he was leering and drunk and so obviously an asshole – the kind of guy you are told will touch you inappropriately, the kind of guy you are warned about – it didn’t take much to say no, verbally and physically. And with force.

And I don’t know. Part of it, I think, is that even though I think for myself and I am, at heart, this fiercely headstrong, independent, feminist warrior woman, I also internalize what people say with their words and actions a lot. So, if a guy is nice and friendly, he can’t really be capable of raping/sexually harassing/violating me, right? Only bad guys do that. Right? Right?? ‘Cause no one ever warns you about the nice guys because the bad guys are never nice, RIGHT?

Maybe I don’t want to admit that I’m in an awful situation. Or, as family members have told, maybe I deserve it. Maybe I was asking for it. I mean, I am definitely idiotic enough to get myself into these situations.

But there is the thing that ties every experience together: until someone is very obviously not polite, I have to be polite. It’s this ingrained thing. I try to adhere to the social standards of friendliness, to put others first, to make them feel comfortable. To not be a burden. To not cause trouble.

And for some reason, if I say something – or if I were to, gods forbid, actually do something while in the situation – I would be betraying this person. Betraying them how, I don’t know. But that’s part of my non-warrior woman’s thinking process.

I don’t really know why I let a strange man stroke my hair when I was shuddering inside and terrified. I don’t know why I continued to smile. I don’t know why I didn’t punch him. I don’t know why almost every other time someone has crossed a line sexually, I force myself to pretend like I’m okay with it and go along with it.

But it scares me. It scares me so damn much. Because what if? What if next time I can’t escape the car before anything bad happens? What if next time I don’t duck my head in time? What if next time there is a physical forcefulness and I’m still too worried about him, about the other guy, about the person who doesn’t give a shit about me? What if I let myself be sexually assaulted because I am set up psychologically – for whatever reason – to not say no. To make weak attempts at protestations. To not actively fight back. And it wouldn’t be my fault, but I wouldn’t have reacted the way I should have. The way that I would be aching to react but wouldn’t let myself. And the guy might walk away, never knowing what he did to me, not realizing how in the wrong he was. Because I could not get myself to say no.

I just… I don’t know. Nothing terrible has happened yet, but, gods, does it terrify me that I don’t know what I will do if that changes. And I have no idea how to change that.