I think I stopped making eye contact with men about three years ago after being sexually assaulted in Malaysia. There were many coping mechanisms I adopted to deal with the physical, emotional and mental effects of being assaulted. Most I have managed to shake off but some have been more difficult, even after coming back to the U.S. Looking men in the face is one of them. I figure if I can’t see what they are doing or if they are looking at me, then I don’t have to deal with it.
I try not to think about being assaulted too much. Not because it’s an unpleasant memory but because it makes me so angry. It fills me with a rage that makes me want to kick things and throw things, and makes me feel like a person I don’t recognize and don’t want to be.
On the rare occasion I share the details of what happened to me in Malaysia, I have caught myself adding a line about how I was wearing the local traditional clothing, covered from my collar bone to my wrists to my ankles. It is shocking how deeply ingrained it is even in my own subconscious that there is some connection between how a woman dresses and how much we value her right to what happens to her body.
For me, it’s not the assault itself that is the worst part. I recognize there are bad people out there and that sexual assault is not unique to any country or culture. I often add the line “these things were far more likely to happen to me in New York than in Malaysia” as if there’s a need for me to assuage the feelings of responsibility of the community in which it happened. For me, the worst part, what really gets to me, is that it happened again. It wasn’t just one time in Malaysia. And now, in Jordan, last night, makes it three times. All the rational thinking in the world can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m doing to invite this behavior. It keeps the question “Why me?” rattling around in my head.
The only useful thing I can think of to do with the rage and the misplaced thoughts of self doubt is to talk about it. I really don’t want to talk about it though. I’ve only seen these stories used as either a data point or an anecdote, two extremes that neither resolve the problem nor help the victims. Is there a middle ground where my talking can contribute to the normalization of this issue? Anecdotes fill orientation trainings to warn women of worst case scenarios. Data points fill the news as if women who are sexually assaulted are just a (unfortunately large) number. My stories could be both. But instead, could it be something more tangible? That you now know, care for, love someone who experiences sexual assault.
This story was originally published on Amanda’s Tumblr here.
