Add One More To The Pile

It started out as one little reminder, a calling-out on Facebook. They had been happening with increasing rapidity as the year waned. Some famous, some not. Most strangers. And then, one I knew. As I read the post, a moment gurgled up, a memory of escaping him, of clinging to an acquaintance, of drinking to avoid my thoughts, of staying at the bar so that I was in public and away from a dark and private space with him.

I rolled out of bed, chastising myself for looking at my phone first thing in the morning, “Remember, technology is dulling your awareness. Spend time with yourself.” No matter how many times I’ve told myself this, instagram is always the first to say ‘good morning’.

Bustling around the bed, my brain flicked through the moments I had already categorized as my assault moments. Sometimes I called them my big three. There is the outwardly violent moment on my stoop in Brooklyn — the scars have faded but I still trace my finger over where they were. There is the obviously oppressive moment when a mentor pushed me into a wall and his tongue into my throat — and how he ruined a play I was working on after I didn’t sleep with him. There is the abusive relationship I still haven’t totally forgiven myself for staying in as long as I did — probably something to do with the self-esteem that was sacrificed throughout. My three felt significant. Weighty. More than enough.

My electric kettle was making sounds like my knees when I get out of bed lately. I leaned on the counter, when

“I mean, you should probably add this new moment.”

“What?”

“He’s getting called out now, and it’s not surprising to you, it brought stuff up . That must mean something. Maybe add it.”

“But nothing happened.”

“You thought it could have. You were scared.”

“Bullshit. I was not scared.”

“Oh really? You were so not scared that you ordered three extra drinks just to calm your anxiety? You were so not scared that you never mentioned this to anyone.”

“Why would I mention it, if nothing happened? You proved my own point.”

“If you’re not scared, why not move the moment over with the big three, just for a day, and see how it feels.”

“That is such a cheap ploy. But, it’s not going to change anything. So go ahead, add it to the pile. Happy?”

“Yes.” The coffee grinds rose to the touch of my french press. “Oh, and I love you.”

“Whatever.”

It sat there. All day. Where there were once three moments, now there were four. No big deal.

That day I had to drive across Chicago to teach, so I got in my car, cued up my podcast and set off. It ended before I got to the school, but I was too close to start a new one, so I chose a couple minutes of silence.

Nice, sweet silence.

“MOTHER F*(@# ^% SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!”

The guy in the car next to mine glanced over. I was too mad to make him feel better with a quick smile.

“DANMIT. Damn you. I was FINE before. Three moments of trauma were perfectly fine with me. Okay, not fine, you know what I mean, but I had three, which was a sturdy number. I can handle being the victim of three sexual assaults, harassments, whatever you want to call them. Can’t I just leave it at that?”

“What are you mad at me for? I didn’t touch you without consent or make inapporpriate suggestions.”

“I know. It’s not your fault. It’s just…I was happy before — “

“Happy?”

“Well. Not happy, but, you know, I just don’t need anymore. It’s too much.”

“You’re right. It is.”

Class was loud and goofy, and for a few hours I didn’t have to think about myself. It was bliss. The rest of the day I look at my catalogue. Four moments. Four.

“psssst.”

“Oh lord. What now?”

“It’s just that today got me thinking about that time. You know — that stalker you had in high school? How he kept leaving gifts under your bedroom window — you were pretty scared then.”

“Yeah, but I was just a kid. I don’t think that counts.”

Silence.

“Fine. Move it over. I’m going to watch Netflix now. Don’t bother me.”

“Okay…..for today…”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing,”

It continued like that for days. Right before falling asleep — -

“Hey. What about —”.

In the middle of a first date —

“Doesn’t he look like — “

Getting my mail —

“Remember when you had to run because — “

I flopped down on the bed. Tired. The pile of moments was taller than me by the end of the week. I tried knocking them down, stuffing them in books, reshuffling them, but it turns out that everything has been cross-referenced and is unable to be fully lost. It is exactly what I didn’t want: feeling that I was inexorably a “victim”. With a pile this large, I didn’t see how I could be anything else.

“Unless…”

My sheets caught in my legs and I pretty much face planted on the side of m bed. Hopping up, and rubbing my cheek, I took another look at the moments, waiting to finish my own sentence. Every thought sounded incredibly cheesy. Things like “unless it’s the beginning of a new story” or “unless you choose another path” or “unless the future re-categorizes them as your vengeance-fuel to go out and change the world”. Even though I liked the idea of vengeance-fuel in a superhero kind of way, the intention still wasn’t true. The pile and I sat in quiet for awhile not knowing what to do with one another. Finally, I figured a better sentence would come to me in the morning. I gathered my body-pillow alongside me and cuddled in deeply —

“psst.”

“For the love of EVERYTHING HOLY. What do you want?”

“Just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

I smile.

A little smile. Like a really tiny, small, insignificant smile.

“Whatever.”