Triggered

The news is getting to me this week.

For those of you who don’t know my story… when the Munchkin was five years old, I was sexually assaulted on a first date. Now, I’m no idiot. I had done my homework: I checked public records on the man. I Googled and checked social media. Professionally, he was who he said he was, and he had no criminal record.

But that night, I broke my own rule and went to his house. And I paid dearly for it. It was eight days before Christmas.

I didn’t report it.

Not to the police… he warned me (via text message and email afterwards) that it would be my word against his. And who would believe me, a poor single mother, against the word of a well-established financial professional?

In a moment of overwhelm, my outcry witness was my ex-husband. He was the only one who ever saw my bruises in person. And yet, a week later, he told me that he would use the fact that I had had such an “error in judgment” to prove I was an unfit mother and take out son away from me.

I later told my pastor at the church I attended at the time. His first question to me was, are you sure you’re not pregnant? Not was I hurt, or what did I need… his concern was whether I was “at risk” of an abortion.

I didn’t told another soul for three years.

These days, my family knows. I talk about being a survivor. The statute of limitations had passed, so nothing will ever happen to the person who attacked me. On the day the statute expired, I burned all the clothes I’d worn that night. I can read (most) articles and have considered volunteering for our local women’s shelter. Sometimes I can even watch episodes of SVU (which used to be my favorite show, before he took that from me).

So the story about Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford shouldn’t bother me… except it does, for one detail of her story: his hand over her mouth.

You see, that night I struggled to get away until he pressed his forearm over my neck, choking me. At that moment, it became all about making it home alive. My son needed me to get home. I had to survive.

Nothing triggers me like a reminder of that instant. Breathing as best I could with an arm compressing my windpipe while I tried to hold still against the blows of a man who had no concept of a safe word or consent.

I believe Christine Ford. I have been there. And I’ve spent this whole week wondering what I would do if, some day, the person who attacked me were ever to be cast into the public eye. Would I be brave enough to come forward? To try to protect other women and the public? I already sometimes regret not having reported him. I did what I had to do to protect my child. I later sought trauma counseling with a RAINN-trained therapist. I found an attorney who could protect my from my ex’s empty threats.

But reading all day long every day for a week the back and forth of the Kavanaugh story and how so many people think “she waited too long” or “she’s just looking for attention” or “she must be a Dem operative trying to throw the nomination” or “he was too young to be responsible” or “that was so long ago, don’t let it ruin his future”… it’s awfully hard to fight back the flashbacks when the reminder is everywhere.

Christine Ford was doing what she had to do to protect herself and keep living. She tried to forget (like me), she built a good life (like me), and she moved on as best she could, finding a healthy relationship with a good man (like me). I honestly don’t think the politics matter one damn bit. If it were me, I wouldn’t care if the patron saint of my political party were the culprit: someone has to stand up for us women and survivors and potential future victims.

Our culture lets men get away with behaving badly. And it’s bullshit.

So this week, I’m triggered.

And I believe Christine.

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Where were you?

Where were you that day?

I’ll never forget… I was watching cartoons with my younger cousin Reed at my aunt’s house. Normally my grandparents watched him, but my grandfather was recovering from surgery, so I had taken a few days off work to go help out. Back then, Reed was obsessed with Bob the Builder, and we were still watching on VHS tapes. Around 9:00am, one movie had ended and I took it out of the vcr to change tapes. Through the static on the screen, at first I thought I was seeing some awful movie. Suddenly, the realization came over me that it was not a movie but the news.

And then… the second plane…

How little did we realize in that moment how much the world was about to change forever?

I distinctly recall the difference in existence before and after that day. All innocence that I had vanished. This was different from Kosovo or East Berlin or the Persian Gulf of the 1990’s… this was something bigger. Something scarier. I had never watched the news so much in my life before that day, but spent the next several days glued to CNN, unable to tear my eyes away. Fearful… we don’t live far from a large military munitions base; were we still safe here, despite being far from a big city? Working at the church, I spent hours getting in touch with parishioners and families who were living out of state, including one whose husband was in the Washington Navy Yard that day. All were safe. I didn’t lose anyone that I was personally close to. And yet, the loss lingers… it makes my throat close up any time I spend too long a moment in thought of it.

Seventeen years ago, I didn’t know Antonio. He was here in the States by then, but he was in college and our paths hadn’t crossed yet. Back then, he hadn’t even finished his private pilot license, but he was well on his way. Today, seventeen years later, I can’t help but feel a more profound sense of trepidation over what that day meant for aviation families.

That morning, 8 pilots and 25 flight attendants headed out for an early report. They called their final cross-check and taxied out for the last time. Those flight crews never made it home.

I deliberately try to avoid thinking about everything that can go wrong when Antonio is flying at 35,000 feet. As a pilot’s partner, as the granddaughter of a pilot, as the friend of an FA, I know how (relatively) safe the sky is. I roll my eyes along with other passengers at the ridiculousness of TSA sometimes as we stand in line to remove our shoes or throw out the coffee we haven’t had time to finish yet. The anthropologist in me balks at the racial profiling, just as Antonio – as a Latino – tries to ignore the stares he gets in airports sometimes as a “brown” man in a pilot’s uniform.

But sometimes, if I let myself think about it… in the pit of my stomach, I am grateful.

Because the pilot-wife in me wants bags searched. Wants the extra scans. Wants everyone to have to remove their shoes and open their laptops.

Because the pilot-wife in me wants my pilot to come home.

What happened on 9/11 will probably never happen again. The world learned a tragic and immeasurably catastrophic lesson that day. And yet… never again will we ever say “that could never happen”. Because that day, it did.