I’m not quite sure how to start this. I know where I’m going, but it’s the getting there that’s hard. A conversation has brought some things up; old things, with teeth- and I’m desperate to empty myself. I’ve lived in quiet shame for a long time, and I’m wondering if I just get my story, this story; the saddest one out, then maybe it won’t haunt me so much anymore. If you know me; if we are friends, or family, or acquaintances I beg you to run from this. You do not want what is behind this curtain, and really I don’t want you to know. I’ve often wished there were warning signs in books; caution tape deterring you from the terrible part of the journey, a place to stop before your favorite character dies and your heart breaks. This is my warning. Stop now. There be ghosts in here, and not the meek and curious kind. Poltergeists, monsters with claws and fangs meant for tearing and destruction. Please go back, while you still can. For when it’s all over, you won’t be able to look at me the same way again. I’ve always been terrified of this.

I’m not looking for pity or sympathy in the least, and as soon as it’s out on page I’d much prefer it just dies, without ever having to say the words aloud. Dont ask. Don’t make eye contact with me, and don’t feel pity. It’s long past, though memories remain. These are things I hadn’t spoken before, until the Brock Turner thing was all over the news- but it was 16 years of haunted silence.

Shame is the driving reason for reticence, and if I had to do it all over again I’d keep it the same; quiet and unspoken. My prison has been shame for as long as I can remember; a deep, tragic, festering thing I carry with me every day. I’ve locked this story inside my mental vault, pushed it way down, and back, but sometimes in the quiet it gets out. It knows how to open locks, and deep down I know there isn’t much I can can about that. I have a hard time keeping things short and sweet, but honest I’ll try.

I was pretty reckles when I turned 21. I worked and kept my responsibilities in line, but I’d hit the bars in downtown Plymouth easily two or three times per week. My best friend was a woman ten years my senior, and life was basically “work all week and party all weekend”. Rinse, repeat. There was a bartender at one of the clubs whose name I haven’t been able to remember forever. But a phone conversation, followed by a bunch of awful remembering brought it up, clear as day.

He was really nice, and my friend had gone to school with him so he must have been her age- maybe a year or two older. I became infatuated after hanging out at the bar so frequently. He’d give us free drinks, and we’d all talk and I’d drink and party until the lights came on. Finally, after a million months he asked me to meet him at the bar for drinks one night. I was so excited, because it wasn’t a normal Friday or Saturday; there was no friend, it was just me.

I was surprised he was working when I got there. He was bartending at the upstairs bar and I was so nervous I could puke. Back then is the same as now, though probably worse. I’m super uncomfortable in social situations, especially when surrounded by strangers, and alone. He told me to hang there while he was finishing his shift, and kept me satiated and comfortable with drinks. I know that when I’m nervous I have a habit of taking too many sips too quickly. I fidget with my hair and fingers; take a sip. Twirl my hair, take a sip. Such sweet demise.

This is where it’s my fault, because I was 21 remember, and not a baby. But God, if I think back to that age, to that Christine then I’d give her little cheeks a squeeze and wrap her tightly in my arms because she really WAS such a tiny, guileless child. I had an incredibly protective group of friends growing up, and they always treated me with respect. I never feared or imagined anything bad would ever happen to me with them around. I lived in a bubble of family, friendship and good people. Unfortunately the world isn’t filled with goodness; there are dark corners and people with beautiful masks. There are things that grab in the dark. Monsters are real. And often they have the prettiest faces.

I don’t remember much. I don’t remember leaving, not even a millisecond of it. I remember the stairs up to his room though, in his house; because they were so tall and narrow and he was almost carrying me up them, his arms under mine from behind. I remember being there, him putting me on that fucking bed, and almost throwing up because I was already so sick. I remember gurgling words, “no, not this no”- but man, I don’t remember what he said as they came pouring out. I wanted to go home. I wanted my house, and I wanted my mother, and my things. I wanted my bed and my blankets; I wanted no part of whatever was unfolding. This wasn’t me and this couldn’t be and how did I get here God help me. I remember the feeling of being pushed back down deep inside my mind; so far down it was like watching a movie from behind my eyes as he pulled my underwear down. I remember a tiny piece of me- probably physiologically just my Id trying to comfort my Ego, telling me there wasn’t anything we could do, no fighting would save us; to just close our eyes and we’ll worry about it later. “There’s nothing you can do love. The die have been cast. Close your eyes and fade and we’ll get home as soon as we can”.

I remember waking up, skirt still on, not remembering what happened but there was my underwear tossed to the floor three feet to the side, discarded carelessly in front of the dresser. I remember scrambling to get them on, only focused on getting home. I remember those narrow stairs, opening the front door, and looking for my car in a place I didn’t remember going, a place that was scary and foreign. I remember having to go back inside that hell because my car wasn’t there, and having to wake him up to ask him where it was. Almost crying, but don’t show tears Christine we just need to leave, get to the car. Get home.

I need a ride. Silence.

I remember silence as he drove me to my car, and two parts of my brain fighting- “Well maybe nothing happened. You don’t really remember and maybe nothing happened” and the other asking why my underwear was discarded on the floor. I remember beating myself up because I should have known better, shouldn’t have been alone and shouldn’t have had too much to drink and God it’s all my fault. Maybe it never happened, it probably didn’t happen, maybe things stopped when he noticed how bad you were. But the underwear on the floor Christine, tossed to the side.

I never said a word. I stopped going out completely, starting staying home again and sleeping a lot. I barely ate, hardly spoke. I’d work, come home and sleep. I didn’t like leaving my room or even my bed, but I hated closing my eyes because things are always so much clearer in the dark. My eternal shame permeated through every moment until I was able to push the memory far enough down to where it could be locked behind metal doors. I told myself that there was a chance nothing happened (but your underwear on the floor why was it on the floor and tossed 3 feet) and that’s how I made it through my depressing days. I’d never told a soul because all I’d hear was I shouldn’t have had that much to drink or been alone, or that I was lying. Now that I’m older I’ve given myself slack. He was the bartender. I don’t know how strong the drinks he was feeding me really were. I trusted him, and who knows if his plan was nefarious or not. Stop beating yourself up Savino. You were really just a stupid child, who never thought evil like that could happen to you. And maybe it didn’t, there’s still a chance. (…but your underwear was on the floor, discarded to the side)
   No one knew my shame. I’d sit sometimes, drinking coffee and staring out the window, and my face would burn crimson when I remembered what happened. Tears creeping behind eyes that hardly cried anymore. I focused all my might on sending the pain below, deep deep down and forgetting it ever happened. It wasn’t real. The mind is a beautiful thing, and capable of forgetting the bad stuff when it knows you need protection. Thank God for repression.

I think about not speaking up a lot. That’s part of my forever shame too. I wonder if he’d done it before (probably) and if he did it again (most certainly). I think about the girls that were probably accosted because of my shame, because I didn’t speak and was complicit, and it makes my face burn in that familiar crimson. What have I done? Why didn’t I do things differently? Fear and shame; lack of courage and bravery. Stupidity. God knows all I have ever wanted in this world is for someone to love me unconditionally. But maybe I’ve always tread in the wrong places.

People talk about the conversations with God, the things we will have to atone for in the afterlife- I fear it so much. How many were hurt because of my cowardice? Are all the misfortunes of my life my punishment for not vocalizing my trauma? Is this my eternal karma along with my eternal shame?

Believe me, I understand every woman who speaks up, and every one that doesn’t. You cannot begin to fathom that internal hell until you’ve walked in her shoes. They say 1 out of every 5 women have similar experiences. But thats okay, because I’ll be your statistic. By mathematics, which are the current of life, I’m the one in our 5. And for you, I’ll always be ok with that.