Just last week on my vacation in Greece, on a Saturday night in the midst of Athens party life I was violated by someone supposed to be a friend. A black man. A brother.
I didn’t think much of it until a few days ago when it all came back and I felt so dirty, so angry and I just want to find him and kill him…. Yes I do.
Perhaps killing him won’t match the act of grabbing my boobs but here I am sitting and thinking of what that has reminded me of and how that act of touching me without consent is affecting me deeply right now.
I didn’t want to write me too. I felt that I would belittle the voice of other women who had gone through worse things in the hands of men. I wasn’t a real victim, I keep telling myself. And something just kept holding me back and telling me I should not take it that seriously. But whenever I think of it, like right now, it hurts. My heart is pumping, my tears are about to explode out of my eyes. But I tell myself it could have been worse. I don’t know.
The first time I was violated I was 8! By a boy called Mark who went in the same class as me. I remember Mark. He was 8! I just thought all boys do that. That putting fingers in our pants is how to be a boy.
The most memorable assault came at 11. I was walking home from school and a guy selling sufurias was coming my way. My breasts were just pouting and so painful, I could barely wash them. I was too embarrassed of them. As he walked past me, an adult man of perhaps 35, he grabbed one of my boobs so hard I put a biro pen that was in my hand on his back. I hurt him. I did it instinctually and I didn’t feel anything. No anger no tears. He bled.
Back then I thought that that’s what grown men do and that’s how you fight back. I can’t stand men coming infront of me or following closely behind me. I get scared. That’s just something I feel when it’s dark or in a tunnel or when I am alone. Women are just scared of these things.
Two summers ago in Stockholm, I was going to meet a friend for a beer and chitchat. There was a bunch of teenage boys and girls. One of the boys grabbed my ass and the rest of the group laughed. I am getting angry again. And tears are welling up again.
Years back a person I knew forced me to have sex with him. I didn’t even think it was rape. He was a dude I was living with. He hit me and grabbed me. I don’t know if I have made peace with it but I hated him for a long time. I still do.
I am tired. Tired especially because the recent assault happened to me as a grown woman in a friendly setting. It was so quick and somewhat unexpected. It’s not as if I didn’t think that it couldn’t happen but I was appalled that it did happen. At my age. And what did I do? Nothing.
So I am angry. I want revenge. I don’t know why my heart hurts whenever I think about it.
The #metoo moment is the one moment that I have been avoiding while at the same time looking up all my friends and telling them how sorry I am bad things happened to them. I don’t understand why I did not write it on my facebook wall. I don’t know why I feel as I do at the moment but I do know that this is an experience that is affecting my well being.
I tried to understand why an adult man or anyone would feel ok with putting their hands inside my dress. A grown man. A father. A supposed friend of a friend. I can’t even get an answer.
I have a strong desire to revenge and I will. And when I finally get to him, I want him to suffer. And an apology would do but it won’t make a difference.
No I won’t kill him…. But I want to.