Why Trump Accusers Waited So Long

This post is for the accusers.  Women everywhere who have been groped, kissed, touched, assaulted, and especially, raped.  Women who felt there was no point in reporting incidents at the time they happened.  Women who have never come forward.  And women who finally felt it was time to come forward.

Many are questioning the timing of Trump’s accusers.  Many actually believe these women are attention-seekers, possibly looking for some kind of big settlement or pay out.  As if any amount of money could erase the memory of a stranger pinning you against the wall and sticking his tongue down your throat, or a stranger in a nightclub sticking his hand up your dress and brushing your vagina.  If only.

Here’s my story of why I didn’t come forward.

My husband had given me a certificate for a massage at a high-end spa.  I’ve had many massage therapists work on me over the years and I never had any qualms about a male LMT, so I agreed to be scheduled with Matthew.

At the start of the session, Matthew asked if there were any trouble-spots to work on and whether I was pregnant.  I said there was a chance I was pregnant as my husband and I were trying to conceive.  He was very friendly, personable.  We chatted the whole time.  At one point, while I was face-down, Matthew started talking about some of his more aggressive women clients – the kind who grabbed at him.  To demonstrate, he took my hand and put it on his leg – nowhere close to genitals, but I still felt a little uncomfortable – ‘…and she grabbed me like this…’

I expressed my shock and empathized about how that must have been really uncomfortable.  And the conversation continued, light-hearted, not crossing lines, no more reason for me to be on guard.

Until I rolled onto my back.

With a sudden, deft movement, Matthew reached under the sheet, down by my waist, palms open, and ran his hands up my torso to my breasts.  I reacted quickly, grabbing his hands.  But did I scream?  Did I yell, “NO!”?

No.

I did what so many other women do, when they find themselves suddenly compromised.

I made it okay for him.  I dismissed it as no big deal.  I diminished myself, my discomfort, my own boundaries, and the fucking sanctuary of my own body.

I said, “I’m sorry.  That’s really sensitive.  As I said, there’s a chance I am pregnant.”

Of course, he played along, no doubt relieved that I behaved exactly as a sexual predator counts on a victim to respond – overwhelmed, overpowered, vulnerable, and non-reactive.

I was apologizing to him. 

For those of you who have never been victimized, you must be terribly confused and thinking I have no backbone.

The truth is, in that very vulnerable position – naked, but for a sheet, in a closed room, no witnesses, where this person works and who’s already known among his coworkers – feeling violated, I also felt powerless.

So why not come forward hours or days later?

That’s the other sinister part of being victimized like this.  I felt like it wouldn’t matter.  The chances of anyone taking me seriously were slim.  Without witnesses, there’s even a lesser chance of any meaningful penalty being leveled.  When it’s he said/she said – she tends to lose.  And the stake to the heart is, I didn’t want to relive it.  For years afterward, I brushed it off.  Being vindicated wasn’t what I wanted.  I wanted it to go away.

And this is why, Trump’s accusers waited so long – as much as 30 years!  They have the extra monolithic burden of not just feeling, but absolutely knowing, that it would be nearly impossible to take down a fucking billionaire.

Coming forward now, there was safety in numbers.  It took one brave woman to tell her story, to be heard, and then, one by one, the drumbeat grew louder.  Much like with the Cosby accusers, there were just too many drums to ignore.  The sound is becoming deafening.

Until there is some measure of feeling safe, this is why accusers wait so long.  And until you’ve been a victim, you cannot know.

 

Slow to Grace

Just before the school shooting this week in Marysville, WA, there was another sinister incident at my daughter’s high school.  Reportedly, four freshmen football players sexually assaulted a senior involved with the football team.  All four students were arrested and immediately expelled.  Other student/s walked in on the attack and immediately got help.  I’m thankful there was a witness or two so there is no question as to what happened for the sake of the victim who’s clearly been traumatized enough.

Obviously, this hits close to home – logistically, less than a quarter mile, emotionally, right through my heart. I’m having a hard time with this, not just emotionally, but spiritually too.

Grace is hard to come by.

I keep thinking of my anger, how I want to punish those punk-ass perps. I keep picturing what I would do to ‘show them’, to humiliate, degrade, demoralize, and scare the piss out of them.  And I realize, my own depravity.  My own desire to pick up the proverbial pitchfork and sink to a despicable level of mob mentality to deliver justice.  This is so, so wrong.

Where’s my humanity?  Where’s my spiritual connection?  The perps are about the same age as my kid, yet, even as a mom, I can’t find any kind of understand – much less compassion – for these kids.  I feel for their parents.  Four sets of parents have to come to grips with the truth that their children are brutal sex offenders whose lives are ruined.  But I’m still struggling to see these kids as someone’s treasured child – not even a child of God, as I wrote about recently – and not the monsters they showed themselves to be earlier this week.

As all of this is parked at the forefront of my mind, I wonder about what spurs such depravity at any age, but especially at such a young age, and by most indications, no kind of mental illness.  And I am honestly taking a hard look at myself and my own struggle to find grace.