Every single day

I remember the evening I thought my husband might finally, fully understand. 

The night he thought his life was in danger. 

I remember the evening he told me about it- he sounded a little bit silly if I'm honest. I remember trying to give him rational explanations for each thing he was explaining - the way the man acted, the way he was dressed, the bag he carried, his uneasiness. But ultimately I didn't comfort my husband. I made him feel ridiculous for thinking his life might be in danger. In that situation I had the privilege of sitting outside of what happened without fear, knowing that ultimately he was safe because he had come home to me that night. 

The tables had turned in that moment. I was the one with privilege, the one who was safe and unfeeling. And he was the one who felt angry, hurt, and abandoned when I didn’t comfort him appropriately, when I didn’t take him seriously.  

But as I recounted this story to him again a few weeks ago, I remembered the fear in his eyes as he told me about it the first time, I remembered the slight trembling in his voice. I even remembered his hesitation in telling me.

"Do you remember how you felt in that moment?" I asked, "How terrified you were?" 

"Yeah." 

"That's how I feel. Every single day.”

Looking back on it now, I realize that I wasn't just talking about how I feel when I think my life is in danger. I was also talking about the feeling of fear and anxiety as I begin recounting my story. Fear I'll be rejected, fear I won't be taken seriously. 

A few days later as I began writing this blog post, with that same fear and anxiety, my husband read it and said, “Really? Every single day?” 

My wonderful, loving, perfect husband was doubting my feelings, doubting the validity of my story. 

But it’s not his fault. He simply doesn’t know. And honestly, he will probably never truly understand. And it doesn't do any good to blame him for something he has no idea about. 

But it’s time that we women stop doubting ourselves and just tell our stories. 

Because I’m not being over-dramatic. I’m not over-exaggerating. By the time I began wearing a bra and my hips began to fill out my dresses and jeans, I had men hitting on me. All ages of men, all social classes, all races. And it happened constantly. I don’t mean once a week or twice a month, but every day. 

And it wasn’t isolated to one “type” of people. 

If I wore something deemed “distracting” to school, I would be sent away from the classroom. By female teachers and male teachers alike. So every day I was faced with the decision of whether I wore what I was comfortable wearing, or I wore what other people were comfortable with me wearing. 

From a very young age I began hearing things like, “well, what was she wearing?” or “That outfit says she’s asking for it.”  When I asked men and boys to stop staring at my breasts, I was told I shouldn’t wear such a revealing shirt.

And I fell for it. Like most of us do, I fell into the trap of society which tells me that if I wear a certain thing, then I deserve to be treated a certain way. If I look a certain way, it shows I have no respect for myself and no one else will either. I fell into the trap just like every single one of my friends did. But it didn't stop there. Eventually I could feel the shift. It wasn't about what I wore or how I looked, it was because of who I am - a woman. 

Recently, I came to realize just how trapped I still am in this way of thinking. Despite my battle-cries of feminism, I am still trapped inside this culture that says women can be treated however men feel is appropriate. 

As I grow older, I begin to truly realize how dangerous society is for women. 

It is quite incredible to me how much violence is directed toward women on a regular basis and called normal. Women are sexually harassed every single day, out in the open, in crowds. But it's seen as innocent. Men claim that it is "a compliment" or "flattering."

It's the crude comments. The whistles. The pelvic thrusts in my direction. The "mmhmm"s and the "oo baby"s that greet me around the corner. The kissing noises directed at my backside. The stares. The nods. 

My heart beats faster as "fight or flight" reflexes kick in, my hand clamps my husband's (if I'm lucky enough to have him next to me), I walk faster, I grab for my keys or umbrella, I look down at my phone (into which I have already typed "911") and think would anyone actually come help me?

My reaction may sound ridiculous, but as someone who has heard stories that start with "hey baby" and end with three days unconsciousness in a motel room after being repeatedly raped and beaten by at least six men, my reaction may sound justified.

Cat-calls and pelvic thrusts are not flattering and they are certainly not innocent. They perpetuate the thinking that women can be treated as sexual objects simply because they are women. It makes us less than human, less than worthy of respect and honor.

Allow me to share this portion of a "feelings wheel" to the left. Especially notice the section under "fear" that breaks down "insecure" and "submissive." This is what sexism does. Yes, those other feelings are there - frightened, terrified, overwhelmed.

But for anyone who has been sexually harassed or physically assaulted, it goes further than that. Eventually, living in a society where this kind of open harassment and abuse is accepted and sometimes encouraged, we begin to feel worthless, insignificant, and inadequate. After being harassed every single day since we hit puberty, these feelings are hard to ignore. So we blame ourselves.

And when I am harassed I, because of the society in which I was raised, immediately look down at what I'm wearing when this happens (every single day) and think, "I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt!" or "I'm wearing a long skirt just like every other woman on this train!"

I immediately blame myself. I evaluate myself and make sure it's not something I'm doing/wearing to cause this reaction from men. One (male) friend said, "it's probably because you're blonde." And guess what? I thought, "I would absolutely dye my hair black if it meant I wouldn't be sexually harassed like that all the time." I victim-blame myself! Over and over again we do this to ourselves and to others. And others do it to us.

And it not only leads to fear. It leads to feelings of inferiority, inadequacy, and worthlessness. It leads to violence, depression, and suicide. Cat-calling is not innocent. Whistling at someone is not flattering. It kills.

We are not being overdramatic. We are not exaggerating our exhaustion or our fear. Our stories matter. Our stories are what will break us from the chains of this society which tells us that sexism is something we must simply "get over." The chains of this society are thick. And I wonder at how much effort it takes me, a women with these stories ingrained in my very soul, to break free from these chains. And my heart aches at how much more it will take to break our brothers, who likely have never lived these stories and sometime never even heard them, from these patriarchal chains.

So we must tell our stories. We must tell them. Despite the reactions from society. Over and over again we must tell them without hesitation. Otherwise, our wonderful, perfect, loving, well-intentioned husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons will never know the truth.