This Is My Brain On Sexual Harassment

WARNING: Strong language and content

 

 

I’m angry. 

I’m angry because I was sexually harassed. I’m angry because I blamed myself. I’m angry because my response to my harasser was “Oh, I’m so sorry, it’s not you, it’s me. You see, I’m the one who’s broken. I don’t respond the way ‘normal’ people do. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me. I’m so sorry.”

Yes I’m so sorry that I wore makeup.

I’m so sorry that I cover my gray hair with hair dye.

I’m so sorry that I wore a business suit that actually fits me.

I’m so sorry that my parents decided to straighten my crooked teeth.

I’m so sorry that my eyes are an unusual color and that my cheekbones are high and that my face is arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner.

Yes I’m so sorry, because you know, all these things - my eye color, my face shape, my straightened teeth, the clothes I wear, my hair dye, my makeup – you’re right, I do it all to attract attention, specifically male attention and then I gloat after I turn men down. Ha! Ha! I got him!

I got him? This makes me angry.

What I got after being harassed at a conference I had worn a business suit to present my original work was days in lock down at home afterwards. I didn’t eat. I didn’t shower. I didn’t go to the gym to work out (something that I love to do because it makes me feel so healthy). I certainly didn’t wear makeup. And in fact I didn’t even get out of my pajamas. I barely left my bed as a matter of fact. I felt so bad that I nearly discarded all of my work on Accidental Talismans. I never wanted to go to another conference ever again.

I’m angry because what I got after being harassed at that conference was the idea that my work was irrelevant. That I was irrelevant. All that mattered about me was that I possessed a hole for a man to put an appendage in – that was what I was worth.

What I got after being harassed at that conference was this notion that I had brought my misery on myself because I wore makeup and dyed my hair and wore a business suit that fit my athletic frame. I blamed myself because I thought I had led men on because I was interested in their ideas and wanted to share my own. “How stupid I was,” I thought. “I led them on.” Because I listened and smiled enthusiastically because I got excited about the sharing of ideas. I blamed myself. “How dare I,” I thought. “It’s my fault.” I got excited so they thought I was ‘sexually’ excited. That’s reasonable isn’t it? So it is my fault.

Would it have made a difference though if my teeth were crooked? Would it have made a difference if I hadn’t worn makeup? And please, explain to me what was I supposed to wear at a conference where I am presenting my work? If a pant suit is not appropriate what is? A bag?

I’m angry because I felt so compelled to blame myself. Instead of shutting down my harasser with, “You’re behavior is out of line,” I instead expounded on how I am ‘broken,” that I don’t respond to courting cues like ‘normal’ people. Courting cues like being told that I needed to have a relationship with a man I had known less than 24 hours because I dyed my hair, wore makeup and had the audacity to wear a business suit.

Why on earth did I do that? 

Well actually for the longest time I really did think that there was something wrong with me. You see, I don’t think about sex, at least not when I meet someone for the first time. I don’t judge people based on their outward appearance, I want to listen to what they have to say. I want to hear their ideas and what moves them. I want to know what they are passionate about and where they want to go in their lives. I am completely confused when a person expresses that they want to have sex with me.

For the longest time I thought there was something wrong with me because no one, ever, in my life has ever once wanted to have sex with me as an expression of their love for me as a human being. They have known nothing about me. For example at the conference my harasser had not yet heard my presentation, he had no concept of my ideology. He had no idea that I loved to sing. He had no idea that I was passionate about fitness. That I love to cook and that I make pies. He didn’t even know my occupation or that I had won awards for excellence there. He didn’t care. Because to him I had a hole for him to put an appendage in. That was it. My ideas, my passions, my fears, they didn’t matter. To him, he had the right to be angry that I didn’t want to have sex with him because my hair, my makeup, the clothes that I wore, they had nothing to do with me. Those things were for his pleasure, because I was irrelevant.

There is something very wrong with this, not with me. 

I am angry because I can’t read a women’s fitness magazine without being bombarded with articles about sex. How to please a man in bed. What does this have to do with fitness? It’s not efficient cardio, so what is it doing in a fitness magazine?

I’m angry because the same women’s fitness magazines tell me how to be “bootilicious.” Bootilicious? So I’m not training for myself, to be healthy and strong, to feel the rush of endorphins and enjoy my life. No I’m training to be bootilicious. I’m not on this earth for myself. Because I’m a woman, I’m irrelevant. I am simply a hole for a man to put an appendage in.

And you know, there’s just so many other holes that I have to be the most bootilicious of the bunch.

Because my hair dye, my straight teeth, my makeup, I can’t possibly be doing that for myself. Why on earth would that be for myself? I’m irrelevant after all, so there must be some other reason that I’m doing it. If I am doing it for myself, then surely there must be something wrong with me. If I’m not interested in having sex with a man, then there must be something wrong with me. I’m the one who’s broken. I must be broken because that’s what women are for. To be holes for men to put appendages in.

Oh and holes don’t have feelings. We are just holes, we’re really not supposed to like the appendages. Nothing is for the woman after all. Women are irrelevant. They don’t have feelings, or ideas and women certainly don’t dye their hair or wear makeup for their own pleasure. No, no not at all. It’s for the pleasure of men.

So yes. I’m so sorry. I’m broken.

I’m broken because I’m not interested in having a man I’ve known for less than 24 hours put an appendage inside of my body.

I’m broken because I have original ideas.

I’m broken because I have feelings. Did I mention that I was angry? 

I'm even angrier because when I made the mistake of admitting I was angry to a another man, I was told that I was the one who had to be “nice.”

 "Oh you can’t say that!” the man said.  

You can’t say “No, thank you,” your kindness will be misleading. You can’t say “Fuck off asshole,” because you’ll be hurtful. You can’t say, “I’m not interested,” because clearly, you are. Because you’re a woman and you dye your hair and you wear makeup and you wear clothes that fit you. Because you can’t be doing any of that for yourself because you’re a woman. You’re irrelevant.

I’m a woman so what I wear is not for me; it’s for the pleasure of a man. And what I say, well, I have to be careful because Gods forbid I upset a man. Never mind that I’m upset, that I wasted several days of my life unable to dress myself at all for fear anything I chose would be misconstrued and inappropriate. I’m a woman, what I feel is irrelevant. I’m not supposed to feel anything anyway.

I’m so sorry.

I must broken.

Because I AM angry.

Fuck off asshole. I refuse to be irrelevant.