Vernie Lynn DeMille

On May 10, 2019 I was sexually assaulted.

 

I’ve been sitting with the bitter taste of those words on my tongue for the past 5 months, thinking about it, occasionally fighting paranoia as I drive to work, tensing my shoulders and looking around me as I drive on I-15 from Bangeter to 123rd, asking myself “why” multiple times, revisiting my own actions and wondering “how did I let that happen?”

 

I realized something today as those questions resurfaced while I sat on a haystack in the dark barn, the comfortable smell of goats, alfalfa hay, and fall frost wrapped around me as I watched the sun come up over the peaks of the Wasatch Mountains to the East. That kind of thinking is part of rape culture. 

 

Everytime I go over the events in my head and I try to minimize what happened to me, everytime I tell myself “it’s not a big deal, he didn’t actually rape me,” “don’t make a big deal out of it, you didn’t really get hurt,” I am perpetuating the minimization and trivialization of sexual assault. I am reinforcing the idea that somehow my own bodily autonomy isn’t important, because an attack against that was somehow “less than” another kind of attack. Because…what? A little bit of assault is okay? A little bit of being threatened is acceptable?

 

I worked through my emotions after the assault the way I work through all my emotions…with words on a page. 

 

You see, I just couldn’t make it make sense. There had to be some kind of reason. I thought that if I could find a reason I would feel like I had a little more control over something I had no control over. But there were no reasons. I was driving to work, I was followed, I was assaulted, and my body shook through 6 hours of massages while I worked my shift, because after all, it wasn’t “that bad” so why should I ask for someone to cover for me? 

 

It sent me into a tailspin that impacted a lot of things. My perceptions of my husband, my perceptions of friends, my view of men altogether, my self-esteem, my intentions, the color of my damn lipstick, the cut of my shirts, my view of myself, carefully crafted for the last four and a half decades. Everything came into question. 

 

This is the devastation of sexual assault. It’s not equivalent to “rough sex”, it’s not the same as “unwanted attention,” sexual assault is an attack on both the psyche and the body of the individual. It’s a dismissal of the individuality, personality, and the personhood of the victim, turning them into a thing to be used instead of a human being with inherent value. My attacker didn’t manage to get inside my body, but he got into my mind and he got into my heart. His assault on my body made me question my own worth, it made me afraid to be myself, because hadn’t my “self” been attacked?  

 

I’ve been afraid to be myself for months. And I think that’s what I hate the most: he made me afraid. Because I couldn’t move. In those few moments when he had me held in an embrace I couldn’t escape I’m not sure it would have mattered if he’d been weak because I was so afraid I couldn’t even move. 

 

Today I want to take back my courage. Today I want to be myself again. Today I want to accept responsibility for the part I play in perpetuating rape culture in my own head. Today I want to be honest, true, and real instead of “nice.”  I want to tell my daughter that I don’t care if she’s nice, she can be as mean as she needs to be if someone she doesn’t want to touch her lays hands on her.  

 

Today I want to share the poem I wrote a few days after the assault. It’s not a “nice” poem. It’s not neat, it doesn’t circle back to hope or faith or courage. This poem is real. This is me in devastation. This is me questioning everything about my life. This poem is me as a victim. 

 

But sharing myself this way? This is me refusing to be a victim anymore. 

 

Just a Taste

By Vernie Lynn DeMille

An overweight

Middle-aged

Mother of four:

My CV speaks for itself

From my wrinkles, rolls,

And over large breasts.

I do not expect

Nor do I garner

The glances of men

Who look for beauty.

I can not see beauty

In my eyes, hair, lips, or legs.

It is only in what I do,

With weak hands

That will never be enough.

Beauty is Not who I am 

in stillness.

“Pretty is as pretty does,”

Words meant to bring

A girl-child to kindness,

Taught me early to earn

My admiration.

But never keep it.

But do I look nice?

I want to know.

“If you feel pretty you’ll look pretty.”

A non-answer

To teach confidence,

I think. 

But how can I understand

Words I never knew?

Words never spoken

To or about myself?

I model my life 

on your love

And work on myself,

To add and subtract

Until you speak the words

I wish were there.

“Beauty doesn’t matter.”

I hear instead.

Except in its absence

I feel my lack. 

And long for what I cannot have

Without scalpel, suction, and stitches.

And still

Four decades on

I long to feel what 

Is beyond my grasp. 

What I would not recognize

If I saw it

And couldn’t taste

If it was on my tongue.

My husband,

God bless him,

Loves me.

And I’m afraid it’s 

Compassion,

Not passion,

That binds him,

Heart and body

Beside me.

His goodness,

Not mine,

That defines his affection.

He had a list when we met

And I fit the requirements,

Every qualification but one.

The one I cannot change.

The DNA that fills my cells.

He tells me I’m beautiful now

But I cannot hear,

I cannot see,

I cannot FEEL

My fingertips 

with my own fingertips

And see my soul

As he does.

So it surprises me.

It shocks me stupid,

Unable to move,

No fight or flight

Just frozen fear,

When a man I do not know

Follows me.

From the freeway,

Blowing kisses.

To my work,

Parking beside me

And motions me to him.

An accent too thick

To understand,

But it sounds like

“Come, hug me.”

It makes no sense.

I can’t make it make sense. 

“Do I know you?” I ask,

A stupid question.

I know I don’t know him,

But I don’t want to offend.

“Where are you from? 

Do I know you from somewhere?*

He nods “I am from Poland,”

He says and motions me again.

“Come here.”

I don’t move my feet,

To obey or flee.

He moves to me instead,

And wraps his arms around me.

Larger than I am,

Taller

Thicker

His arms tight

And I push against a chest

I cannot move. 

He breathes deep

His face in my hair,

And I smell that he 

Is clean.

What a thought.

In some recess of my mind

There’s time to think

“How can he not smell bad?”

While I’m frozen

And afraid.

He hums,

A rumbling sound

In a huge chest,

And leans his head to my neck.

His hands roam my back

From hips to shoulders

And he opens his mouth on my neck

And tastes my skin.

I apologize.

APOLOGIZE.

As if it would be bad to upset him.

“I’m sorry,

I’m late for work. Excuse me.”

He smiles,

I see it as I turn away, 

I can’t look at him again.

I’m trembling inside.

I have to use my inhaler

To get to the door.

I don’t look back.

I ask the receptionist,

“Is he still there?

Did you see him?”

“See who?”

My world is upside down

But no one saw.

I stood frozen

While someone I didn’t know

Touched me,

Licked me,

Made me small.

And afraid. 

And I want to go backwards,

And unfreeze my brain,

Run fast and far,

Bring my knee up just a few inches

And show him that he’s

Vulnerable too.

But I can’t,

And I’m afraid.

Because now I know

Just how weak I am.

And I’ve had just a taste

Of how it feels

When someone thinks

I’m desirable, or easy, or simply convenient.

And I’d rather be ugly.

 

 

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