There are many times when words fail to express the totality of the human experience. The truest, deepest emotions often occur in spaces where language cannot go. My abuser wanted me to die. I live and I’m telling. This is just the beginning.
I wear a denim mini skirt in the summer because L.A. is very hot. I’m not trying to be sexy. One day I walked up a staircase as a man walked down.
He had stringy white hair and a white 5 o’clock shadow. He wore a straw hat, a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. I did not like the look of him, but that might be something I’m laying over the memory because of what happened next.
I felt weird, so pulled my skirt snug around my thighs and looked down. He was looking at my bare thighs and deeper, into the center of me.
And in that split second we locked eyes. Continue reading “What Shame Looks Like”