Shame

It Threads Deep

Photograph by K. Boivin

Warning; the following contains descriptions of sexual assault.

The man answered the door of the first-floor apartment wearing nothing but a black t-shirt and white socks. No pants or underwear. His... endowment was in full view below the hem of his shirt, and he was either generously furnished or he’d been manipulating things before I arrived. Not a visual I’m pleased to be carrying in my head.

Trying to compose myself, I kept my eyes on his face as I said, “You asked me to give you an estimate to replace your countertop?”

“Thanks, it’s right this way.” He turned and started across the living room. “Come in.”

I should have walked away. All these years later, I still feel discomfort and shame about my complaisance that day, my unwillingness to rock the boat, to hold the man to account, even if only by withdrawing my passive support, which would have been an acknowledgment of his inappropriate behavior. The man didn’t physically assault me that day, but he took advantage of my innocence, and you can carry for a lifetime the shame of a single moment’s failure to stand up for yourself, to grasp quickly enough that you’re being exploited or preyed upon, to... okay, I’m just going to say it; to be a man. (I don’t subscribe to this kind of genderizing now, but it’s the conditioning that contributed to my shame.)

I was twenty years old at the time, quiet, inexperienced in the ways of the deviousness of adults. I wanted to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. If he enjoyed walking around his house in the nude, that was not my concern. My concern was this: What if he wasn’t a pervert, only eccentric, and I hurt his feelings by treating him like a threat?

I decided to ignore his state of dress and followed him into the kitchen.

I looked at the countertop, took some measurements, and copied them into my notebook.

“Now can you look at a problem in the bedroom?” he asked. (I know, I know.)

I followed him down a short hallway and into the bedroom. Standing by the bed, he put one foot up on the edge of the mattress and began slowly stroking himself as he explained that the lamps and overhead light had been flickering on and off.

“That’s an electrical thing. I don’t do that.” If I wasn’t sure of his motives before, I was now. I left the room and headed for the front door, but he caught up to me in the living room, and as I prepared to say goodbye—a civility I still felt obligated to offer—he gestured toward the TV.

“Would you like to watch some porn with me?”

“No thanks.”

“I’m not going to touch, I just like to watch.” He meant me, not the TV.

“I’m not into that sort of thing,” I said.

Why was I not far away already? I think it’s this particular point in the visit, standing there in the living room with him, still not acknowledging his offense, that I feel the most ashamed of, because I knew now that something was very wrong, and yet I still prioritized his feelings over my own needs. What the hell, Don? What’s it gonna take to stop being so fucking polite? I carried on pretending I was the contractor and he was the client. I told him I would put together a quote for the countertop and get back to him. I think I really meant it, too. I shook his hand and left (yes, I was very much aware afterward that I had shaken that hand).

I was a little shell-shocked, but not really mad; not yet, anyway. It took me a day or two to grasp that he had never intended to hire me; that was just a ploy to get me into his house (come to think of it, it only occurs to me now that he lived in a rental unit in an apartment house that I doubt he owned; it wouldn’t have been his responsibility to arrange for home repairs!) Then I got angry. Really angry.

This guy was a frequent customer at the service station where I supplemented my carpenter’s income by pumping gas in the evenings and on weekends. I had first met him one winter day when the lot was especially icy. He pulled his car up to the gas pumps, and I, rushing around as usual, always aiming to please, never wanting anyone to wait too long, came sliding alongside his car on my flat-soled boots, coming to a stop next to the driver’s-side door. He had his window rolled down, and laughed aloud at my unexpectedly comic arrival. After that, we chatted whenever he came in for gas, just small talk, lasting only as long as it took to fill up his tank. He told me he was the manager of a nursing home in town. When he found out I was a carpenter, he asked if I could repair a “rotted countertop” at his house, and I readily agreed. I really wanted to work for myself and this would have been one of my first independent side jobs.

And honestly, that’s what really pissed me off; that he’d befriended me, then lied and tricked me. I was angry and disappointed with myself as well, for falling for it, for being so naïve and weak-minded, but I only realized that later. I was humiliated that I fell for a scammer and didn’t take better care of myself, and though I can understand and forgive myself now, that doesn’t mean strands of shame don’t thread deep.

In the weeks following the incident, my anger simmered, and the next time the man pulled up to the pumps for gas, I walked over to his car window and spit out, “Did you get your fucking countertop fixed yet?” Then I walked away and left him sitting there, but not before I saw the expression on his face; surprised, disconcerted, but not guilty. I waited inside the glass-windowed station office until he grasped that he wasn’t getting any fuel that night and drove slowly away. I never saw him again.

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For the record, this is not the only time I’ve been the victim of sexual assault. It’s just the one that is easier to tell. The other incident was also at the hands of an older man professionally employed in the wellness industry—a psychiatrist. The circumstances were similar; I was vulnerable—more vulnerable this time because I had just lost my job and was struggling to support a wife and new baby—and he told me he could help me, soothed my anxiety in order to gain my trust, then began the verbal and emotional manipulations meant to get me to do things I didn’t want to do. When he finally understood that I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, his tone changed and he criticized and degraded me until I was brought to tears. The shame of my helplessness in the face of these two incidents runs deep, and probably defines me in some profound ways.

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I have made myself vulnerable by telling this story and I am asking my readers to please not offer advice or tell me how I should think or feel. Empathy and understanding are welcomed but please remember that sharing our stories is how many of us process and heal. A listening ear is the best therapy.

Thanks for reading and for being here. 🙏💚

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