I am not moved by Kavanaugh’s behavior in this hearing. I watched my attacker act his part out much the same way in court more than 25 years ago: talking out of turn, throwing angry outbursts like fists at ghosts, answering direct questions with indirect, vague and garrulous replies. He squeezed out tears (of anger at being caught) as hot lava-like self-beatings for getting caught. He beseeched the judge to consider how he’d been damaged in all this, how his reputation was tarnished. He even called a witness to say what a horrible person I was, although the witness ended up saying he didn’t know me.
All the while, I sat thinking of what I could have done to have not gotten raped. Thinking of the fact that I would be raped all over again as I told the courtroom, in detail, how my body was put asunder, assaulted, ravaged, torn, bloodied at the hand of the man who sat in the witness chair lying through the very teeth he used to bite through my hair as he pulled it out. I thought of the days I’d gone without eating or drinking anything. The days I showered five or six times in rapid succession. The days I cried till my cheeks were darkened. The days I wanted death more than I wanted life. I would be raped again for the next ten years, every night in my dreams.
My road to recovery has been steep, filled with obstacles and heartbreak, traumatic, isolating, infuriating, saddening, and even enlightening, but I travel it every day as if there is no choice because I HAVE NO CHOICE.
I. AM. NOT. MOVED.