And the Water Was Everywhere by Lauren Becker
“People who are stalked usually know their stalkers”
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On July 12, 2012, I fled my home. Someone was in it when I was not. He let me know he was there and could be when he wanted. Regardless of locks, alarm systems, watchful neighbors. I know that he was close to hurting me. I know this like I know the taste of salt.
In December of 2012, The Rumpus published my essay, Safety. It is an account of the nearly two years I was stalked. I thought it would be healing to write about it. I was safe. I live in a fortress. And I thought I could write about it and make sense of it, like I do with fiction. It made things worse. When it was published, it made things worse. When I read it at an event commemorating Women’s History Month, it made things worse.
Post-traumatic stress is not stress. It is remembering, re-living, recalling everything you did wrong, and, mostly, expecting the same thing to happen again. Or worse.
People who are stalked usually know their stalkers, who are often exes. I was asked many times, by police and others, if I thought it was an ex-boyfriend. I know it was not. Mostly because the only one I could fathom would do anything like that was far too apathetic and we still had an on-again, mostly off-again relationship, by mutual agreement, and, toward the end, he moved to another country. It also seems like if it were someone I know, he would want me to know in some way. There would be a purpose. This was someone whose purpose was to make me and other people think I was crazy. This person is a sociopath, and though I’ve dated plenty of jerks, I have pretty good intuition and tend to steer very clear of sociopaths.
I don’t think I know this person, and that is one of the things that keeps the post-traumatic stress active. He might see me every day. He might be the guy standing behind me at Trader Joe’s. He might be reading this and getting off on the fact that he still gets to me. And if you are, let me say to you that I hate me more than you for letting those things happen, which makes me more angry than scared. Let me say that what scares me is that I would kill you in a second if given the chance.
An ex-cop told me to get a gun. I liked the idea of going to a shooting range. I think I would be a pretty good shot. The main reason I will not get a gun is the pure, cold feeling I had when I replied that if I had a gun, I would kill him. I would shoot him in the heart or in the head, but I would not be aiming at kneecaps. And that makes me a dangerous person. And the post-traumatic stress makes me more likely to use that gun on anyone, even myself.
People always ask why I didn’t get a hidden camera. To which I answer I don’t know. I researched them. I almost bought one. I tried nearly everything but that. By the time I left, I had duct-taped my windows shut, put carpet tacks along the top of the balcony, and pushed furniture in front of all possible entrances. It’s not true that I don’t know why I didn’t get one. I did not want to see him in my apartment. I did not want to see what he did when he was there. And I know he would have found it anyways. And that could have made things much worse.
A friend suggested that, since the guy wasn’t taking anything, he might have left his own hidden camera. I looked a little. I never would have found it. I imagine people seeing YouTube videos of me getting out of the shower or sitting up in bed late at night, in my clothes and shoes, clutching pepper spray and my phone. There are people who like that sort of thing even more.
I was reminded of this one night, shortly after my move. I had met some friends for a drink. They stayed and I left, assuring them I would be fine walking a few blocks down a well-lit street. I walked about a half-block before I came across two guys hanging out by a car, passenger door open. They were directly under a streetlight. One of them said, “You look very beautiful tonight.” I said “Thank you,” and kept walking. I am good at not escalating, and he had not done anything threatening. His friend called after me, “Come back here and let me look at you.” I said “Sorry, I’m in a hurry. Have a good night.” The guy who did not see me then said, “You look so good I was going to kidnap and rape you.”
I walked faster. I got to my car. I got in and locked the doors. I was indignant. Then I was angry. Then I was frightened. Then I was paralyzed. Then I drove home. Then I locked my $500 lock, got into bed in my clothes and shoes, and stayed awake another night.
There is a lot to my story that speaks to issues of men and women and power and violence. But this is my story, and those are bigger issues than I can or want to address here.
A subset of those bigger issues is the idea that attractiveness somehow encourages violence against women by men, or makes it more likely. As far as the men's comments about how I looked or assumptions that someone was obsessed with me because they found me attractive, all I can say is that those guys didn’t think I was beautiful. They thought I was vulnerable. And I don’t believe that the person who came into my home was particularly interested in how I looked, either. But it affected me, and one thing that I did, unconsciously at first, at least, is I ate. I ate to self-soothe, I ate as punishment, I ate from fear, I ate from loneliness, and, I suspect, I ate to become less visible to men. I’m still trying to get some control over it. And I’ve gained weight and I feel less attractive, but it hasn’t made any difference. Because it doesn’t. Not in general, and not to my circumstances.
Despite the extra pounds, I’m doing okay. I’ve never been a great sleeper, and I’m still not. I am sensitive to sounds. I think about leaving the area.
People can be thoughtless. Even friends. Stalking is the only violent crime I can think of that is an acceptable subject of joking. Stalking is not about someone being interested in you. The National Center for Victims of Crime describes stalking as a course of conduct directed at a specific person that would cause a reasonable person to feel fear.
I am a reasonable person. I felt fear. I have lost friends who did not believe me, did not help me, will not let me talk, tell jokes about stalking in my presence, are insensitive about how this has changed me. I felt alone then, and I often feel alone, still.
I wrote this blog post just after the move. I think of it often. It reminds me to not be complacent. It reminds me of my survival instinct. It reminds me to take care of myself. If nothing else, I hope that anyone reading remembers to do the same.
It's time. I am out of the old place completely. So I'm allowed. The meltdown can begin. The meltdown has begun. I packed and loaded and cleaned for the last time and gave back the keys and came home to the home I live in now. And I took some stuff out of the car, into my mostly unpacked new place, but I didn't finish. I swam.
I swam some laps, then floated on my back. I heard my breath and my heart beating. Everything was sound. And the water held me up. And my breath grew irregular. And the water was everywhere.
I almost drowned once. I fought the waves, then listened to the sounds that came underwater, saw sand and shells and light. It was so still. I was enraptured, maybe. I don't know how long I was under, but the ocean threw me on the beach. I was a little disappointed, maybe.
I've always loved the water. Since we went to the pool when I was little and my dad threw pennies down in the deep end for me to dive for. Since we played in the creek by our house, trying to catch minnows and sliding on mossy rocks. Since I went in the ocean when I was little. I don't know how old I was. I wish I did. It was momentous, I think.
That feeling of floating today. It's the first time I've felt my feet off the ground in a long time. The first time I've felt held or supported or something in a long time.
I have been terrorized, I guess. I have been scared for a long time. I saw a picture of me taken a few weeks ago. I looked like someone had punched me in both eyes. Bruised down to my cheeks. It will take awhile for these to fade.
I went through this mostly alone. I go through a lot alone. I don't seem to be able to make anything stick. People I thought were friends were not around. People who live other places seemed to care more. I am best liked by people who don't know me.
That's where it starts. When the doing is over and the living starts again. When the skin breaks, the muscles unclench. When there is water on your face and beneath you and inside you and you don't think it's ever going to stop. And you tell yourself it will. And you tell yourself you want someone else to tell you these things. And you tell yourself they won't. And you remind yourself never to ask for anything again unless you know the answer will be yes. Tie it on your finger. Make a note.
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Lauren Becker is editor of Corium Magazine. Her collection of short fiction is forthcoming from Curbside Splendor in Spring of 2014. She still lives in Oakland, California.
If you liked this essay by Lauren Becker, you might also enjoy her piece of flash fiction on Nailed Magazine entitled "Five Ways," which can be read here.