The View from a Drawbridge

Trigger warning: This post is about Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and sexual assault among other things, and may be uncomfortable for some to read. Proceed with caution.

I once had a really traumatic experience at a concert, and it recently occurred to me that the way I was feeling on the inside and the way things appeared to the outside observer were vastly different. Because of this, as usual, the way I was behaving seemed strange to others. I appeared to be the problem. This is so often the case in these situations that I thought it might be enlightening to let people see it from both sides, in hopes that they might be a bit more compassionate and patient with people who are going through similar situations in the future.

So, on this particular evening, I was going to a concert with a friend. While I was really looking forward to the performance, I wasn’t looking forward to the energy it would take to endure the crowd and be out of my comfort zone. I’m autistic. I already have very little energy to spare for such over-stimulation.

My first mistake was anticipating that everything would go well. From my place on the spectrum, I’m starting to realize that I really need to stop doing that. Because then, if things don’t go according to plan, I get rattled, and that makes me upset, and then I start beating myself up for not being able to go with the flow like the rest of the free world. It would be much better for me to set no expectations whatsoever, and take things as they come. But that, too, can make me nervous, because my spot on the spectrum does not allow for thinking on the fly, so I tend to plan for as many contingencies as possible. But of course I assume one scenario will be the most likely. So I’m in this constant tug of war. To expect or not to expect? That is the question.

People have absolutely no idea the amount of pressure that is placed on neurodivergent people to be “normal.” This, of course, sets us up for failure, because by definition, we’ll never fit your definition of “normal.” We feel that pressure our entire lives, and since we fail to meet society’s standards, we become really adept at joining in on the emotional slug-fest, in hopes that maybe one more critical push will “fix” things. Of course, that only makes things worse, because if your inner voice is criticizing you, there’s really nowhere to hide, is there?

That, right there, is a boatload of inner turmoil, and we haven’t even gotten to our seats yet. But to the outside observer, I probably seem fine. (Well, I’m giving off “weird energy” as is common with many autistics, and I’m not making eye contact, but other than that, I seem fine.)

So, we get to our seats. They’re way, waaaay up toward the last rows, but that’s okay. The majority of my concert experiences have been up there. The music sounds just as good.

We’re early, as being late adds additional stress. In an attempt to avoid fidgeting, I bury myself in my cellphone. That way I can block out a lot of the sensory overload going on around me. I can stay in my own little world for a while longer.

Then the lights go down and it gets exciting. I settle in for that great experience I envisioned in my head. The enthusiastic people in the front row of the balcony stand up and dance. All well and good. It’s a happy occasion.

But of course, that means that everyone behind them must stand up, too, whether they like it or not, in order to see the stage. Again, fine and dandy. To a point. But after 2 or 3 songs, my back is killing me, and I have to sit down.

The people in the front row seem to be intent on standing for the whole concert. It doesn’t occur to them that not all the people behind them are willing or able to do that. They don’t care.

So I sit down. And when I do, the back of my head bumps into the crotch of the man standing behind me. My first thought is, of course, how disgusting that is. My next is, oops, accident. I should apologize. But how had that even happened, unless the guy was thrusting his crotch over my seat back? But before I could even figure out how to react, the guy leans down and says, “That’s what you get for sitting in front of me.”

That’s what I get? I don’t even turn around, because what does that even mean? Is he saying, “Sorry about that. I’m a big fat guy, and that was bound to happen”? Or is he saying, “I’m a creepy pervert and you drew the short straw”? Suddenly, all my focus narrows down to about a 3 foot radius. The concert, for me, is gone.

I was raised to try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Often to my detriment. So I assume it was an accident and a ham-handed apology (and since it was what “I get”, it was one that required no reciprocal apology on my part), and I lean forward in my seat and try really hard not to concentrate on how creepy-crawly the back of my head now feels.

So now I’m in this deep valley of humanity, feeling really uncomfortable, but trying to justify it. And to make matters worse, I can’t see a thing other than people’s backsides. I realize that I’m going to miss a lot of the performance this way, and this particular singer puts on an incredibly visual show.

So the disappointment sets in. Clearly, things aren’t going to plan. Everyone around me is having a great time. And here I am, down in this valley of confusion, back pain, disappointment, and isolation. And there is this creepy energy looming behind me.

But yeah, from the outside, I’m just sitting down there, while everyone else is dancing. Kind of strange, but no big deal. But I’m feeling emotional. So, in order to keep it together, I figure, well, if this is how it has to be, I can at least look at my phone and escape. So that’s what I do.

Now, mind you, everyone else is several feet above my lap, and they are focused on the stage. But my friend looks down and tells me I shouldn’t look at my phone, because the light is distracting. He goes to take my phone out of my hand to show me how to at least put it in night mode.

That feels infantilizing to me. (“Honey, stop waving your nuk-nuk around in public. You might get your spittle on these nice people.”) And that’s when I start to lose it.

This is not the first time my friend (and half the free world) has pointed out how I “should” think, behave, or feel, and when that happens, what I feel is that there’s a big ol’ spotlight aimed at me, and instead of the batman logo on it, it says “freak”, for the whole world to see. And for God’s sake, what harm am I doing? I’m way down below everyone. They’re looking at the stage. Am I really “misbehaving” so badly that it’s worth publicly embarrassing me?

Now I’m pissed, and yank my phone back. Of course my friend is shocked. From his perspective, all he was trying to do was help me. But help me what? Be normal? That ship has sailed. In fact, I don’t think that ship has ever had a home port in the first place.

So now, I’m missing the concert, wondering if I’m sitting in front of a pervert, knowing based on past experience that my friend now thinks I’m overreacting and being childish, beating myself up because I’ve probably hurt his feelings, and feeling profoundly unsupported and misunderstood as per usual. I start to get weepy. The outside observer is probably thinking, by now, “WTF is her problem?”

I’m thinking, “Oh, God, don’t have a meltdown in front of all these people. Don’t. They’ll think you’re crazy.” I slump down into my seat to avoid being seen.

And there’s the guy’s crotch again. Again! Like he had been waiting for me the whole time.

But that’s when the second-guessing that every female is taught to do from birth kicks in. Did that really happen? Am I over-reacting? Because who does that? (But that’s what perverts count on, isn’t it? The second-guessing.) When enough people tell you you’re a drama queen, or you’re being hysterical, or making too much of things, you start to wonder if they’re right and you’re wrong. But what are the odds that that would happen twice?

Okay, this is no accident. This is intentional. But what can I do about it? If I tell security, it will be my word against his and nothing will happen. If I cause a scene, people will think I’m unhinged. If I tell my friend, well, he already thinks I’m overreacting to things, and in situations where I’ve criticized a someone in the past, he has always defended the stranger, leading me to wonder if he thinks I have even one rational bone in my body, so no help there. I am on my own. Me versus a guy with evil intent who is twice my size.

Perhaps my thought process seems overly dramatic or childish to the outside observer. It wouldn’t be the first time I have been accused of such things. But if you are burned by a cigarette, and before it gets a chance to heal, someone else burns you in the exact same place, and then someone else, and so on, for decades, it gets to the point where it hurts if anyone even breathes on that spot.

What was being breathed on at that moment was the old familiar feeling of being abused, and knowing that no one will defend me. No one has my back. No one will stick up for me. No one will ever be my “ride or die”. There has never been someone who has loved and trusted me to the extent that they’d instinctively jump to my defense, no questions asked, knowing without a doubt that I’m a good person and have legitimate reasons for every one of my emotions. Not in my world.

And that’s always been so weird for me, because if, for example, I was at a bar with a friend, and I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, that friend was in the throes of a bar fight, I would immediately jump on the back of his opponent and start gouging his eyes out. It would be like muscle memory. Don’t mess with someone I love.

I wouldn’t stop and think, “Hmmmm. I wonder if my friend might be at fault here, or perhaps he started this fight without first knowing all the facts and evaluating them rationally. Let’s let him continue to get punched in the face until I’ve gotten more information and can draw an appropriate conclusion.” No way. I’d wade right in there and be knocking heads first and foremost. Judgment can come later.

Fortunately, I don’t go to bars. And I’ve never associated with people who get themselves into violent situations. But here’s an even milder example: If a friend described a scenario where they were being bullied by someone, even if I didn’t interpret the situation in the same way, I’d be telling said bully, “You are making my friend uncomfortable. That’s not okay. Kindly back off. In fact, to be perfectly clear, I insist.”

I wish I had a friend like me. I’d feel safe. I’d feel like that person would always have my back, even if, ultimately, they didn’t always agree with me. I know people who have that kind of support. If you have that kind of relationship, cling to it with both hands. It’s more precious than gold.

So, anyway, there I am, down in a valley, disappointed about not seeing the concert, being told by the one person there who should know me that I should behave differently, and with a definite pervert behind me. The cavalry is not going to come. And I’m getting increasingly angry. I am sick of being abused.

Men don’t realize how often women get groped in their lifetimes. What gives men the idea that they have a right to touch someone else without their permission? I’ve had total strangers stroke my hair, grab my behind, breasts, thighs, and crotch. In junior high school, a boy actually stuck his finger in my mouth and rubbed my gums. I’m still repulsed when I think about that. Someone forced an extremely unwanted kiss on me in high school and it actually made me vomit. And then of course there’s the sexual abuse by my stepfather.

All of that does not just go away. We carry these things. They accumulate. So when some “well-meaning” man places his hand on a woman’s shoulder and she “overreacts”, it’s because it’s not only inappropriate, but it’s also made 1000 times worse by all the other times in her life she’s been manhandled. So don’t do it. And don’t let anyone else do it, either.

Finally, everyone sits down, and I can see the stage. I try to concentrate on that. Because I don’t want to disappoint my friend. Heavens no. We women are raised to put everyone else first, aren’t we? It’s bad enough I’ve got tears running down my face, and I’m hoping nobody else notices, but I’m certainly not going to say, “Either you punch out the guy behind me or we have to go.” Even the nosebleed seats aren’t cheap these days.

So I watch the concert. I even try to enjoy it. And it is a great concert, so it would have been nice to enjoy it without any other thought. At one point, he sang one of his most popular songs, and everyone is on their feet again, including me. Unfortunately, my back, on this night, has relegated me to a two-song maximum. After that I have to sit down. And that’s when it happens.

The guy behind me rubs his crotch back and forth against my head three times. There was no denying it. I have been sexually assaulted. The rage inside me is now so all-encompassing that all I can see is bright white light. My ears are ringing. I’m afraid I’ m going to do something that will get me banned from the venue for life, so instead, I grab my friend and whisper-shout in his ear, “The guy behind me keeps grinding his crotch against the back of my head, and if he does it one more time, I’m going to punch him in the throat.”

My friend blinks at me. Because of course he had no idea what had been going on. Why would he know? Why would he even guess? This is not normal. And I hadn’t said a word. But his response once I tell him is exactly why I hadn’t told him. He says, “Do you want to change seats with me?”

We changed seats. But now I’m feeling more alone than ever. Because, that’s it? That’s all? I mean, yes, from his perspective, and perhaps from the outside, problem solved. No more of that will be happening.

But within me, I’m thinking, “I’ve just been sexually assaulted. Again. And no one came to my rescue. Again. It’s just getting swept under the carpet and the guy will get away with it. Again.” If a friend told me that had just happened, I’d be climbing over the seat back in a flash and have both hands on the guy’s throat, and he’d be re-evaluating his life choices. I might not be strong enough or big enough to fight him, but adrenaline would be on my side, and I’d definitely be publicly humiliating him. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but the guy would think twice.

I spend the rest of the concert in hyper-vigilant mode. Now, in the past, I’ve been told that when I’m in that mode, it looks like I’m scared. But I’m not feeling fear. I’m prepared. I’m ready, sucker. Just try me. You’ve come at me in the past, and you’ll most likely come at me again, but I won’t go quietly. Because I wasn’t lying. My fist was balled up, and I really would punch him in the throat if he touched me again.

But it was all for naught. What my friend knew, but I didn’t, was that when the pervert saw me whisper-shouting in a man’s ear and we switched seats, the guy left the concert. He flat out left and never came back. I don’t know if that’s because he didn’t expect me to out him and now he was worried that my friend would jump him, or if he heard my promise of a punch in the throat, but either way, he was gone. My friend thought I had seen him leave. I wish I had, so I could have relaxed a bit. But that’s neither here nor there.

So, at the end of the concert, the lights come up, and everyone around me started filing out, with euphoric post-concert looks on their faces. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with a puffy, tear-streaked face, blowing my nose on my sleeve. If anyone saw, they’d have been awfully confused. Why is this grown woman boo-hooing at a concert? They didn’t know that I was not at a concert. I was at the aftermath of a crime scene. They weren’t there, so they judged my reaction. They had no idea the depth of the turmoil I was in.

As my friend drove me home, I tried to explain what had happened, and he listened sympathetically, but of course he can’t relate to being in a world where you are the prey and you’re surrounded by potential predators. I’m pretty sure he has never been hunted, or if he has been, he’s never been caught.  

So after a certain point, I just stop trying to explain. Once I get home, I head straight to the shower, and try desperately to wash that crawly feeling off the back of my head. And for a week afterward, I have nightmares.

Welcome to my side of the story. Are you having fun? Do my reactions seem as extreme now? Before you dismiss someone as being hysterical, remember that you have no idea what that person has been through.

My friend sent me a really kind note the next day. It was a really nice gesture, and proof that he really does try much more than the average person, and that’s why I love him as much as I do. But in essence it relayed to me that he was confused. I carried that note around with me for a few weeks, trying to figure out how to reply in a way that he’d understand, but ultimately, I decided that it was an impossible task, and I gave up on it, other than to thank him for the note. We’ve never spoken of it again, from that day to this.

He probably thinks I’m over it. He may even have forgotten all about it. But I was sexually assaulted that night. No, there were no bruises. I wasn’t bleeding. There was no reason to fear an STD or a pregnancy. All there is, to this day, is the certainty that the pervert wouldn’t have been arrested, even if he had been caught on camera. It’s a certainty that every woman understands on some level.

My body was violated. It was used, against my will and at my expense, for someone else’s sexual gratification. And a huge part of that sexual gratification for that total stranger was the pleasure of proving to me I was weak and powerless, and that his potential for violence was stronger. I was shown, once again, that I have no control and no rights, and anyone who wants to come along and do whatever they want to me and my body will most likely get away with it. Very few men have to sit with that knowledge. While some may understand it intellectually, they’ll never comprehend it emotionally.

So, yeah, CPTSD. The more trauma you have experienced in life, the worse the symptoms are. And the worse the symptoms are, the more irrational your reactions appear to the outside world. And the more irrational your reactions appear, the more you are stigmatized by society. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

Just because someone appears to be reacting to a situation in a way that is incomprehensible to you, that does not necessarily mean that their reaction is not valid. You don’t know the whole story or the back story. And, too, you are not the final authority, or in fact any authority whatsoever, on what is fitting behavior or a fitting reaction for anyone else you encounter.

Stand up for the people you care about. Without question. And make sure they know they can count on that. Because there are some sick and twisted people in this world, and no one should have to face them alone. I hope and pray that crotch man runs into someone who is able to put a stop to his disgusting behavior, once and for all, before he finds too many more victims.