OCTOBER 25, 2021
The worst thing a person can do to you after they’ve hurt you is let you live.
That’s how you truly and unmistakably destroy another human being.
I say this with some authority on the matter. While many might reason that the greatest cruelty of all would be to offer hope to someone who clearly has none, I would instead argue that the gift of survival after unspeakable trauma is a much more excruciating fortune.
There’s nothing romantic, nothing decidedly empowering about becoming a survivor. Of course, television has played a significant role in our cultural perception of survivors as strong, unbeatable, and almost divine pillars of integrity. We fawn over the image of the bald child who’s receiving their last dose of chemotherapy. We praise the sight of the blood-soaked high-schooler who crawled across a pile of dead classmates and made their way to safety.
Naturally, there’s an audience for anything and everything. People will always be drawn to the idea of someone succeeding and becoming something truly glorious after they’ve been ravaged, defiled, very nearly obliterated. But I can assure you there’s nothing magnificent or outstanding about it. It is no rare, distinguished gift to survive tragedy, disaster, misfortune.
Nobody talks about the quiet, unbearable moments when the cameras aren’t rolling, when the interviewers aren’t shoving microphones in your face and asking you, “What does it feel like?” Nobody mentions the quiet desperation of those who have survived—the quiet desperation to feel human, to connect with others, to be anonymous once more.
When the woman who has been assaulted finally takes her own life after existing in misery, in agonizing desolation for nearly five months, we don’t praise her. We don’t refer to her now as the divine being we once called her. We certainly don’t think of her as “brave.” Instead, we say things like: “What a pity,” “Not surprised,” or, “She’s in a better place now.”
There’s nothing glorious or wonderful about being a survivor. Those that like to hurt other people know this for a fact. Perhaps that’s why they go out of their way to cause heartache, despair. Maybe they get their kicks out of knowing that someone will survive their desecration and will be forever marked by what they’ve done—permanently stained.
I’ve learned that if you want someone to truly suffer, let them live.
OCTOBER 11, 2021
I sit in my car while it idles in the grocery store parking lot.
I lean over the passenger seat, opening a plastic bag filled with the various parts to build a small model airplane made from balsa wood.
A woman’s voice speaks to me over the car radio.
“Now. Repeat after me,” the voice tells me. “I am a kind, compassionate, and caring person.”
I begin snapping the paper-thin wooden pieces in half until they’re a fine assortment of needle-thin slivers.
“I am a kind, compassionate, and caring person,” I say.
“People like me,” the woman says.
I can’t help but laugh at myself. The muscles in my throat flex as I swallow hard. The words—too difficult for me to repeat.
“People like…”
But I cannot finish the sentence.
“People are drawn to me because I am worthy of the same kindness and compassion,” the woman’s voice tells me.
I sense my cheeks heating red. “People are drawn to me because I am worthy of the same kindness and compassion.”
I hold one of the wooden needles I’ve fashioned from the model airplane set and I guide the tip beneath a pinch of skin along my wrist.
“Very good,” the woman says as I stab myself. “Of course, these things can be very difficult to remember when we’re faced with the anxiety of meeting and connecting with other people. In social settings, be mindful to remain ‘present.’ Be in your body. You have the magnificent power to draw people in and have them connect with you. Only you have that ability.”
I pick up another shaving of balsa wood and I inspect my hand for my next penance.
“Look in the mirror and practice meeting a new person and connecting with them,” the woman directs.
I decide on my open palm. I stab myself there.
“Remember the three important steps to building a connection. Eye contact. Firm handshake. Name. Repeat after me: Hi. My name is (blank).”
I press the splinter along the surface of my hand until it’s buried beneath the skin. My eyes water at the pain.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Jillian.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” the woman on the recording says.
“It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Very good,” she says. “Now. Repeat it again. Only this time, at the end, say a little something about yourself.”
I lower the mirror above the steering wheel. At first, I’m hesitant to face my likeness. After much resistance, my reflection meets my gaze.
I see all color drain from my face.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Jillian. And I’m terrified of you.”
* * *
“That’s nice,” the pockmarked Assistant Store Manager tells me as soon as I’ve introduced myself. “This way.”
He clears his throat, adjusting the square-shaped eyeglasses balancing on the tip of his pimple-dotted nose.
I’m a deer in headlights.
I carry a leather almond-colored briefcase with a golden lock. There is a lanyard around my neck displaying my name, photograph, and certifications. My head is wrapped in a hair net.
I hold up the ID badge
for him to approve.
The neon-colored Band-Aid glued to my wrist startles me—a gruesome reminder of my transgressions. I sense my face paling, fearful he might make some senseless comment.
He doesn’t even pay it a second glance.
I lurch forward, following the Assistant Store Manager’s spiritless stride through the entryway and further into the market.
“I—didn’t get your name,” I say to him.
I’m unsteady as I walk. My feet seem to be apprehensive in my new, expensive pair of high heels. Why had I decided to wear them today? After all, who am I trying to impress?
“11410,” the Assistant Store Manager barks at me.
I look at him with the utmost concern. “Those are numbers?”
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “They sent Isaac Newton this time.”
The Assistant Store Manager ushers me into the produce section. I fumble to open my briefcase, unfolding a small notebook and loosening a pen to write.
“I’ll need your name for my report,” I tell him.
“No names here,” he tells me. “Just numbers. Aisle twelve. Cleaners. Ziploc. Dish soap. Paper goods. Aisle eleven. Popcorn. Candy. Chips. Aisle ten. Cereal. Crackers. What other numbers do you want?”
My eyes dart about like a trapped animal as he leads me about the maze of bins arranged with fresh fruits and vegetables.
“I was just asking—”
“Number of pounds of vegetables delivered daily. Two-hundred-seventy-five. Number of shopping carts to be accounted for at open and close. One-hundred-fifteen. Number of days until one of these idiots finds the pound of Gruyere I hid in the heat vent. To be determined.”
I stammer, my breath becoming rapid, as I steer through aisles filled with customers, screaming children, and half-filled shopping carts.
“I’m afraid—I’m going to have to put that in my report,” I tell him.
He looks nonplussed. “Feel free to add how Stanley in the meat department refuses to wash his hands after bathroom breaks. I don’t give a rat’s turd that he’s been here for eleven years. The man’s been diagnosed with genital warts five times. I’d stay away from the veal if I were you.”
My stomach begins to curl. I feel queasy, my knees threatening to buckle.
“Is there—a bathroom?” I ask him.
The Assistant Store Manager glances at his wristwatch. “In the back. Knock first. Carlos from produce and Angela from customer service usually have it reserved at this time.”
I shake my head in disbelief and attempt to center myself. “This may take me a few hours.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he tells me. “If you need anything, ...
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