If I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the procedure.

Lloyd and I were in love the night his condom ripped. “Oh no!” he yelped, his eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can’t get pregnant from one little tear.” At the time, I really believed it.

I was 14 and grateful to have a boyfriend. Lloyd was two years older and that made me feel so grown up. He seemed to have endless time to hang out. He’d dropped out of high school. Lloyd smoked lots of pot and showed me how to sink a basketball into a hoop. He sang love songs in falsetto and everything was better than the year before I met him.

At 13, I’d been gang-raped by classmates. Massive hands had covered my mouth, knees dug into my hip bones. I was pinned on the grass field of a local cemetery. The weight of the boys stilled me from thrashing. Finally, it was over. I pulled my jeans and panties up from my left ankle. After that I ran in a circle, around and around, picking up speed. I heard one of them say, “This chick is nuts. Let’s go.”

After that night, I didn’t stand still enough to feel anything. I kept secrets from my parents because I couldn’t bear the shame—they’d been right to say, “Stay away from those kids.” The humiliation of rape stayed inside. I bounced from one junior-high clique to another until I ran right into Lloyd’s arms.

The night our rubber ripped, we’d made love in the woods. Soon after that I began putting on weight. My breasts were filling out like my older sister’s and I thought, ‘I’m a woman now.’ One morning after a hot cup of cocoa, I felt queasy and ran to the bathroom. When I threw up, I figured it was the flu.

A week later, my mother and I went shopping for bathing suits. Each one I’d picked to try on was too tight. My mother was staring at me. “Are you pregnant?” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a scowl. “Of course not!”

But it got me to thinking, so the next day at school, I told a girlfriend everything. She said, “It sounds like you are. There’s a clinic where you can get tested.”

When I told Lloyd, he teared up. “We’ll get married!” he said.

I began thinking about a cute baby girl. We’d dress her in pink dresses with lace, matching bonnets, and socks. I imagined her face — her father’s mix of Native American and Black, and my Russian Jewish heritage meant her skin would be the color of cocoa and her hair shiny black.

It only took a few days to realize we couldn’t afford the pretty outfits I imagined. I’d been babysitting for a year. Babies need cribs, toys, diapers, and food. My tiny income and meager allowance weren’t nearly enough. Lloyd lived with his aunt in the ghetto section of town. His mother was a chronic gambler and consistently absent from his life. He didn’t know his father.

That same week, my suspicious mother, tipped off by my expanding waistline, scheduled a doctor’s visit for me under the pretense of an annual physical. She had always made appointments for me, so I didn’t think twice when she said, “Tuesday is your checkup.” But unbeknownst to me, she’d requested a blood test to find out if I was pregnant.

The day before the abortion, I sat in math class so it appeared my hands were in my lap but really I held them to my belly. Through my fingers, I explained why I couldn’t have her. She’d wince with shame about her ninth-grade dropout mom. I couldn’t be sure she’d have a father. Would Lloyd stay when we fought over diapers? Would he stay through fights over money? Would he spend the little we had on beer and pot? Such serious thoughts for a 14-year-old but I’m glad I was smart enough to have them.

When I asked Lloyd to come with me to the clinic, he shook his head “no” and wept. He promised he would pay his half of the money. For my portion, I used what I had saved from my clothing allowance. I would have to forfeit the new shirt and pants I’d planned to buy from the boutique I always passed on my walk to junior high school.

After I found out where to go, I took a 30-minute taxi from my home in Port Washington, Long Island, to Hempstead, Long Island, to the Bill Baird Clinic. Everything there looked sterilized — white or metallic — even the receptionist’s coffee cup at the front desk looked shiny and new. Pleasant, smiling people led me around. I was given a thin, sleeveless, cloth robe, slippers, and a locker to put my stuff in. I took off my jeans, Keds sneakers, and orange T-shirt with an ironed-on Stevie Wonder. There were tiny cracks on Stevie Wonder’s dreadlocks from putting him in the dryer by accident.

The doctor said I was three months pregnant and if I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the abortion. Hearing that made me feel dizzy and sick. The nurse told me to lie down on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. She gave me a Valium. I felt numb but noticed goose bumps on my arms. I tried to block out the image of the baby’s face while I lay on a freezing cold table with my legs spread wide. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

Won’t hurt?

It still hurts.

But even as the vacuum sucked out my insides and I imagined my baby screaming, I knew I was doing the right thing. My belly held only the fertilized egg; a fetus that might or might not become a little girl. If I’d let my pregnancy last full-term, I would never have been able to give her up. And even if she was pried from my arms and handed over for adoption, she would never know why her real mother hadn’t loved her enough to keep her. My life and her life would’ve been ruined. I would’ve had to drop out of school to care for her when I was only a child myself.

Our family physician called soon after with the results of the covert pregnancy test. I told her I’d already had the abortion and begged her not to tell my parents, but because I was only 14, she said she could lose her license if she didn’t. My mother was furious when she got off the phone and berated me for lying to her. My father yelled, “Which one of them was it?” My mother slapped him and defended me, “She only has one boyfriend!”

I had never even witnessed an argument between my parents and it felt like my world was exploding. Already so guilt-ridden, terrified, and depressed, I ran to my room. My relationship with my parents worsened after that, and wouldn’t begin to mend until more than a decade later. As the incident became a distant memory, we learned how to forgive each other.

As much as I hated having an abortion, I felt then — and still feel — it was the right choice for me. What if the law had said that wasn’t my decision to make? The terror of telling my parents, my desperation, and strong will, would have sent me fleeing to find another way to abort. A back alley? A wire hanger? I might’ve died. Thank goodness, I had a choice.

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Facebook suggested I friend him. I guess our social networks overlapped. I guided the mouse toward his photo, and the little pointed hand hovered over his face. Fear and anger swelled up but curiosity won out and I clicked “Add Friend.” He accepted within minutes. Stunned, I wondered if he had forgotten raping me, or if he thought I had.

At 13, I was a lonely upper-middle-class Jewish nerd living on Long Island, in search of a tougher persona. He was part of an edgy crowd that hung out in a parking lot behind the school, sprawling over the cement steps like bored cats on a sofa. It was 1973, and the boys wore black leather jackets, smoked Marlboros and stashed pints of Tango and Thunderbird in their back pockets. One afternoon, making sure my long brown hair covered the blemish on my cheek, I went over and said, “Hi.”

That was really all it took. A few offered nods. One of the girls asked if I wanted to come out with them that night to the cemetery.

“Isn’t that spooky?” I whispered.

She laughed. Her voice had a ring of confidence mine never did, so I went, wearing — against Mom’s orders — a shimmery, low-cut shirt. As dusk fell we ambled past the wrought-iron gates, onto the lawn. The guys set down brown bags with bottles. I reached for the pint of Bacardi. Sweet rum burned my throat. With my eyes closed I was Keith Richards chugging onstage at Madison Square Garden.

“Wow, you can really drink,” he said.

I nodded with fake nonchalance, as if this were my forte instead of my first time. Two other girls wandered off with their boyfriends to make out, leaving me standing alone, feeling like a loser. I grinned in relief when one of the boys waved “c’mere,” as if to confide something. But then the boy grabbed me, clamped his hand over my mouth and threw me on the ground, shoving a knee into my hipbone. At first I thought it was a joke. Then four other guys surrounded me. I realized this had been planned.

With the other boys holding me down, he slammed on top of me.

“Is that how you like it?” he said. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer.

Another boy said, “She may have an ugly face, man, but she has a really nice body.”

I’m not sure which was sadder, that I believed my face was ugly or that I was flattered he liked my body. I tried to scream, but it came out muffled. They laughed. I gagged. They took turns. Then it was over. I pulled myself up, retrieved my pink Hanes and almost fell over getting my foot through the leg hole. I leaned against a tree for balance and tugged up my jeans, and then I started screaming.

One of them said: “Oh, man, this chick is nuts. Let’s go.” And they did.

With a child’s logic, I figured the boys thought I wasn’t a virgin because of my sexy shirt. Too ashamed to confide in my parents or older sisters, I tried to tell a teacher after class one day. I stood by her desk shifting my weight from one foot to the other. But I was afraid of being shunned at school if I reported it, so all I said was “See you tomorrow.”

From those early teen years until my mid-20s, I let boyfriends come and go like subway cars, certain that they would trick and humiliate me. If they liked me too much it scared me away. Loneliness plagued me. When I saw happy couples I wondered, How do they do that? I drank heavily, hoping to forget what had happened. But I couldn’t forget.

Thirty-eight years later, I browsed through the Facebook friends of the boy who was the first to rape me, noticing names I remembered from high school. In his recent photos were snapshots of a boy with his nose and a pretty teenage girl with long silky hair parted in the middle. He gripped a beer while his belly drooped over his jeans. I found some older photos of his wedding, him with a pretty young bride.

The first time I talked about the rape I was 26 and in a therapist’s office. “I can help you,” she said, but it wasn’t a quick fix. I was in my 40s when I met Steve. He had a troubled past too, so we fit. When I buried my face in his hair, the smell, the closeness, made me feel safe. It still does.

Now I clicked back to my rapist’s wall for a link to his wife’s profile and sent her a friend request. I decided that my revenge would be to blow up his marriage. I planned what I’d tell her if she confirmed my request. A montage of memories flooded my head until I felt so queasy I had to lie down.

But when I looked at my computer again, I saw she’d written on my wall. She posted a sideways smiley face and complimented the photos of my dog. How could I tell her? She’d done nothing to me. My rage belonged to her husband.

So I went back to his profile page and typed a private message: “I hope that night has haunted you. I was naïve and a virgin. I see you have a teenage daughter now. Better keep her safe from guys like you.”

I wanted to hate him and hurt him but realized that the only way to be free was to let it all go. When I defriended him I felt strong. The past was the past, and my mouth wasn’t covered anymore.

The post Defriending My Rapist: personal essay in THE NEW YORK TIMES! appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

Electric volts shoot off her five-ten frame. Her face looks spotlighted against black hair and blacker clothes and her laugh is infectious — wait, she’d cross that out and write, “Cliche.” Let’s try again — her laugh is sexy with a hint of raspy ex-smoker.

There is life before meeting Shapiro, and life afterwards in Shapiroville.

Before Susan Shapiro

I’d published four short stories in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and an essay in a Long Island regional paper.

Life in Shapiroville

My personal essay was published in The New York Times, Dr. Drew saw it. He called and had me as a guest on his show. Three editors asked me to write follow up pieces. A few more editors paid me to reprint it. And now it is required reading in a course at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, CUNY. I received hundreds of comments, emails and phone calls. It felt like my entire hometown contacted me. And best of all, young girls reached out to me for help.

Here I am reading the essay to Dr. Jan Yager‘s class:

Here’s what happened after the essay was published in The New York Times:

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE DR. DREW TV INTERVIEW

Here I answer the question that I am asked the most:
“Why didn’t you tell your mother, father, or two older sisters?”

And, as if all of that isn’t enough, under Shapiro’s tutelage I won the New York Press creative non-fiction award for my essay about suicide, “9 Lives for a Weeble.” I’ve written frequently for The Jewish Daily Forward (forward.com), The Fix (thefix.com), and many more publications. I am now hard at work on my memoir.

Writers and Wannabe Writers

Visit Susan Shapiro’s website: susanshapiro.net. Buy her books. Take her class.

The post Want To Be a Successful Writer? Two Magic Words: SUSAN SHAPIRO appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

Facebook suggested I friend him. I guess our social networks overlapped. I guided the mouse toward his photo, and the little pointed hand hovered over his face. Fear and anger swelled up but curiosity won out and I clicked “Add Friend.” He accepted within minutes. Stunned, I wondered if he had forgotten raping me, or if he thought I had.

At 13, I was a lonely upper-middle-class Jewish nerd living on Long Island, in search of a tougher persona. He was part of an edgy crowd that hung out in a parking lot behind the school, sprawling over the cement steps like bored cats on a sofa. It was 1973, and the boys wore black leather jackets, smoked Marlboros and stashed pints of Tango and Thunderbird in their back pockets. One afternoon, making sure my long brown hair covered the blemish on my cheek, I went over and said, “Hi.”

That was really all it took. A few offered nods. One of the girls asked if I wanted to come out with them that night to the cemetery.

Read more

The post My New York Times Essay ‘Defriending My Rapist’ is a Required Reading at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, CUNY appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

This essay was written for The Fix • The Bill Cosby scandal has triggered memories. Before my rape, I had voluntarily drunk rum and smoked a few hits of pot. Afterward, I was afraid people wouldn’t believe anything I said because I was high.

Asking, “Why am I an addict?” is a waste of time. I am because I am. The only pertinent question is: What am I going to do about it? Addiction thrives on secrets. Keeping secrets raises a wall between the addict and the rest of the world. It is a protection against the judgment of society. That’s where addicts and rape victims have something in common. Not telling becomes its own survival system. Shame keeps the wall up; the solution is to take it down and let others in.

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That opened up old allegations many of us had forgotten. After Buress brought it back into the foreground, it’s been Cosby’s undoing. NBC announced on Nov. 19 it’s canceled work on a new Cosby show. Netflix canned its Nov. 28 comedy special, “Bill Cosby 77,” which was recorded on Cosby’s birthday. Viacom’s TV Land yanked “The Cosby Show” reruns. Cosby was also expected to appear on the “Late Show with David Letterman” and “The Queen Latifah Show,” but those were snuffed out, too.

The rape accusations sound chillingly similar. Double-digits of women are saying he drugged and molested them. So, one has to wonder if the great and powerful Cosby is a serial rapist. Is it true because these women say so? No. But does Cosby denying the rapes make them untrue? No. Many people don’t want it to be true, myself included. I’ve always been a big fan, but nobody belongs on a pedestal, especially celebrities. That’s what my dad always said.

Dad was a head honcho in radio. Whenever he saw me starstruck, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Celebrities,” Dad said, “are just people who are very good at one thing. Just because they can sing beautifully or bring you to tears in a movie doesn’t mean they are nice people, and most of them aren’t.” Dad met biggies in the music biz almost daily at the radio station. “Most are self-centered to a fault, and some are absolutely no good.” He used James Brown as an example: “An amazing performer, and he beats up his wives.”

When I hear James Brown music, I still love it. I don’t want to think about his personal life. The same holds true for Woody Allen and now Bill Cosby. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and sing, “La la la, I can’t hear you.” But we do hear about it, over and over. We hope the women are lying, and that is one of the many reasons women are afraid to tell when they’ve been raped. I should know. I didn’t tell.

Mine happened one night hanging out with classmates. I was 13 and had never even thought about gang rape. The things I worried about were how to wear my hair, which jeans were cool and if people liked me. After the boys were done and left me on the ground with my pants by my ankles, I got up and ran around in a circle screaming, “No. No. No.”

I often wonder what it would’ve been like if I had told. Would that have kept me from turning into a drug addict? Would my self-esteem have been higher? Would my attempted suicides have happened? Maybe my relationships would’ve been healthier and longer-term instead of coming and going like riders in a subway car. I’ll never know.

I do know why I didn’t tell. I was afraid people would not believe me and that it was somehow my fault. If I hadn’t been so lonely, maybe I would not have worn that sexy shirt hoping a boy would notice me. Would my parents yell at me? We’d argued when they said those kids were bad news. I was embarrassed that my parents had been right. But my worst fear was becoming a laughing stock and being treated like a leper at school.

I kept my mouth shut. The day after the rape, I tried to erase my thoughts. I had the adolescent superpower of magical thinking. “I’ll pretend it never happened.” Other rape victims know how impossible that is. The 2014 national stats are grim:

“Victims of sexual assault are 3 times more likely to suffer from depression, 6 times more likely to suffer from PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol, 26 times more likely to abuse drugs, and 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide.

1 out of every 6 American adult women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape.

15% of sexual assault and rape victims are under age 12.

73% of sexual assaults were perpetrated by a non-stranger.

93% of juvenile sexual assault victims know their attacker.

58.7% were acquaintances.

1 in 4 girls are sexually abused before their 18th birthday.”

And, sexual assault is one of the most underreported crimes, with 60 percent still being left unreported.

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Wake-Up Call

Do you know how hard women fought — and are still fighting — to be respected for our brains and not our perky breasts? How many times have we heard about Hillary Rodham Clinton’s hair or what she’s wearing while the clothes worn by male politicians aren’t critiqued. And Rodham Clinton is referred to as a bitch whenever she says anything passionately. Sadly, the world is so used to this pervasive belittling of women that we barely notice it.
Now, don’t even get me started on “Princeton Mom” Patton. I’m embarrassed that she and I are the same gender. According to her, feminism is an “overcorrection,” a trip to the dark side. Her book promotes spending 75 percent of our time in college looking for a husband. Patton says that once you hit 30, chances are you’ll end up an ol’ spinster aunt talking to her cats.

Duct Tape

Ladies, isn’t it bad enough we have to put up with Tea Party men and Hobby Lobby and anti-abortionists and ignorance? Women, if you’re not pro-women, keep your fat trap shut. Let me remind you of some important stats. As for focusing 75 percent of your time in college, keep in mind that not only is Patton divorced, but so are 50 percent of those who married. And, as for Patton’s advice to run like Edith Bunker to Archie with a drink and hubby’s slippers, keep this in mind: Women make up 47 percent of the U.S. work force. The average full time working woman makes $669 as compared to men’s $824. We also do more of the housework and much more of the childcare. Check this out from
ThinkProgress.org

“The breakdown of what fathers do during the hours spent with their children is also telling, as they tend to spend more time on pleasurable activities. Mothers spend about two and a half times more hours tending to physical needs and about two times more on managerial and educational activities. But fathers spend nearly the same amount of time playing with their kids, perhaps the most enjoyable part of being with a child.

When it comes to housework, the tasks break down along traditional gender roles. Fathers spend more time doing repairs and maintenance — think lawn mowing and tinkering with cars — while mothers do more cooking and cleaning.”
In closing, I leave you with…

A Smattering of Disgusting Quotes About Women by Women

“Who hijacked the term: ‘feminist’? A cackle of rads who want 2 crucify other women w/whom they disagree on a singular issue; it’s ironic (& passé)” — Sarah Palin tweet
“The Lord says, ‘Be submissive wives; you are to be submissive to your husbands.’” — Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-IA)
“In the emergency room they have what’s called rape kits where a woman can get cleaned out.” —Rep. Jodie Laubenberg (R-TX)
Life begins “from the first day of the last menstrual period of the pregnant woman.” —Gov. Jan Brewer (R-AZ).

A Smattering of Disgusting Quotes About Women by Men

“The facts show that people who are raped —who are truly raped—the juices don’t flow, the body functions don’t work and they don’t get pregnant. Medical authorities agree that this is a rarity, if ever.” —Rep. Henry Aldridge (R-NC)
“As long as it’s inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it.” —Clayton Williams (R-TX) on rape.
“These Planned Parenthood women, the Code Pink women, and all of these women have been neutering American men and bringing us to the point of this incredible weakness. We are not going to have our men become subservient.” — Rep. Allen West (R-FL).
“Consensual sex can turn into rape in an awful hurry. All of a sudden a young lady gets pregnant and the parents are madder than a wet hen and she’s not going to say, ‘Oh yeah, I was part of the program.’”— Rep. Roger Rivard (R-WI)
“I would hope that when a woman goes into a physician with a rape issue, that that physician will indeed ask her about perhaps her marriage, was this pregnancy caused by normal relations in a marriage, or was it truly caused by rape.” Sen. Chuck Winder (R-ID).

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The first time I talked about the rape I was 26 and in a therapist’s office. “I can help you,” the counselor, Mary, said, “but it won’t be a quick fix.” My neck tensed up. I started bouncing my knee. Mary didn’t react. Her eyes were looking into mine: It was time to let go and get better.

At 13 I was a lonely Jewish nerd and straight A student living on Long Island, envious of popular girls who attracted boys. It was 1973 and guys who wore black leather jackets and smoked Marlboros looked hot so when “Elle” asked me to join her friends in the cemetery that night I agreed.

At home I looked for my new clingy shirt that Elle told me to wear without a bra. But it wasn’t there.

I called Mom, “Where’s my new shirt?” She called back: “I hid it. It makes you look…well, slutty.”

When Mom left I found the shirt, put it on and looked in the mirror, staring at my cleavage. I was a woman now. I also wore hip hugger jeans so a sliver of my belly showed. That’s what Elle did and I figured if I dressed right I would get a boyfriend.

When I met Elle and her friends the September sun had set. I thought it was weird to meet in a cemetery, but I was excited to be included. One boy, Willy, was 15, and sometimes we joked around at lunch. As we hung out listening to a big radio, smoking cigarettes and drinking Heinekens and no-name vodka, the girls and their boyfriends wandered off, leaving me alone and feeling like a loser. So when Willy smiled and motioned “c’mere” I practically skipped over.

He grabbed me, clamped his hand over my mouth and threw me on the ground. Then three other boys surrounded me and I realized this was planned.

Two boys pulled my pants down while a third pushed his hand up my shirt and grabbed a breast. He pushed on it hard. A different hand mauled my other breast. My pants were now down by my ankles; two boys pulled off my sneaker to get my pant leg off. They needed to widen my legs. Fingers shoved up me. I felt a penis in my mouth. I tried to scream, but it came out muffled. They laughed. I gagged. They took turns. “You better watch out,” one yelled. “She might bite it off!” They laughed some more and then ran off. It was over.

I pulled my clothes on and ran in a circle screaming. Elle and Bobby ran over and carried me to Elle’s house, where I spent a sleepless night. In the morning, my plan was to forget that night ever happened. I was too ashamed to tell my parents or my two older sisters.

For the next 13 years I lived by silently screaming at my memories. If I hadn’t worn the low-cut shirt, maybe the rape wouldn’t have happened. Telling my parents would’ve meant admitting to my stupidity and I was too proud for that. One day I tried to tell a teacher after class. I stood by her desk shifting my weight from one foot to the other. But I was afraid of being shunned at school if I reported it, so all I said was “See you tomorrow.”

I began drinking Bacardi rum and diet Coke and swallowing speed capsules hoping to forget. I forged Mom and Dad’s handwriting to sign myself out of school early. Then I’d go out on the big field, lie down on my back, and let my mind roam, while I tripped on acid.

I embraced tight sexy shirts and skin hugging pants and by the time I was 15, I was sneaking off to clubs in the city where it was easy to get drugs and find guys who dazzled me like shiny disco globes.

I fancied myself a feminist — if I seduced boys first it gave me the upper hand and they couldn’t hurt me. At home I stared at the poster of my best friend Jimi Hendrix who was dead. But I talked to him because he understood. And I thought of suicide all the time. One day I went to the train station and jumped onto the tracks with a speeding train aimed at me, but I thought about being maimed and not killed. Life would be worse without legs. I sucked my breath and made myself as thin as I could so the train didn’t touch me.

I was obviously troubled so my parents sent me to one therapist after another. But I fooled all of them and was proud of that. I chased euphoria. I swallowed more pills, snorted coke and drank. By 17, I was shooting cocaine. Sometimes I looked at my eyes in the mirror and it scared me how far away I looked. I couldn’t forget how helpless I had felt that night in the cemetery.

Nine years later, I graduated from college, found an apartment in Greenwich Village and landed a job as a graphic artist. But I was still haunted by memories. Alone in my room, I snorted cocaine out of paper packets and drank. One day at six a.m. I came out of a blackout sitting cross-legged on my bed surrounded by ripped photos of my artwork with suicidal song lyrics gouged into them with a ballpoint pen. It was my handwriting, but I had no memory of my actions.

I saw bugs scampering across the bed. No matter how often I blinked they were still there. I would’ve welcomed death at that point, but the fear I was losing my mind hit me so hard I reached over the empty bottles and picked up the phone to call my cousin Ang. She took me to Hazelden rehab in Florida.

That 31-day stay took out my brains, washed them and wrung out the toxins. I talked to my counselor Mary in the quiet room and told her what the boys did and how I had tried so hard to forget. She was the first person to say I had post-traumatic-stress disorder.

Clean and sober and terrified that I couldn’t stay that way, I went back to my life in the Village. I met Maddy who was kind and gentle. We began to hang out and go to parties.   I still dressed for men to look at me and watched their eyes scan my cleavage, my thighs, my face, my legs. At one party Maddy put her black cardigan around me. “Cover up,” she said. The miracle is that when I buttoned it up, I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt loved. I told her about that horrible night.

“You were raped and it wasn’t your fault,” she said. I cried and she hugged me tight.          

The longer I fought to stay sober, the more I learned that talking about the pain was the first thing that would heal me. But I couldn’t open up to my mother until I was 37. Her dark olive skin turned white and she cried. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and begged her not to tell my father.

By 46 I was sick of the men I’d been choosing. Then I met Steve in a neighborhood movie theater. We got to chatting and I wanted to touch his wispy blond-gray hair. His eyes seemed soft as they looked right into mine. His angular cheekbones looked strong, like I’d be safe with him. He was a writer and he invited me to his Barnes & Noble book reading. It was standing room only. Afterwards I bought a book and Steve grinned when he wrote, “To the prettiest girl.” Our first date was brunch and a movie and we’ve been together ever since. When I told Steve about that night I showed him a photo of me at 13. He teared up and said, “You were such a little girl.” Our first December he gave me a thermal shirt with a card that said, “I want to keep you warm.”

Now, I’m 52 and Steve and I have been married for two years. Like my friendship with Maddy, our bond fills me with courage. Every time we share dark pieces of the past we grow closer. It smells so sweet when I bury my face in his hair.

***

It’s afternoon and I’m rushing to get to a film premiere for press only. I now interview celebrities and review movies and love my work and my hectic life. I reach in my closet,   pick a light blue button-down, and check my camera battery. Just before I leave, Steve comes over and hugs me. He says, “Good luck.” I start to walk towards the door, but he says, “Hey,” and I turn to look at him.  He smiles wide and says, “You look like a pro in that shirt.”

I know he’s right and I smile back.

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