When I was a 19-year-old secretary working a summer job for a beer-distributing company, I was sexually harassed daily by a half-dozen middle-aged men. I was even cornered by a truck driver in the warehouse for seven minutes one humid Florida day. He whispered into my ear, caressing my side while I choked back fear and stared down that Pete's Wicked Ale clock.
When I was 22 at a club in Las Vegas, a man situated beside me crept his hand up my skirt and grabbed my crotch. Instead of slapping him or reporting it, I relocated spots. He ran into me later and called me a bitch and a prude.
When I was 25, walking down a dark hallway to a bathroom, a drunk dude put his hand up my shirt and tried to take off my bra after groping me.
There was also that random digit in a crowd that penetrated me. And the bosses I watched rubbing themselves to porn in the office. I've comforted countless female friends post-sexual assault. I've consoled pals over breakfast who were positive they were drugged and woke up sore. I've observed four policemen lackadaisically take notes as my shaken friend reported that a driver raped her in the back of his limo. I watched the cops roll their eyes, make snide jokes and tell my friend she was drunk.
To keep my eyes dry at work, I'll leave my more personal incidents out.
I'm not seeking sympathy. I have loved ones, therapists and pharmaceuticals for that. I suffer severe panic attacks. I've been on anxiety meds for nearly 15 years. I've tried weaning but can't. The attacks are too severe and debilitating to wrangle life without pills. I'm sure there are misfiring synapses in my brain, but regulating fear and trauma when confronted with various stimuli can be an impossible feat. I can try to avoid triggers, but the battle of pushing through any given day is often hijacked by bad memories or uninvited, disturbing stimuli.
Like Donald Trump.
I am physically uncomfortable when in the TV presence of this misogynistic candidate for the president of the United States of America. When he talks, I'm taken back to that seven minutes in the beer warehouse that felt like four years.
I can't emotionally handle four years of this vulgar man.
I recent meme a dude posted had these words atop a crying toddler: "If American women are so outraged at Donald Trump's naughty words, who in the hell bought 80 million copies of 50 Shades of Grey?"
I wonder if he has been raped. I wonder if he stuffs panic with pills. I wonder if he's been grabbed by the dick without his consent.
Donald, I'd like to grab you by the balls, hoist you in the air (with a thumb up your ass for better grip) and hold you in front of every woman you've ever offended or assaulted. After that, I'll take your wife out to a fancy dinner and never call her again.
But of course I won't because I have fucking human compassion.
Now get the hell out of here. Joke's over.