An Essay: What We Lose In The Fire
Trigger Warning: stalking and sexual crimes.
I internally play Katy Perry’s Dark Horse to summarize my experience and fantasies into a succinct 3 minutes and 35 seconds of pop and beats. He watches, he searches, he finds me - I take a bat to his face. red/blue/lights.
Recently a friend shared a reason for her divorce. A non-consensual, predatory reason. She shared it with me two months ago and it’s still stuck in my teeth, boring a cavity as we speak. She’s held it for even longer than that; I wonder how sensitive her teeth are when she eats.
I think about it daily. I try to make sense of why, of how to go about, of what to even do with it. I can’t, so wherever this man steps, I remove myself. I have known non-consensual, predatory things. I won’t ever gamble my daughter when it comes to that.
I watch as other people roll it around with their tongues, swallow it, spit it out, say she was vindictive, she is lying, she is _____. Yes, he can be odd sometimes, but . . .
In college, there was a guy who weirded me out.
My body always tenses when I tell this story because I so desperately want you to believe me.
The cop/the lawyer asks: did you date him?
No.
The cop/the lawyer/the coworker asks: were you friends with him?
No.
The cop/the lawyer/the coworker/the friend asks: did you ever talk to him?
No. Not one conversation.
The cop/the lawyer/the coworker/the friend/the family asks: what did you do for this to happen?
Nothing. I did nothing.
Oh, but you posted online.
(So do you.)
I’m sure you posted too much - you shouldn’t post at all. Make sure to take your photo down. How did he get your address? Did you post your address? How did he get your phone number?
I’m getting ahead of myself.
There was a guy who weirded me out in college, so I didn’t talk to him. I listened to my gut and I didn’t interact with him. When he friended me on Facebook, I accepted. I wanted to be nice enough. I have been taught to be nice enough.
After college, he messaged me. I had just gone through a public breakup in the sense any breakup is public in the age of Social Media. He messaged me/ I was nice enough/ I was weirded out/ I kept it short. He messaged me again.
I told my sister how he weirded me out. She said to block him. I did. Within 12 hours I received my first email.
I watch as people roll it over their tongues. How they pepper the conversation with ways this man has subtly made them uncomfortable, but it’s not a big deal. He’s going through a thing. He’s in a big transformation.
I used to be friends with him. I invited him to my house, I texted with him, I saw him in my community.
I wondered why his ex-wife’s warning/ offering/ disclosure shattered me so. I think about it daily. My gut had told me nothing about him, yet I never hesitated to believe her; I’ve seen her processing this since 2019. She sat in my car, sharing bit by bit things she couldn’t make sense of and I told her it was fine - I’m sure there’s sense somewhere in there, don’t worry. You’ll find it.
I read about Madame Pelicot every few days, as much as my stomach can handle it. Her husband plus 50 men in her village found guilty. They know there are more men than that, but they could only identify these ones. She was hurt for ten years and the only way her husband was caught was because he took upskirt photos in a supermarket.
At one point, her husband said she wouldn’t have the kind of sex he wanted so that’s why he started drugging her. It’s just one of those non-consensual, predatory things, ya know? How dare a woman say no.
I couldn’t timeline all of it for you. I can get some of it: it started in December 2010. By February 2011, I was worried-with-good-reason he’d find me at my job, at my apartment, so I moved two states away. Los Angeles. A safe haven. I attempted to scrub myself from the internet. As I drove away from my hometown, I tensed my body (I want so desperately to be believed) and put on a smile. He contacted my best friend looking for me. He asked for a quest. He wanted to save me. She laughed it off.
What- it’s just some guy being weird.
I take a bat to his face.
August 2011, I discovered his blog. My parents add it to the evidence file of emails.
He would use codewords for names. Mine, my ex-boyfriend, my current boyfriend, my dad. He would talk on and on about eugenics and alchemy and how powerful and magical he was. He referred to me as a horse, perfect coloring for breeding. He wrote how he’d asked a friend about me in college and the friend said I was, “pretty, but a bitch.” These are only the words I choose to remember.
I dreamed for years I was being chased. That quick heart, frantic-feet chase. I’d run and run until I grew tired, then stop/ turn/ beat him to a pulp. I never let up.
On New Year’s Eve, my sister pulls out a game where you ask deep questions. No one’s playing; she just fiddles through them. “What is your deepest fear?,” she muses; “Being killed in my home.” Mm. Women. We all have similar fears.
“Oh no,” I say, “mine is being abducted and taken to someone’s basement.” I see her chew on it, roll the thought around with her tongue. “I’d rather die in my own home before I’m taken to a second location.”
It’s such a trivial game, we set it aside.
I bet Monsieur Pelicot weirded people out. But maybe not. There were at least 80 men from her small village who hurt her. She probably saw them every day without knowing. But they knew. They signed up for it. When a person shows their non-consensual, predatory taste, I believe them. I’m glad my friend told me.
Madame Pelicot says that behind her facade of strength "lies a field of ruins."
I moved back to my hometown in October of 2011. By November, he called me. I was waiting for it and my body still tenses thinking of how he said, “Hello, Brigid.” I hung up. I called my parents. They called the lawyer. The phone call is what we needed for the restraining order.
Christmas Eve of 2012 he showed up at my house. I was away but I had told the dog sitters where the bat was. He didn’t knock, they said. He just tried the knob. We had known he might come - he was still blogging. He tried the knob and she yelled, “Get the bat.” He ran to his car. One hundred ninety-seven point nine miles away I drank and shook, my body tensed. I never knew what to do when my bones felt on fire, so I dumped alcohol on them, thinking it would smother the flames.
I was so far away, removed, watching it like a soap opera. He left a meteorite necklace. He parked his car around the block. He didn’t knock; he just tried the knob. He wrote how he was coming to save me. My knight parked around the block. These are the things I choose to remember.
Christmas Eve, he was picked up at his hotel by the police. My mom watched in the parking lot. She takes great pleasure knowing he had a bologna sandwich for Christmas Eve dinner.
I actually like this part of the story - not the arrest, although that is good. They knew his hotel because he posted a picture of his room on his blog. One hundred ninety-seven point nine miles away I drank and shook, my body tensed, but less than five miles from him, my dad’s coworker hunted down that picture of his hotel room and matched it to the exact hotel. She’d been stalked before.
I can’t even remember her name, but I would do the same. I would personally go to every hotel and show them a photo if needed. I know what the gamble feels like. So did she. This is why I’d never gamble my daughter.
I watch as people roll it around their tongue. He hasn’t done anything. He says it is a manipulated truth. It was discussed in the privacy of their relationship. I’m so grateful my friend told me.
There are photos of Madame Pelicot’s daughter too. But no proof beyond photos. Just one of those non-consensual, predatory things.
I take a bat to his face. I use alcohol to smother the flames. I could liken it to gasoline, but it’s more like wind.
Los Angeles is on fire. It is beyond tragic and I add it to the long list of tragic things I spend my feelings on. When I get out of the red, I’ll spend more on it, I’m sure.
A man is asked, “What did you love and lose in the fire?” He details his heirlooms, his photographs, every corner of his home that held a memory.
I’ve been in the red since Palestine, since Pelicot. Since before all that, so the elephant burning in the middle of the front yard can wait. I consider what I’d grab in the event of a fire - I can’t contain all my thoughts, so I set them aside. There is no fire here. Not here. Not right now. It’s easy to ignore when it’s not your home.
I think about it daily. It puts me back in the car we drove through the middle of the night. The sky turned orange and green as I hummed the song from Anastasia. /In the dark of the night evil will find her, doo doo doo./ That’s silly. Laughter. I feel so removed from it now until I’m reminded of the gamble, then I think about it daily.
We took a swing dance class in February of 2020. I thought it would be fun for my husband and me to learn how to dance together. I didn’t realize part of dance class culture is changing partners.
After the first class, I came home and tried to catch my breath. I couldn’t do it; why couldn’t I do it; it’s just an hour; these men are perfectly fine, I’m sure; just buck up and do it. I thought about it daily. Putting my hand in a stranger’s, over and over, and giving him complete leadership over my body was impossible. I couldn’t do it.
Before the second class, I asked the instructor if we could not participate in switching partners. She agreed, then loudly announced to the entire class that if you wanted to participate with everyone, stand in the middle, and if you didn’t want to participate with everyone, you could stand off to the side. We stood off to the side. She was just doing her job/ she was just confirming what we asked of her/ I was the rude one in dance culture. When it’s not your home on fire, it’s easy to ignore.
Before the third class, I had a panic attack in the parking lot. I asked my husband if we could get pizza and go home. I was so sorry we spent the money on lessons. By the fourth class, they cancelled it due to the pandemic. Relief.
I can’t remember any of the moves, but my dad tells stories of how his parents would swing dance in the living room. I am filled with longing and sadness.
His restraining order was increased to have more … impactful penalties if violated. But it came with a time limit. Two years. The judge made eye contact with me. I was 24, my brain fresh from the oven. Ding. She explained when the two years were over, the restraining order would be over. That’s all. She knew I understood what that meant.
Our conditions were that he would have psychiatric care and monitoring during the two years. We asked he cover our legal fees. His parents argued I was doing this all for the money.
I don’t want to punish him. I just want him to get help and leave me alone.
I’ve still never had a conversation with him. I imagine taking a bat to his face. /Are you ready for, ready for/ Sometimes I dream of punishing him. /A perfect storm, perfect storm./
We looked at houses for a year and some change. I could whip up dreams in an instant; I could have made a home out of any of them. When we first walked into our house, I knew: I will always be safe in this house. I was 27. I’m actually not sure where my husband has stored the bat in the last ten years. We don’t swing dance in the living room cause we can’t remember the steps, but we have found other ways to dance. Our house isn’t currently on fire; we consider what we’d save only in theory.
He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and erotomania. I keep the restraining order folded in the house, passing from pile to pile of “Papers to be Organized” like a spell. It expired eleven years ago. I still tense my body, desperate to be believed. Believe me. Believe that I did not deserve this.
Madame Pelicot lies in a field of ruins. Los Angeles burns to the ground. He showed up to my house once with cookies - a misunderstanding. It was a bit weird, but harmless. I try to be nice enough, but I think how the friend described me as “pretty, but a bitch,” my nice enough coming up short anyway. I gave my daughter my coloring - I try not to think of horses.
My friend texted me when her marriage was on fire, when she lost her home. She just wanted me to know. I’m so grateful she told me. I consider the gamble. I consider what I’d grab in the fire.
Yes, I believe you too. That’s terrifying. I hope this writing offered a release for your mind, body, and soul. Maybe the more of us holding your story with you means you can hold less.
I don't know what to say, except I believe you, I believe your friend, I hope that I will always be the friend who believes. Your words are beauty and power. I am so so sorry. You did nothing wrong. You did everything right. Thank you for speaking out.