The Peacoat
“Mom?” My voice cracked as I spoke into my cell phone. “How do I get blood out of my coat?”
I could have Googled it, but I really wanted to hear her voice. She had gotten me the white peacoat with the fur hood for Christmas not even a month earlier. I loved it. It was just the right combination of Penny Lane from “Almost Famous” and warmth for Buffalo, New York, winter. The coat made me feel powerful at a time when I felt very much…not. And now there was blood all over it and getting the blood out was the only thing I could think about. Thinking about anything else was too much. One task at a time. Step one, get the blood out, erase what happened. Step two, I try to forget.
***
I met A second semester of my freshman year of college. He was tall, super cute and smart. Totally different than any guy who had ever paid me any attention in high school. We began as most college dorm-based romances do, by hooking up wherever and whenever we could — my double, his triple, dorm complex hallways, the magazine office. By first semester sophomore year we were a couple.
Looking back A was always a little manipulative, but in those small ways that you don’t notice until they all converge into one really huge, unforgivable dick move. But I was 19 and in love. I had boyfriends in high school, of course, but I had never felt for them the way I felt for A. I was enamored by him. I had never met anyone who could challenge me intellectually the way he did.
I was so enraptured by this tall, handsome boy not thinking I was weird for wanting to take classes called “History of Pompeii” and “History of Rock Music” that I brushed it aside when he would do certain things that I wouldn’t put up with now. If my voice got a little louder when I was talking about something I was excited about he would tell me to be quieter. If I talked about enjoying sex he would tell me that wasn’t a thing a girl should say. If I got a better grade on a paper or an exam he would give me the silent treatment for days. One time we were on a double date with two friends and I casually mentioned that a guy in the movie we saw reminded me of one of my exes and A didn’t speak to me for a week.
All of those little things should have prepared me for how he reacted to that January night in 2008, but they didn’t. Nothing could have.
***
It was a Friday night and I went to a party at an off-campus apartment with some friends. X was there. X was an acquaintance from the magazine. He had just joined that semester and I didn’t know much about him other than he had asked me on a date after our first meeting and I declined, citing my relationship with A. He seemed to understand but he continued to be flirty with me at staff meetings, touching my arm when he could, and he constantly posted things he thought I would like on my Facebook page. I kept my distance, only engaging with him at staff meetings when totally necessary.
I remember saying “hi” to X when I walked into the party. My friend and I dumped our coats in the bedroom and then we headed to the kitchen to grab drinks. X came with us. We all chatted. About what I don’t remember. The rest of that night has only come back to me in bits and pieces over the past decade.
I got drunk. I had always sort of had a hard time finding people I could be myself around. I didn’t feel totally comfortable around any of these people. The alcohol helped. At some point I ventured off by myself to find the bathroom. I remember coming out of the bathroom to find X standing in front of the door. I remember he said he had a Christmas gift for me and that it was in his jacket pocket. I don’t remember what I said to him or how we ended up in the bedroom. I remember seeing my new white peacoat with the fur hood on the mattress while he was rustling around for his coat.
I remember feeling like X was taking a long time to find whatever he was looking for, so I plopped down on the mattress to sit because the room was spinning. I fell asleep.
I don’t know for how long. The next thing I remember I was waking up because I felt something. It was X unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them down to my ankles. He did the same with my underwear. I wiggled and tried to roll off the mattress. He squeezed his legs around me while he unbuttoned his pants. I asked him to stop. I distinctly remember him telling me to just enjoy it. I repeated my line about having a boyfriend. He said A never had to know. I started thrashing, trying to get out from under his weight. He grabbed my wrists and pinned me down. I felt him shove himself inside me. I begged him to stop. I told him it hurt. He told me to shut up because I was “ruining it.” I started to cry. The harder he thrusted the harder I cried. When I eventually started sobbing he punched me in the head and knocked me out.
***
I don’t know how long I was unconscious. I don’t know how I got back to my dorm. I remember waking up sometime in the afternoon and looking in the mirror. I remember my head was throbbing and the whole lower half of my body was aching. I remember not remembering what happened until I looked at my new white peacoat. I saw blood on it and the image of me pulling it out from under me as I was frantically trying to leave the party flashed in my mind. I remember some party goers high fiving X as I left. This was my blood. I cried in the shower for a while.
***
I never had the chance to tell A what happened. Someone else at the party did. Of course, they didn’t tell him what actually happened. They told him I had cheated on him with X. I tried to tell him I didn’t cheat. That it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have the language to describe what happened to me so I told him I was too drunk and didn’t mean it. I didn’t know how else to process it at the time. A didn’t listen. He gave me the silent treatment for a week and then decided to “forgive me for cheating.” We would remain together for another year. He threw the “cheating” in my face constantly.
I would have to see X every Monday at staff meetings and he would smirk at me. I would spend the next several years binge-eating in a veiled attempt to regain control over by body. I thought that if I was “fat” men wouldn’t pay attention to me. Wouldn’t attack me. I had a panic attack every day. I relied on 2mg of Xanax to function, more if A wanted to touch me.
It’s been over a decade and I still think about that night whenever I have sex with someone new. Whenever someone stands too close to me on the subway. Whenever anyone is flirty or nice to me at a bar. I try to forget, but the stain of that January night remains.
***
“Mom?” My voice cracked as I spoke into my cell phone. “How do I get blood out of my coat?”
I could have Googled it, but I really wanted to hear her voice. She had gotten me the white peacoat with the fur hood for Christmas not even a month earlier. I loved it. It was just the right combination of Penny Lane from “Almost Famous” and warmth for Buffalo, New York, winter. The coat made me feel powerful at a time when I felt very much…not.
“Try cold water and some detergent,” my mom said. “How did you get blood on your coat?”
I was trying not to cry. I didn’t know how to explain why there was blood on my coat. The tears came anyway.
“What’s wrong,” my mom asked.
“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just really dry and I had a nosebleed,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry I ruined my new coat.”
I didn’t know how to tell her or anyone else what had happened to me. I didn’t know how to say rape. I wouldn’t know how to say it or talk about it for many, many years. But what I could do in that moment was try to get the blood out of my coat. Getting the blood out was the only thing I could think about. Thinking about anything else was too much. One task at a time. Step one, get the blood out, erase what happened. Step two, I try to forget.
I frantically scrubbed, but the stain remained. Still.
