Two Doors Are Not Enough
Dearest Dr. Christine Blasey Ford,
This nation owes you a world of debt. Of course, you will never be repaid in full. And undoubtedly there are additional costs to you and your family. There are the broad strokes; the major talking points about sexual assault, partisanship, politics, misogyny, midterms and truth. But I can’t stop thinking about you; just you as a woman in a body with a rapid heart rate and turning stomach. Probably a little out of breath and definitely low on sleep. Your poor nervous system that spent decades trying to outrun that terrible afternoon. You had to hold its hand and say to her: I’m sorry but we have to go back. We have to go back up those stairs and tell them our story.
You showed us that even two doors are not enough. Many years later as an adult, a doctor, a mother, a wife, you will advocate for an irrational second front door in a home renovation. Maybe you whisper to her, your precious locked safe of memories: see, I’m doing this for you. But she’s smarter than you and she will reply, it’s still not enough.
The years roll on and you will go on vacations and board many planes. You’ll wear more one-piece bathing suits and perhaps drink more beers. Maybe you’ll hear the songs that were playing in the house that day. You’ll go to individual therapy and couples counseling. You will give birth to boys and study human psychology. There will be birthday cakes and Thanksgiving dinners.
You will continue to track him. You will monitor his career and location, leery of where he could end up. See, we still have to be so careful, she will say. We may have to talk to a few more people, you tell her. Every decision in life, little and large, is made with a constant negotiation of safety. Parking spots, double locks, closed windows, walking with your husband in your neighborhood, leaving a restaurant, perhaps even sitting alone in your kitchen. You know where you are but she does not. But I’m 25, 35, 45 years-old now, you will tell her. It doesn’t matter, she will say.
And then finally the day will come. You will sleep in a hotel bed. You will somehow stand up that morning and get dressed, brush your teeth, put on that suit you distractedly chose last week. You will get more caffeine. You will drink more water. You will swallow, and then again. Put on more lip balm. Will your hands not to shake. Maybe you tell your boys you love them. Tell your stomach it needs just a bite of toast or yogurt. Please, do we have to? I don’t want to go. I want to throw up, she says.
For those few hours in front of a country, you showed us the genius electrical wiring in us all — when damaged and tested — is never quite the same. It’s jittery and stubborn in its refusal to forget. And always at the ready to shock us back into that fight or flight. You did your best to give it a great show of distraction — a PhD, a marriage, two children. Hell, you even laugh and celebrate and thrive. You exceed and excel in spite of and because of her. Behind that wood desk and tiny microphone, you brought her into the light. This is how we do it. This is how we tell our story. Thank you for protecting me for all these years, you tell her.
Now I wish for you more peace with each passing day. More restful nights in your own bed. Deeper breaths and a calmer stomach. A relaxed heart rate and fewer headaches. Please tell her, that hardwired beautiful nest of nerves and fibers, that I hope she can take a break, finally. She has done an excellent job.
Sincerely,
Kate Suddes
