I can’t tell you the exact date a boy carried me to his bedroom. I can’t tell you the address of the house where he locked the door after throwing me onto his bed. I can’t remember what we were watching on tv before he switched it off and said ‘let’s go downstairs’.
Those details don’t matter.
I remember his scent. I remember that it was the only time we were alone in the week I spent at his family’s home. I remember the 80’s plaid carpet and wallpaper and bedspreads that covered every inch of his basement bedroom. I remember the click of the lock.
These are the details that matter. They are what is seared into my memory.
The date doesn’t matter. His intent matters.
The specific address doesn’t matter. His actions matter.
To say that my experience and my memories - the ones that matter - are invalid because some details of that day are lost to time is exactly why girls and women don’t come forward when they are assaulted.
At 9 years old I didn’t march myself to a police station and report what this family friend did - which, because I had a second-long opportunity while his back was turned after clicking that lock to jump around him and run the fuck out of that room may or may not qualify as a crime - because I didn’t know he did something the police would care about.
I figured that out much later.
All I knew at the time was that he made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe and I’m really glad I had the chance to run.
To tell a woman her memories are false because she can’t remember details that you deem the most important, like whether it was a Tuesday or Saturday, or which acquaintance’s parents happened to be out of town that day? Those are not the parts of the experience that we remember. Not the parts that we see in flashes every single day. Not the parts that shape the way we see people and trust people.
Those details don’t matter.
She matters.