Any Man

by Amber Tamblyn

as a person who made it through two attempts, who still sometimes wonders, who sometimes just wonders if it would’ve been better, you know? To’ve followed through?

Last and definitely least, to the woman known as Maude, if they ever find her, please send my broom’s handle to her in prison with a note saying, “I’m waiting for you here in hell, Maude. I’ve saved you a cot right next to me, for eternity.”

She was just a normal woman. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t ugly. She wasn’t really old but she wasn’t young either. She was just a normal woman. Do you know who I am, she asked me. I told her no. Good, she said.

It would’ve been only a count to ten. I was only ten years old.

The school counselor asked me why I did it. My parents asked me why I did it. Arthur asked me why I did it. But I never told them. I made a promise to her that I would never tell.

I told him what had happened when I was ten. It was the hardest thing I ever wrote. He didn’t write back. Instead, he just showed up. He just came straight here. He cried. Put his hand on the glass between us. He told me he was so sorry. Said I should’ve told someone. And so here I am. Telling you.

you. I want to tell you how brave you are. It is not easy to be brave. This world discourages authenticity from infancy. It is not easy to do what you just did. It is not easy to just . . . speak. Or even to wait to speak, for that matter.

Anyway . . . Who among us is not alone, Mr. Ellis? Which of us has forgotten her? None of us. Not one of us. “So thank you. That’s all. Thank you.”

I am not a survivor of rape. I did not survive.

live in a country built on celebritizing its citizens’ grief and amplifying stories of violence and assault for

People who live through sexual assault are a crash on the side of the road, and the American media is nothing more than cars slowing down just long enough to take a peek.

Tell me how you prove coercion? How you prove the difference between being hit on and hunted? How you prove your arms were held down? Your body was touched? Your life was threatened if you ever told anyone? For people who have suffered violent sexual crimes, proof—the very act of proving—is more than just a burden. It is boundless bearing. An eternity of futility.

I am in a body. It is not the one I came here with, but it is the one I’ll leave here in. I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My pain, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My heart, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now. My story, I will take care of it. It belongs to me now.

I just got chills. Like literal chills

I’m not a murderess, I do love a good ending to a man’s mind, especially if I’ve written it.

When I get there, I’ll ask someone if it’s true. Any man will do.