• Janice Brantle

#Whyididntreport



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#Whyididntreport

Shit, the garage door. I forgot to get the opener from him. I said to myself as I laid in my bed replaying our conversation.

Me: It’s over. This is not right. You’re married and according to you, it was never about me. You don’t plan on going anywhere. I’m out.

Him: Let’s just talk about this face to face.

Me: Stay at home with your wife, I’m done. Click. I hung up the phone.

I laid there contemplating my life choices. All sorts of things were running through my mind. How could I let myself get involved with a married man? With those thoughts, I drifted off into a fitful sleep all to be startled awake with the squeak of my garage door opening at sunrise.

I braced myself. I knew it was him. I took my key the other day signifying that I was truly finished, but forgot the damn garage door opener. He slowly crept up the stairs. He darkened my bedroom doorway.

“Can we talk?” He asked using his poorly disguised dejected voice.

“No, go away.”

“Please.” He says walking fully into the room sitting on the bed. “I came all this way.”

“I didn’t ask you to. How’d you get out of the house this early anyway?”

“I told her I had to get to work early to finish some reports do today.”

“Well, you need to get out now,” I said irritated.

He reached for me. I moved out of his reach, scooting closer to the wall. He got into the bed with me pulling the covers over us. I couldn’t move any further. Before I knew it, he was on top of me.

“Get off of me,” I yelled squirming to get from under him.

He pulled my gown up with one hand and pinned my arms above my head with the other. He forced himself inside me. I kept yelling for him to get off of me. He refused. My alarm clock rang. He asked could he turn it off. I said get off of me, again. He finished what he started. I lay there in shock. Wondering did this actually happen?

“Are you going to work?” He asked. I was screaming in my mind Hell No. I would have to look at you all day there.

“No,” I said. I slowly got up, grabbed my robe and went downstairs. I curled up on the couch. I refused to cry. I didn’t want him to see me cry. A few minutes later, he came downstairs.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked.

I couldn’t even look at him. I whispered, “You know what you did.”

The realization of what he did flash across his face. He left quickly the same way he came in, through the damn garage. I lay on the couch dazed. Finally, the tears came. Who could I tell? What can I say? He’s my boss. He’s married. We were involved. I felt it was all my fault. #whyididntreport.

I don’t know if Brett Kavanaugh actually tried to rape Christine Blasey Ford. What I do know, if it did happen, the trauma of it all is unforgettable. I also know that if the allegations are true, he is not fit to sit on the highest court in the land.

I want to say a collective prayer, for all of the rape survivors. I say a prayer for this country so that the leaders, can stand up and do the right thing!

Until next time, enjoy the journey!

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Snellville, GA

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