Nothing prepares you for having your butthole touched by a child.
The day I got my butthole touched, I’d been racing around Jaipur, happy as a clam in my zebra-stripe yoga pants.
*(When we walked by, this monkey was staring at us with an erect penis. Unimportant to the story, but I needed you to know).
Since I get nervous after dark in new places, we planned to return to our hostel before sunset.
But when the time came….
The problem with watching sunset is that once that sun sets, the sun has set.
That’s my “I’m being calm” face.
Back on the streets of Jaipur, we decided to Uber. Uber would be faster than taking the bus.
Or not.
Like an empanada, I was starting to sweat. Past assaults crossed my mind—would I get punched? My breast grabbed?
My anxiety is deaf to logic.
Waiting for Uber, two kids flanked us. With my pre-worries, I felt ready for anything.
Cloudy with a chance of assault?
One hundred percent chance of butthole-touching.
More than that, this kid had swiped right on the entire length of my crotch, ending at my butthole.
Say it tain’t so.
Uber arrived. Five stars?
During all three assaults, my husband was right there with me. What happened to safety in numbers?
With butt-touching children amidst, I decided to obscure the target zone.
Luckily sweatpants are very on-trend.
Like I did after the face-punch and the boob-grab incidents, I shared my story.
Punny.
Eight-year-olds are sexually repressed in India?
Ok.
To be fair, I had thought the same.
For future safety, I asked my husband a favor:
That’d be great.
When you get punched in the face by a stranger, go to dinner. Eat even if you’re crying. Afterward, go to a show (it doesn’t have to be about post-partum depression).
When you get a boob grabbed by a burn-victim tween, keep riding your bike. Take selfies.
When you get a finger up your butt by a child, take an Uber home and eat curry for dinner. Order something special—treat yo’ self!
Spend time with people who make you feel safe, secure, and loved. Laugh, joke, and cry at the situation.
Be kind to yourself. I always believed that if threatened, I would fight. After reading more about the psychology of fear, I now understand that humans often freeze or flee when threatened. We rarely fight. My reactions, although foreign to me, were normal.
Your trauma is your trauma. Assault can happen in different forms and intensities. Finding terminology to describe your experiences can feel awkward. I still struggle to categorize mine. Sometimes, I feel like I am overstating if I use the terms assault or sexual assault—seems unfair to people who have experienced more serious trauma. Ultimately, there’s no sense in comparison.
Bottom line: life is weird. Talking with someone you trust about the weird stuff helps. Talking helps even if it’s embarrassing, even if it’s hard to categorize, even if it’s having your butthole touched by a child on the street.
I know enough Arabic to be a dick to children.
Arriving in Luxor, Egypt, my husband and I planned to see Karnak Temple. Prepped and pumped to bike along the Nile River, we set out on our adventure.
It was just an ok day.
*(There were no crocodiles, but I love crocodiles, so I drew them anyway).
Five minutes into our bike adventure to Karnak, a group of children sprinted toward us. Their eyes gleamed with excitement as the foreigners approached.
The kid in front didn’t really say that. He asked for a Euro, too.
With the kids crowding us, I knew what to say.
I said “no thank you.”
Having heard Arabic before, the children were unimpressed.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Hand firmly on my bike, the kid in front revealed his belly button.
He wanted to show me something.
Wearing what looked like a poorly made Halloween mummy costume, the kid had wounds—burn marks and deep scarring.
He really wanted a Euro.
With the big reveal, excitement surged: maybe now I’d like to hand over a Euro?
Feeling like a total dick for not turning over any Euros, I tried “no thank you” again.
The kid let go of my bike.
…and grabbed my boob.
It happened fast; I doubted it even happened. My husband rushed over to settle the crowd.
We didn’t throw him in the Nile. There are crocodiles in there.
I spent the remainder of the day ruminating.
Answers hung on the precipice. Was I angry or sad? Was my assailant a victim or perpetrator? Was he a child or young man?
I took a break from selfies.
Have you ever been to a rainbow party?
Maybe they’re mythical—like unicorns or Canada. (It’s unfortunate, because Canada sounds like a nice place).
One day, my husband and I had dinner plans with his mom. Engrossed in conversation, we exited the Washington, D.C. Metro.
And I got punched in the face.
So much blood—at least two drops or more. Just enough to make me look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
We looked at my attackers. The attackers stared back, curious how we would retaliate.
I cut them deep with my words.
Would have been a lot cooler if he did… (The way Matthew McConaughey says it in Dazed and Confused).
Canceling plans due to “I got punched in the face” feels weird.
On TV, there were rumors about teenagers punching strangers in the face. I’d placed those rumors in the same category as rainbow parties: possibly fake.
Maybe rainbow parties ARE real.
After composing myself, we continued to dinner with my mother-in-law.
We tried to enjoy dinner but there was a crying baby in the restaurant.
After dinner, we walked to the theater.
I totally held it together.
At the theater, I grabbed a playbill.
The play began with a spotlight shining on a disturbed elderly woman screaming like a wailing baby.
Then my husband said something really mean.
Three hours???
The wrong person got punched in the face that day.
I later confided in friends about the punching incident.
Should he have left me alone and bleeding?
Is that something people do?
I felt like a turd.
I don’t think I had a cunty look on my face.
What joke with the peanut?
If you have been living under a stupid rock, “LOL” stands for “laugh out loud.” People have been LOLing since digital messaging began. Grandmas lol. Millennials LOL. Hipsters LOL ironically.
Everyone lols in their own way.
What does lol have to do with an open casket? Nothing.
But I wanted to draw a comic about death, dreams, and a charred body. I thought LOL would make everyone more comfortable. LOL.
Few things are more uncomfortable than looking at dead bodies.
But seeing a body must help internalize something; give a sense of finality.
We didn’t have an open casket for my sister, Melissa.
The plane that carried my sister went missing with no witnesses and no recorded flight plan. It felt extremely fake.
The night before she went missing, Melissa and I spoke on Skype.
We talked for over an hour. She did not mention plans to board a plane the next day.
While she was missing, my family went to Melissa’s apartment to double-check that she wasn’t hanging out in her room and ignoring her phone calls. Also to feed Melissa’s cat, Snibbles.
I asked my mom to look for the camera, to which I was now oddly attached.
Snibbles is a de-clawed indoor cat on whom we project fantasies of escaping to the great outdoors.
My family learned that Melissa had gone on a plane sight-seeing trip with some friends around Glacier National Park.
Glacier covers over one million acres of places to hide plane crashes. The park is also surrounded by millions of acres of additional plane-crash-hiding forest and wilderness.
It was like playing “Where’s Waldo?” but less fun. For several days, rescuers searched for the plane.
Did the plane fly to Canada? Did they crash in a river? Did they crash and die, their bodies eaten by bears? (a ranger told us this happened after a plane crash several years earlier). Did they crash in the wilderness and were attempting to hike out on broken legs?
Of course, most of the survivors in JP3 are later eaten by dinosaurs.
After three days of scouring the remote wilderness, search parties found the wreckage. My younger sister Emily messaged me on Skype.
My dad called. Turns out it wasn’t a ruse by Snibbles after all. LOL.
I returned home to prepare for Melissa’s funeral. On arrival, I was welcomed by new terrible details.
Snibbles pretended like nothing even happened.
Melissa was getting regular dental checkups. Good for her.
It took the coroner a few days to report the cause of death.
My family was terrified that Melissa and her friends had survived the crash, only to be trapped in the plane during the subsequent fire.
The autopsy came. I never read it, but I remember the manila folder sitting in our living room.
My mom told me what the autopsy said.
They weren’t killed in the fire. They were killed before the fire. lol.
The casket was closed at Melissa’s funeral. Was having it open even allowed?
Did I want to see her remains, knowing I would never be able to un-see? I don’t know. I know that I was curious. I know that I was scared.
I still don’t know the extent of the damage to the bodies. I never asked to see pictures.
We gave the mortician a yellow dress for Melissa to wear inside the casket. She had been searching for a yellow dress, and a few days before she died, she called my mom to say she had found one.
Did I really want answers?
I wanted to see Melissa’s body when we found out she had died. I wanted to protect her body, even if she wasn’t “there” anymore.
I hate that her body was burned after the crash. I hate the images my mind conjures. I hate knowing that there was any type of injury on her body at all.
I wanted to cry over her like they get to in the movies—and some people get to do in real life.
Sometimes I think not seeing Melissa’s body, and not having an open casket at her funeral, is at the core of a problem I’ve experience since she died—incessant “GOTCHA” dreams.
GOTCHA!
Before Mel’s death, I imagined my dreams would allow me to reconnect following the death of a loved one. I assumed dreams would be a way—the way—to stay connected to a person after their death. It would be a beautiful, calming experience.
Instead my dreams after Melissa died are … disappointing.
In the dreams, Melissa tries to lead me astray with bogus excuses of her whereabouts.
New Dumphries? Cha-right.
Definitely a fake school.
My sister was a terrible liar.
Waking up from these dreams is the worst.
But I don’t hug her.
Instead of appreciating her, I drill her with 20 questions about her whereabouts, irritated by her implausible answers.
Would I have the dreams I romanticized—where I get to reconnect with Melissa and it’s an awesome and beautiful experience—if she hadn’t died suddenly? Would my dreams be rose-colored if her body hadn’t been blacker than burnt toast, and I could have seen her?
I have no idea. Lol.
Depression traps me in a cage of thought.
Thoughts about bad choices in my life; thoughts about my dead sister; thoughts about giant squid.
The worst things imaginable.
The cage hates activities and gives me an excuse to avoid doing anything I don’t want to.
Rational me cannot be heard—the cage doesn’t care how I smell.
I destroy everything in my path, a phenomenon I call “Sarah wuz here”.
The cage makes me look like a real dick.
With the cage on, lying is fine.
Lie expertly disguised.
Honesty in the final hour. No one is mad.
Wearing the cage and making plans is a big problem. On Valentine’s Day, I was supposed to go out with my husband.
It was meant to be a date at a new cafe with the love of my life—ice cream.
I hated ice cream.
We embarked on a romantic walk.
I would like this date to be over.
Not even my love (still ice cream) could cheer me up. Unlike my melting ice cream, the cage kept me frozen in place.
As we sat in the cafe, the sun began to set over the city. I sat up, and a ray of light hit me in the face.
I immediately noticed its beauty.
Then something strange happened—I started melting.
The ray of light appeared to trigger some reaction, causing my thoughts to melt out of my head and through the bars of the cage.
It was super weird.
The shock of freedom caused the cage to begin coming apart.
Awareness of my surroundings set in.
It was horrifying.
Finally seeing beyond myself, drastic action was needed.
I began by visiting an old friend.
I threw myself at the mercy of the shower.
Washing away the shame and guilt of depression is uncomfortable.
I continued cleaning “Sarah wuz here” damage.
It’s important to give yourself some credit.
I painstakingly put the pieces of my life back together.
I made a solemn vow.
With the cage removed, I conquered depression forever.
Motherfucker took my ice cream, too.
For my wedding, I walked down the aisle to Frozen’s “Let It Go.”
To this, my friend said “What are you, 12?”
No, Olaf. I’m 29. I walked down the aisle to “Let It Go” because it describes my daily life (AND I’m a mother-effing blonde-haired princess).
THE END.
PS. You sang “Let It Go” in your head while you were reading, didn’t you.
I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love you, a story about a young woman whose husband suddenly dies.
Following the funeral, the wife lies in bed calling his cell phone over and over.
It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.
When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.
I sobbed when she didn’t answer.
I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.
I pulled my family into it.
It was a little funny.
During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.
Something that barged in on my pity party.
Something that introduced me to Jeff.
I hung up on Jeff.
Melissa’s cell phone account had only been closed a few months. My beloved calling routine had been taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.
As pack leader, it was my job to ensure that my younger brother and sister knew how to react.
Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made a call.
I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.
He seemed game.
Jeff and I connected immediately.
But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.
Jeff and I had an amazing summer together.
I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.
Classic Jeff.
I don’t remember much of our conversations.
What I do remember is the excitement shared when Jeff and I connected on the line.
If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.
A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.
My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.
I discuss the 3 D’s and Jeff on the podcast Everyone Dies, a nonprofit exploring life-limiting illness, dying, and death. To jump to the interview, begin listening at 30:39 minutes in. In the first half of the podcast, nurse practitioner Marianne Matzo and co-host Charlie Navarrette discuss the role of depression, cognitive tests, and brain imaging used to diagnose dementia or other possible causes. You can find the podcast on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you get your Podcasts. Just search Everyone Dies (Every1Dies). Or listen here!
Growing up, there were two types of dolls—American Girls and Barbies.
The American Girls resembled real girls. They looked my age and had accessories, like eyeglasses and four-poster beds.
They were boring.
This is where Barbie came in.
With Barbie’s heaving breasts, high heels, and made-up face, she was DTF.
Barbie changed the way I played with dolls. I could switch from tea with the American Girls to a Barbie and Ken bang session—all in one afternoon.
Discretion was key.
I could have played Barbies in private to avoid the charade, but I preferred to play in the living room. In our family of six, the living room had all the action. I wasn’t about to miss out for the sake of decorum.
Plus “boundaries” aren’t really my thing.
The coast was NOT clear.
My siblings, who are normal, sometimes opted to play alone in their rooms.
I didn’t understand it.
Melissa was especially good at locking out family—me in particular.
I hated being left out and desperately wanted to know what Melissa was doing in there.
One day, I hatched a brilliant plan.
I artfully dramatized my departure.
My mother took forever to get the hint.
Despite my mother’s meddling, the plan remained on track.
I began to sprint.
At top speed, I launched my 60-pound self against the door.
Shoulder bruised, but high on adrenaline, I scanned my surroundings.
My eyes locked with Melissa’s, a look of horror etched on her face.
In front of her was Ken, lying naked on top of Barbie in the four-poster bed. An American Girl doll lay by the wayside.
As quickly as I arrived, Melissa threw me out, slamming the door behind me.
We spent the reminder of our childhood pretending The Incident never happened.
I never looked at that boring four-poster bed the same.
