I’m the kind of friend who gives a half-assed excuse to get out of things, like I have a stomachache, or I need to wash my cat. But, once in a blue moon, I’ll agree to step away from the safety of my room, where I’m usually watching the newest comedy special on Netflix, and talk myself into going out and “living a little.” I tend to reason with myself that, if I go out and meet new people, I’ll be guaranteed to have some good stories to tell afterwards.
One of these rare occasions where I agreed to go out happened in the dorms during my freshman year of college, right after I had made friends with a group of people who seemed like they knew how to have fun. A few of them invited me out for a night of dancing at a bar just down the street. I had to say yes because I had recently been thinking about how much I wanted to go out on a dance floor and dance the night away, like my mom had always talked about doing when she was my age.
We made it to the bar and got marked with red “X”s on the back of our hands before being let inside, where we were immediately greeted by a large dance floor twinkling in the colorful lights glaring overhead. The dance floor was crowded, but I was relieved, because it meant less people would be able to watch me butcher every dance move I attempted. As the night progressed, I didn’t get any better at dancing, but my friends, one by one, got asked by various men to dance with them, until I was one of the last ones. It was okay though, I was used to it, especially after all the middle school and high school dances where I practically owned the outskirts of the dance floor during slow songs, swaying to the music by myself.
But then this short, 30-something year old guy tapped on my shoulder and held out his hand to me, silently asking if I wanted to dance. My heart started to thunder in my chest because, hey, maybe college would be different from high school like my mom had promised me. Maybe there were guys out there who were interested in me.
Well, this guy was interested in me, but not in the way that I wanted him to be. He led me out to the center of the dance floor, surrounded by sweating bodies, and immediately grabbed my hips with his damp hands. Then, as the beat of the song started to speed up, he pulled me down to his height so our hips were joined together and he began to thrust into me. He was holding on so tight I was afraid I was going to have bruises the next day.
In the middle of the dance floor, I could feel my face burn red in embarrassment and fear. Even though I knew his eyes were trying to catch mine I refused to look at him – instead, I scanned around for my friends or, really, anyone who could help me. I finally spotted my group standing off to the side and, when they caught my eye, they started to wave and laugh, like everything was perfectly fine. I felt like a plank of wood in this guy’s grasp, petrified with fear at what was going on. I had never had a man get this close to me before, I was uncomfortable as hell, and I wanted it to stop.
It wasn’t until I shot a few more desperate looks at my friends that one of them caught on and came up to our side, this time tapping the guy on the shoulder and telling him that she wanted to step in. He seemed fed up that he had to back away from me, but he did retreat and I moved back to my group, trying to catch my breath and hold the tears back. When I reached them, some of my friends were still laughing at the spectacle I had apparently been putting on in the center of that dance floor.
There’s a reason why I haven’t been to a bar since 2017.
Before I go any further, I do want to make it clear that I have no intention to discredit the trauma that so many people have been forced to carry due to this pandemic. In addition, I want to acknowledge the privilege that I’ve had, staying home without having to work in person as an essential worker – I’m fortunate I’ve been given the choice to avoid being in large group settings.
While my decision to stay away from bars was initially due to anxiety, the pandemic has additionally made me keep my distance. I really would give anything to go back in time and stop this pandemic from ever happening but, since that’s unlikely to happen, I’ve settled for acceptance in the five stages of grief and have even found a silver lining in all of the social distancing and quarantining. Throughout the COVID-19 global pandemic, I’ve been safely tucked inside, protected not only from the virus but also all of the additional threats that loom outside my front door. Prior to the pandemic, stepping foot outside usually meant that I would be met with a shortness of breath or nausea that could only be partially barred with a stick of gum to calm down my nerves because I was so terrified of what could happen to me. But, since I’ve been spending just about all of my time at home (with the exception of a friend’s backyard or a park), I’ve found that I’m chewing gum a lot less often.
When there were talks of things safely opening back up before the delta variant brought infections back on the rise, I can’t say that I was exactly thrilled to return to bars, concerts, or sporting events. I had more of an, “aw crap” kind of reaction to Governor Gavin Newsom’s calls to reopen California. You see, with the idea floating around that we’d return to “normalcy” (whatever that means at this point), I found myself continually revisiting that night in that stuffy bar. That was what was out there in the world. That’s what we were all going back to.
No thank you, I’ll stay home and watch Bo Burnham’s Netflix special.
Over the past year, I haven’t worried once about someone slipping something in my drink, or being violated in any other way that makes my stomach drop just thinking about it. It’s really been freeing, almost as if I’ve been on vacation from being a woman.
So, when the time comes and my friends tell me they want to go out, I can’t say I’ll be eager to join them, as much as I enjoy their company. Even though I don’t think that I’ve even had it all that bad, I never want to go through something like what I experienced on that dance floor again: that stiff, helpless feeling still haunts me today. It’s a frustrating thing to navigate, because there truthfully is a part of me that genuinely wants to go out and have a good time. The thing is, I can’t see myself ever doing that unless I’m in the comfort of my own home. Every time I venture to a new place, I feel at my most vulnerable, and it really seems like only a matter of time before someone takes advantage of that.
The past year has shown us how to stay protected from the outside world and, in doing that, I’ve finally experienced what it’s like to let my guard down, even just a little bit. I walk around my house in shorts and never stop to think, “is this going to get me some unwanted attention?” I’ve danced in my room in the dark without a single care in the world, moving to the beat without someone pushing their body into mine. So, when I hear people express how excited they are to “go back to normal,” I hear them, but I can’t get myself to agree.
Instead, I feel both a strong sense of disappointment that there will inevitably be more uncomfortable situations down the road for me, and an overwhelming frustration that the anxieties I was finally able to set free in quarantine might be rekindled. Although a lot has changed in the world since the start of the pandemic, I fear that the dangers we’ve continually been warned about when going “out” still remain.
And those I’m not eager to face.
Alyssa Henderson
My name is Alyssa, and I’m a graduate from the University of California, Davis with a degree in English and film, currently working in the tech industry. When I first learned about Survivors to Superheroes, I was instantly touched by its goals to educate, support, and empower survivors because, unfortunately, there aren’t as many safe and helpful resources for young survivors online as there should be. Writing has guided me through challenging times and, with our literary journal, I’m especially excited to help cultivate a space where survivors and their loved ones can creatively express themselves through art and literature as a part of their healing process. In my spare time, you can find me cheering on the San Jose Sharks, attempting to play the bass guitar, and relaxing at the beach.
