What I was Wearing

(CW: sexual assault)

The dress was slate grey and patterned with black cats. It had a black collar and hit my legs just below the knee. I bought it from ModCloth. My youngest daughter said it was "twirly" and she would demand that I spin as long as possible to make the skirt of the frock whirl. She would giggle, clap, and tell me I was pretty. This was my favorite dress. It looked like something a Shirley Jackson character would wear. In fact, I wore that dress on my 39th birthday when a dear friend treated me to the Nashville Ballet's production of "The Lottery." I felt really pretty in that dress. It was the ultimate cat-loving librarian dress. 

On October 27th, 2019, I took my two children to a Harry Potter themed event. I wore this dress because it seemed like the most perfectly witchy dress I owned. My children and I played games and explored vendor tables. Then their father picked them up. Once I was child-free, I walked over to the pop-up Harry Potter tattoo event and got a small book with the page number 394 tattooed near my right wrist. After the event, I met a friend for coffee and then I went home. 

Another friend wanted to talk and I agreed and invited him over. 

He raped me.*

He removed my favorite dress and said the most horrible things about me and my body. Afterwards, the dress went from the floor to the Red Bank Police Department's evidence room. 

It may still be there. It may not. 

I could never wear that dress again. 

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I've thought about that dress for almost an entire year. I've been close to buying other cat print dresses and some with a similar collar, but I've always hesitated. I didn't want a dress that reminded me of the dress I was wearing when I was assaulted. 

I wanted my fucking dress. 

That man took a dress that made me feel beautiful and turned it into something that made me feel like trash. I provided an Instagram picture of me wearing the dress to the police to show what I was wearing. Oh, yes. The police absolutely asked what I was wearing and the length of the dress. 

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For the past week the morning and evening air is crisp. The sunlight has a golden slant. Autumn is approaching and there's something about the season that made me think about the dress. I'm also thinking about the anniversary of the rape and my order of protection running out (don't worry, he fled to another state.) 

I want my fucking dress. 

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On a whim, I ventured to a ModCloth fanatic Facebook group. I shared a picture of me in the dress, briefly explained what happened, and asked if someone in the group had the dress and would be willing to part with it. In less than ten minutes a beautiful soul, Emily, said she had the dress and would send it to me. She refused payment and mailed it out promptly. The package arrived on Saturday. I waited a bit to open it and then I waited until today to try it on. 

I cried when I opened the package. I cried when I tried on the dress. I cried as I twirled in the dress. I thought about what happened and what that stupid man took from me. Then I rejoiced that I reclaimed this dress. It is mine. I look beautiful in it. I'm still here. I'm still me. I can still rock this dress. He has no power over me. I feel like this dress was his Horcurx and I fucking slayed it. 

This is about so much more than a dress. It is about reclaiming my confidence and self-worth. I will never forget what happened and it has changed how I think about the world and continues to impact my mental health and how I view myself. However, to wear this dress and wear it with confidence is an act of defiance, of strength, of revolution against that man and the rape culture that empowered him. Consider this my smashing the patriarchy dress armor. 

 

 (*you can read more about my experience and how it impacted me here and here.)