Don’t Take It Personally

KJ Hannah Greenberg

*Content Warning

Don’t take it personally, but I don’t like you. It’s not your yippy dog, nor your tendency to fart, but something else.

It’s your hands. They’re kinda big and awfully fat, but Mom taught me not to judge, so their size isn’t the issue.

Rather, it’s how you use them. Bad touch is never okay.

And yet, you kept visiting. You kept hoping I’d tell no one that you reached for my private places again and again.

What you didn’t know is that I’m a hero. I told Mom. I told the police.

At first, no one believed that a “lady” could be an offender. I told them otherwise. I even pointed them to websites that show while men are most of the perpetrators, women are perps too.

The police took careful notes. They asked Mom if I could come to a lineup at the station.

Mom nodded. After they left, she cried. I guess you were her friend since high school. She should have picked better friends.

For a while, I sat with Mom on the sofa. I didn’t hug her, though. I still need time away from touch.

The lineup was kinda interesting. I’ve seen them on TV and in movies. Real life is different. I didn’t look through a one-way window at people, but at a bunch of photos. The one of you didn’t include your dog. I’d never seen you without it.

Anyway, later, you were dismissed by the court on some sort of technical issue. That’s how monsters keep prowling.

You’re no longer welcome at our home. These days, Mom won’t talk about it. So, I get my support from an online chat group.

Really, don’t take it personally. Statistically, you, yourself, were likely abused.

Just remember, bad touch should never be rationalized or ignored. Maybe you can help. There are free clinics for this sort of thing.