How to start the process?
Letter to the Editor | Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Dear Christine Blasey Ford,
It seems your story is blowing over like a bygone mythos. But, for me, it has not yet blotted to black.
See, I’m writing to inform you of a recent development in my well-being, which is that it is not well at all. I’m devoid of inner assets. And, for that matter, outer ones.
My eyes, which people used to flatter as my most attractive feature, are gone — that’s right, gone. Where to? Who knows. My eye sockets must look wretched but I wouldn’t know because, again, my eyes are gone. According to the doctors, the nerves in my vocal chords are shot, apparently they just frayed out like overused electrical wires. My heartbeat is irregular and my bladder, well, you can guess.
My inner resources aren’t faring much better either. I’ve undergone a drastic intellectual and ethical erosion. My mind’s eye has flown the coop just like my real eyes. I’m a terrible friend and a worse lover. I’m constantly bored and boring. It takes me far too long to text back the people I care about.
I’m literally dictating this letter telepathically to a computer, Christine. I’m shriveled up on a gurney. I’m hooked up to all kinds of wires and fluids to make my body and mind function. That is my level of incapacitation. Which would be fine if I weren’t evil. I’m evil and full of hate. I’m not only ignorant but an awful, terrible human being and I have no redeeming qualities to offer the greater fabric of society.
But hey, even though my mind can’t want much anymore, it’s still hanging on to those last threads of wherewithal. With those threads — though it’s sucking immense energy from what’s left of me to do so — I want to let you know that I believe you.
I believe you stumbled upstairs to pee and that they followed you and locked the door behind you. I believe he pushed you onto the bed and he held you down. I believe he and his friend were laughing and at that point you were crying. You were confused and crying, I believe that.
And I’m guessing it felt like it lasted a century. I believe you thought you were going to die in that moment. Even though he can’t go to jail at this point, I believe you. Even if nobody can do a single thing about it, I believe you.
NPR told me you’re a professor. You’ve got a Ph.D. and two master’s degrees — one from Stanford. You’ve published a bajillion articles and you’re smart as a whip. You’ve built up an enviable career and life for yourself and you did it all on your own. In extensive detail NPR informed me of your credentials, and let me tell you they are highly impressive to me.
But Christine, do you believe me? I’m not like you, I’m not a professor like you. I’m too young to know much about anything. I have no accomplishments to date. I’m blind, mute, deaf, unintelligent, incapable and I have no inner resources. Not to mention I’m rude and crass and ugly and fat and unemployed and forgot to pay my taxes and I dress like a slut. I don’t have any degrees, let alone from Stanford. I stole a car once. One time, I told my mom I hate her. One time, I had a crush on my second cousin. I can’t read or hold or speak the word paper let alone publish one.
Christine, I can’t get up from these wires. I can’t understand or love or hate. I can’t even move.
If they didn’t believe a woman like you, will they believe a thing like me?
Christine, please, how do I begin?
The views expressed in this Letter to the Editor are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.