“Don’t wear that, you’ll get raped.”
“Don’t say that, you’ll get stalked.”
“Don’t leave your door unlocked, you’ll get robbed.”
Not only is the above poor grammar, it’s a disturbing way to think. This thinking implies that if someone rapes, stalks, or robs me, then I was “asking for it.” According to this thinking, the way I look or behave justifies the crime. According to this thinking, a pretty house that sits upon a hill deserves to be robbed. And I think this thinking can go fuck itself.
I have a good head on my shoulders and an intuitive ability to read people well. This has protected me from troublesome situations since I’ve been on my own as a teenager. I am suspicious, but not paranoid.
I scoff at melodramatic people who constantly fear becoming the victims of violence, over dramatizing events in their head. I tell them, “You’re in the suburbs. You will not be carjacked, mugged, shot, or murdered. Your paranoia is heightening only my annoyance with you, not your safety.”
But lately that annoyance has been directed internally: I recently have been thinking like one of those people. I can’t walk to work, run through neighboring trails, or even leave my apartment without fearing I may be abducted, raped, or harmed in any way.
The reason for such a sudden and dramatic shift in worldview: I have a stalker.
Yes, a man is stalking me. To this stalking man, “No, I don’t want to see you again” translates to “ask until I give in” and “go away” means “return until I agree.” It’s not flattering. It’s not romantic. It’s terrifying and an absolute violation of my sense of security and peace. And it not only terrifies me, but it pisses me off. It offends me especially because I have hit the reset button on life (once again). I’ve moved to a completely new city, started a new job, and moved into an apartment alone. What I need to focus on is creating a happy and peaceful environment for myself. So this hindering stalker situation is the exact opposite of what I need. It can just be added it to my list of problems (you’ll hear more should you choose to return, dear reader). So My Dearest Creeper, I have enough issues without having to worry about you. Ain’t nobody got time for this.
To add to my frustration, a couple of people have blamed me for the situation. Yes. Someone actually holds me responsible for a man harassing me at my workplace and my home. Allow me to back track and replay the dialogue between me and a guy when I revealed this alarming news:
Me: I have a stalker. He came to my work three times in one day and again the next day even after I told him to leave me alone.
Him: What did you say to him? You need to be careful how you talk to people! I’ve seen how you are with people.
Me (thoughts): Fuck you! Oh, forgive me. That was the opposite of “careful.”
Why is it some people’s initial reaction to blame the victim?
My appearance and my actions do not justifiably prompt wrongdoing.
I could have told this man, unbeknownst a stalker to me, that I sit in the window of my workplace scantily clad and diddle myself. Even if I said that, it would not give him just cause to repeatedly appear at my work and home after I tell him to leave me alone. Well, perhaps there are limits. If I told him that, then I might be partly culpable. But still.
Controversial thinking alert: I can dress provocatively, interact flirtatiously, and leave my front door unlocked. It does not mean that I deserve to be raped, stalked, or robbed. I was not ‘asking for it.’
Let’s change our mindset people. Let’s teach: Don’t Rape and Don’t Stalk instead of Don’t Get Raped and Don’t Get Stalked.
And let’s end this victim-blaming bull shit.
Now back to my stalker.
I don’t blame him for stalking me. I’m the tits.
But seriously, how did this happen? How does one obtain a stalker? DID I say something to lead him on?
The obvious answer: I’m a freak magnet.
The surface answer: I thought I was having a casual conversation with a normal human being. I thought wrong.
The detailed story: One sunny evening I am at the dog park with my mutt, enjoying the last bits of sun. Most dog owners conglomerate at the gate, socializing. No thanks, not for me. I have to put on an exhausting socializing show at my job so I, a borderline introvert, want to unwind. I bring a blanket, a book, and enjoy my solace at the furthest end of the park.
Being at eye-level with the dogs invites many cold noses to poke me and paws to trample over my lap. The owners make quick apologizes, exchange friendly conversational lines, retrieve their dogs, and move on. This happens frequently, but I don’t mind. The interruptions disrupt my reading only briefly, and I quickly rediscover what page I’m on.
This happens again with a seemingly normal guy. He calls his dog back, but lingers a bit longer than the rest. He is friendly and nice. He reeks of typical, ordinary, unalarming American citizen. He looks like an older version of Greg Kennear (the dad in Little Miss Sunshine), but just a little more defeated by life. He talks about his work, his kids, his divorce. Now he reeks of sour loneliness and I periodically return to my texting and reading, using either screen as a distraction. He seems to pick up on the social cue and says, “I’m sorry to disturb your solitude.” But we exchange unpleasant pleasantries for about five more minutes.
Then he mentions he volunteers at a dog shelter. This perks my interest. I say, “Oh! Which one? I’m looking to volunteer.” It’s in a neighboring city (the Dallas / Fort Worth area is too big, the second metropolis in the United States, if you didn’t already know). I tell him I’ll look into it, but I’m only interested in nearby places, preferably within walking distance since my car is on the fritz. He then sits down and pushes that the dog shelter is accepting other volunteers and asks me to wait while he retrieves a card from his car. As he walks away, I think, ‘Time to pack up. Enough extroverted activity for me.’
He meets me as I am making my way to my car. He walks beside me. ‘Ok, apparently he’s ready to leave, too.’ He hands me the card. His name, cell phone number, and work information are printed on the front with a faded image of Old Glory waving in the background. On the back I see the dog shelter information scribbled in blue ink. I say, “Thanks, but I am going to volunteer at a place closer to me.” He asks if I’m familiar with a nearby dog park that has a lake where my dog can swim. He says, “Call me if you ever want to go there sometime.” I politely acknowledge him with a slight grunt, hop into the driver’s side of my car through the window (because the door is broken and will no longer open, of course. Just add it to the list of problems).
He calls out, “It’s a good thing you’re limber.”
‘Oh GROSS!’ I drive away quickly.
The next day as I walk into work, my coworker tells me, “Someone was here to see you. David, from a volunteer dog shelter. He said he’ll be back later.”
How does he know where I work? I don’t remember telling him. Why is be being so persistent when I said, ‘no?’
Four hours later it’s time for my lunch break. As I make my way across the parking lot, one of my four managers calls me back. She says, “Some guy was just here to see you. I told him you weren’t here and he said, ‘I know she’s here, I know her car and parked next to her.’ Then he said he was going to the bookstore to look for you. He gave me the creeps!”
Red flags. This has developed into a worrisome situation. I can see his car parked in front of the bookstore and I avoid walking across the parking lot until he leaves. I reassure myself, ‘Surely, he won’t come back a third time.’
Oh but he did return, when it was dark outside and I was the only manager in the building.
I am in the middle of searching for something a customer needs and simultaneously helping a coworker over the walkie talkie. Across the store, I see another coworker with panic in her eyes, waving her arms, trying to flag me down. I wonder what is wrong with her. I pivot and am face-to-face with him, like a scene straight out of a horror film.
Fight or flight?! Both. I firmly said, “Stay there!” And flew to the other side of the oversized store, retrieving an item a customer needed. Then I march up to the persistent invader.
“What are you doing here? Are you shopping for yourself?”
“No, I’m here to see you.”
(Bad goosebumps)
“Why would you do that?”
“You told me to.”
(Horror film shriek)
“NO, NO, I didn’t. Can you tell me what I said that made you think that?”
“Well…you said you worked here. And that you wanted me to come see you.”
“I said come see me? I don’t even remember telling you where I work, honestly. What did I say exactly?”
“Well you said you work here and…Well, I just wanted to come see you.” He kicks at an invisible pebble on the ground.
“Ok. Listen. You’ve made me uncomfortable. You have alarmed everyone I work with. They’re watching out for me and worried about me because you’ve been here THREE times looking for me. You’ve made my boyfriend uncomfortable, he’s come by the store many times to check on me. Do you see how that’s not ok? Do you understand how that makes me and everyone else uncomfortable?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Then he propped his arm against the rail behind him, leaned back, and stared at me. Silence.
(At this moment I knew that I wasn’t dealing with a normal, rational human being.)
“Ok well this is awkward,” I say, feeling both enraged and guilty for hurting his feelings. I look at him then the front door. He makes no indication of moving so I say, “I have work to do so I am going to walk away now. Unless you’re shopping, you need to leave.”
“Well. Do you want to go to the dog park with me tomorrow?”
“What?! No, definitely not. I’m working tomorrow [lie] and I don’t want to see you again. And unless you’re here shopping for yourself, you have to leave. Can I help you find anything…?”
“Do you still want to volunteer at the dog shelter?”
“No, I told you ‘no’ and that it was too far. You have to leave. The door is up front. I’m walking away now.”
Then he left, never to return again, I thought. Wrong again.
I was told a day later that he appeared the next day at a busy time. He wandered around the store, and waited in a long line to ask the same coworker where I was. He ran out of patience and before he spoke to her, though.
I was not there to witness this, it was relayed to me a day later.
Apparently after his visit, I stepped out of my apartment to go on a run and there he was, slowly driving past. I saw his unmistakable car, a blue hatchback Lexus, crawling past my apartment.
Needless to say, I had never run so hard or fast with these thoughts cycling around: ‘How does he know where I live? No, I have to be paranoid. That couldn’t have been him. But I saw him! That was him! That was his car! Did he follow me home?’
The second I arrived back at my apartment, I call the police. They want to send an officer to meet me. “What’s your apartment number ma’am?” “Umm…” “Ma’am, we’re the police. You can trust us.”
‘Can I?’ I wonder.
To fast forward: I relay the events to the police officer and show him the card creeper handed me the day prior. The officer calls the number, leaves a message, and tells me he will let me know how the conversation went before he leaves. I don’t hear back from him.
Then the next day, my coworker informs me the creeper had shown up at my work a fourth time.
My emotions crumble. I’m going through a difficult enough time even without this dramatic whirlwind. I hurry to the back so that no one sees me cry.
I feel defeated. I feel alone. I feel sick of falling into a damn damsel / victim role.
I pull myself together and mold my fear into gumption. I call the police again and ask them to record this fourth arrival in the report. He scoffs at me and says, “Umm..ma’am, I’ll add it to the phone record…”
“No. I want a report. I want this to be documented, I want a report, a report number, everything.”
[sigh] “Fine. I’ll send an officer out to speak to you…again.”
The same officer arrives. I ask if he has heard from him.
“Yeah.”
“Ok, what happened?”
“He said the exact opposite of what you said.”
Fuck you, Officer Jaded. I don’t care if you believe me or not. I may not be a missing person or murder victim, but I am trying to prevent that from happening.
A couple of days pass without a sign of him. In the meantime, I am obeying strict safety precautions my boss pushed for my company to implement She strongly pushed her boss to enforce company security measures now and for the upcoming months. If he is to show up at my workplace or apartment complex again, then he will be criminally trespassed. I am never to enter the building alone. At least one male must be scheduled during my work shifts. And I must let my boss know of my whereabouts at all times.
Before, this would have outraged me. But I finally grasped the gravity and potential danger of the situation. And I am incredibly thankful for her protection.
A few more days pass. Every time I leave my apartment and arrive at my destination, I text my boss. It’s weird being in constant communication with someone. At the end of the week, a detective phones me. He says he came across the report and is concerned about my safety. A man in uniform who gives a damn. What a relief.
The detective said, “I’m going to give him another call and have a ‘come to Jesus’ talk with him. I’ll paint a picture of how his life behind bars will look if he keeps this up.”
Before I hang up, I let him know I was so happy and grateful I am. I shriek “I’m going to bake you brownies!” Then I think, ‘Damn. Who’s the stalker now?’
He calls me back two hours later to let me know how the conversation went. He said my stalker insisted that I was receptive to his relentless visits and invitations to spend time together. This made my skin crawl.
“But that’s not true!
“I believe you. It’s a typical response. He’s not going to admit to stalking you. But I think he understands that he needs to stay away from you. I told him he has no reason to visit your town or your store. He doesn’t live in your city and he will not shop in your store again. He seemed to understand how the situation looked. He wasn’t like most of the dirtbags I deal with.”
I don’t care where he is placed on the sedimentary scale. I just want him to stay away from me. I just want to feel safe again.
The detective again assured me that it’s unlikely I’ll see the stalker again.
It sounds like a happy ending. While I am thankful for the detective’s initiative, it is unlikely that I will bake brownies, as the gesture may give the wrong impression, of which I am now paranoid about projecting.
Last venting points:
- I shouldn’t have to be so cautious of my actions and how I am perceived, even if a normal conversation will potentially lead a man on.
- I should be able to converse with a stranger and have a reasonable expectation of not being stalked.
- I should be able to leave my apartment without worrying about my safety.
- I shouldn’t have to text my boss every time I leave my apartment, once I arrive at my destination, and again when I safely return to let her know I’ve securely locked the doors behind me and that I haven’t been abducted (though I am inexpressibly grateful for her concern).
- My first conversation with my neighbors shouldn’t have to be, “Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Lindsey. Can we exchange information because I have a stalker who knows I live here and all of my close friends have families on their own to focus on, so if you hear a scream, that’s probably me being dragged away at gunpoint.”
- I never noticed how many blue hatchbacks vehicles exist. I sure as hell notice now. (Only three times the vehicle has been a Lexus, with Stalker Creeper behind the wheel).
- I also, sure as hell, have been deflecting every man’s gaze with a glare. Pigs. All of you.
- And just because I am not interested in a man does not mean I am a bitch, and I shouldn’t have to get bitchy for that message to reach both of his heads.
Pilgrim 