Surviving the good man.
On nice men, those who want to believe them, and those who don't want to believe us.
Disclaimer: I’m fine. That’s the only reason I can write this, so please, keep that in mind while reading. Also, trigger warning, rape and abuse.
My rapist was a good man, a good professor, a good dad. He taught me how to ride a bike by day and touched me inappropriately at night.
You’d almost think that there’s nothing wrong with what he did if you knew him, a little misstep, an honest man with strong urges and a cute little girl to satisfy them. He was a good man, after all, doesn’t that count?
I was terrified of that man for years, years after the trial was over and we had to hide for our safety. Locking doors was an everyday ritual that I almost let go of until I had to practice it again before sleeping.
There’s only one man who scared me the way he scared me, and that was my ex. A good man as well. I’d lie if I told you the opposite. A very nice man, the nicest, really. The kind everyone loves. I learned that those are the most dangerous, the ones you don’t suspect, because they’ll turn on you and swear they have good intentions, a pure heart. We often talk about innocence like it’s a feminine trait, no one performs innocence and victimhood like a white man who’s done some weird shit. Breaking someone unpurposely, do you know the concept? Men do that with women, a lot. You hear them whining about how much they never mean it, my rapist didn’t either, it wasn’t really rape anyway, and my ex? Never meant to scare me, he loved me dearly, after all.
It feels almost unfair to make this comparison. My ex never raped me, never touched me inappropriately, not even close, and yet the last night I spent in his apartment my body did that thing that I thought it’d never do again, that I thought I became aware enough for it to never happen again. I still try to convince myself that I’m being dramatic, but just writing about it tightens my heart. Fingers flinching on that keyboard at 2am, wondering if I should type the next word.
I got scared of him. Fucking scared. I called my aunt and two friends to let them know I was scared, scared. He physically intimidated me and that was enough for me to sleep with one eye open, just in case. That was the peak of weeks of subtle intimidation, quite honestly months. Months of making me understand that I wasn’t home, that I was in his territory, that I owed him because he’s been patient with me before, that he didn’t want me here but I came anyway, here, where his rules apply and I should shut up and take it, with a smile of course, otherwise it was proof that he was right, I didn’t want to be here, he was the real victim. Months of unfair conflicts, nothing big, a refusal to stop interrupting me when asked to do so, power play with dishes, a messy kitchen when I need to cook, a comment about how my reactions aren’t normal, how this is his apartment, his kitchen, so he’ll do as he pleases. Nothing big enough for anyone to gasp, yet as deep as it needs for it to cut until the bone. He knew that, anyway, when this all ends, I’ll lose a lot, and him, well, just a heartbreak, while pretending that he was the one losing it all. The manipulation is what scared me, because the only time I’ve been in this situation, a man more powerful than me that claims to love me while hurting me, and pretending to be a victim, well, you know.
I guess it doesn’t help to be hyper-vigilant and know the numbers, know that home is where good men become monsters, behind closed doors, in a warm bed. I kept saying to that friend that he became Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, he was a good man so she didn’t register it as danger. One time I called her during a panic attack I had in his parent’s home, after he meticulously degraded me because I didn’t feel comfortable with a change of plan, she reassured me, people are different when in their hometown, give him some time, and you just come from an abusive home, maybe you’re seeing abuse everywhere? Another woman would have probably taken this more lightly, or I don’t know, maybe that’s just him still talking through me. Irrational, unreasonable, childish, all words used to make me doubt myself. Maybe I was those things, and capricious as well. But that last night, when I tried to stay away from him and his gaslighting, he clearly stated « I don’t have to respect your boundaries anymore », any woman would have been scared, right? Right?
The worst with good men isn’t necessarily them, although that would make it easier, it’s us, those who believe them to be good. We need their goodness to be so damn real, we are ready to bypass the victims, let them suffer in silence while we prepare our brain for an altered reality. It’s incredibly easy for them to get away with what they do because we purposely let them, we find excuses, we enable before they even get the chance to say how crazy she is. They are the real victims, they wouldn’t have to be bad unless we make them. Right? Right.
The truth is, I was gently raped, and then gently abused, not extraordinary enough for anyone to clutch their pearls, raise an eyebrow, maybe. And then there’s the explaining But was he nice to you? I mean, yeah, he was, but... I swear I could hear myself begging people to believe me, to see my fear, hurt and anger, doing everything in my power not to say the obvious — I’m a black woman from a poor background who came to live with her white middle class boyfriend, in his country, in his hometown, in his family apartment. This could have been a cheesy interracial romcom if it didn’t turn out into one of the worst nightmares I had ever had to wake up from. It doesn’t matter that we were both mean to each other, he had the power to kick me out and make me homeless, in his hometown, where everyone believes him to be good, he can be the foreign black woman’s victim all he wants, no one will ever question it. His version will always be the chosen one. They all know it, watch a good feminist man turn to patriarchy the moment he’s asked to be responsible for his actions, a seemingly anti-racist use misogynoir to undermine you in your own intimacy. He knew that very well, and he used it, subtly enough to be able to hide it behind good intentions and clumsiness. Subtly enough for people to think that this is just about a couple that didn’t work out.
My problem is I fight back, or dare I say, I fight first. So what I get is what I deserve, nothing more, nothing less. That’s what he told me, in his own words. See, I wasn’t nice enough, and nice men are only nice to nice women, otherwise they make you regret every criticism, nagging, need, want, every sorry whispered in moments of weakness. How fucking dare she? And when it’s all over, and you finally tell the truth to people, they’ll underline what a waste of a good man this is, and how shocked they are, only for you to feel obliged to say more, and more. Every woman wants a guy that plans dates, buys flowers, and tells them they’re beautiful, and I had that, you don’t want to believe that the man who does that can also scare the hell out of you. We want to believe that men are either good or bad, no in between, no nuance. We want to believe that they make mistakes because they are human, mistakes that ruin someone else’s life and ability to sleep without checking the door.
I wish they were monsters, both of them, oh I wish they were terrible, disgusting monsters. But if they were, I wouldn’t have been hurt by them; someone else would have done it, someone nicer, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder, do they believe you more when you’re hurt by the alley guy or the drunk boyfriend? You know, I wrote five versions of this, not knowing if I should, thinking about it for weeks, the wording, the research to back up my story, to tell you that I didn’t deserve abuse just because I wasn’t nice.
I’m still trying to convince you. In my head, I’m begging you.
Hi, I’m Angèle, the woman behind Hey, I curate. If you’ve read it until the end, well, thanks a lot, it wasn’t an easy one. Like I said, I’m fine, but this is still a heavy topic, obviously, so please, keep that in mind while commenting.
One thing we should all have a right to is peace of mind in our own homes. Of course, it's never always going to be easy even in relationships in which people do treat each other with love and respect. But to go out of one's way to make another person feel uncomfortable and ill at ease in the one place that should be a place of solace is wrong. I'm sorry that you had that experience, Angèle. What you share will, with hope, be of benefit to someone who needs it, because a bad relationship doesn't have to be overtly abusive to be bad; they can be subtle and easily disguised to those outside of it.
Many thanks for sharing. Be well!
Thank you. This is nuance I have lived, and nuance we need to hear more of.