Awhile ago, after running several errands after work one evening, I stopped about a block away from the subway station to smoke a cigarette before the evening commute.
A homeless black man approached me and asked me for a cigarette.
“I’m sorry. This is my last one.”
I was actually sorry.
He went on to ask me what I thought about President Obama.
I spoke with him. I gave him my opinion and asked for his.
He expressed his opinion and asked to shake my hand. I hesitated to present my hand, but I did. When I did so, he pulled me into an attempted hug and then licked my face.
I actually laughed while extricating myself from the embrace and almost ran to the subway stop.
By the time I got home, I was almost hyperventilating and felt filthy. I took a shower. Used almost a whole bottle of Hand Sanitizer on every inch of skin he touched, including along my face and mouth.
Fauuuugh.
Even now, my mind recoils with horror and disgust.
I was still feeling upset so I called my mom.
I don’t remember much about the conversation, but I do remember my mom saying something like, “Weeellll, you known honey, you were probably the first person who had spoken to and been nice to him all day…”
And I remember saying to my mom, “Regardless, that doesn’t give him the right to violate my personal space.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, you’re right, he had no right to do that…”
I had the simultaneous realization that what I had said was right but it didn’t change the fact that I still felt so wrong.
I was wrong…about everything.
I shouldn’t have been smoking.
I shouldn’t have been standing on the street smoking a cigarette.
I shouldn’t have gone to Petco to buy my cat’s food.
I shouldn’t have been all the way over on the west side.
I shouldn’t have been alone.
I shouldn’t have been polite.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
I shouldn’t have just stood there.
I shouldn’t have agreed to shake his hand.
I shouldn’t have.
I just shouldn’t.
And like everything, I packed that bad feeling in a box and tossed it down the well.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
Only it’s leaking because it was pierced due to the stab of memory.
Friday, I got home to find my landlord standing on the front stoop of the building. I had to talk with him to complain about my neighbor’s two yappy dogs across the hall.
And suddenly, taps my arm launches into this major conversation telling me how much he doesn’t like that girl (tap), how much of a problem she is (tap), (tap, hold) how one time he saw on the video surveillance cameras that she her let her dogs pee on the floor in front of my door and that he made her get the cleaning supplies out of the basement and clean up that mess (tap) and how he doesn’t like that this girl who is so pretty (tap, hold) has gone out and gotten all those disgusting tattoos up and down her arms…
And as he’s telling me how much he doesn’t like those tattoos, he’s rubbing my arm.
So I just moved away and wished him a good evening and literally bolted into my apartment. And I didn’t really think about it; but I did. As the weekend progressed, the feeling that I just wasn’t comfortable in my own skin got more and more noticeable. By about now, I’m just upset that I can’t do anything.
And it’s not like I’m traumatized.
DISCLAIMER: I can differentiate between a violent assault and an invasion of personal space; and I am in no way, shape or form trying to equate my experience with that of a victim of a violent crime.
This morning, I called the former office manager of the building’s office who had worked with my landlord for five years.
Do you know what she said to me?
“You’re just such a warm person and people just feel so comfortable with you….You do. You’re just so welcoming…”
So it really is my fault.
That’s how I feel.
You can’t trust anyone.
You can’t even be polite, because it’s just a signal of vulnerability and there is always someone out there who will immediately exploit it you’ll regret it.
Posted in Borderline Personality Disorder, depersonalization, homeless posts, the past