“She’s stinks,” someone shouted from the elevators. I had just come out of the girl’s bathroom, not aware that anyone was watching. I turned and found a young boy and his followers snickering to themselves before the elevator closed shut. 

I remember walking back to the computer room, taking a seat robotically in front of my computer, feeling nauseous. My body—hot and aching all at the same time. The Incident form appeared over the screen and immediately I had filled in the required information, my fingers barely working. In the description section, I gave the account of the encounter with the teenage boys, describing it as sexual harassment. 

After hitting send and reporting the incident to the on-duty security guard, the library’s treasurer requested that I use the correct terminology when addressing the incident. It wasn’t sexual assault—it was sexual harassment. My fist curled shut, and my mouth wanted nothing more than to shout. Why the hell did it even matter?!

I had to retell the incident several times to at least three different people that day. The random girl working with me. My boss. The heartless treasurer, and the aloof security guard. My supervisor suggested I sit in her office, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to cry in front of someone who I knew was set on firing me.

 I had worked at the library for about two months, and in that time I didn’t learn a damn thing. It became a problem when my supervisor called me into her office one day to discuss the disconnect between my job performance and resume. All I could say was, I’m trying my best— just to get her off my back. I knew she wasn’t buying my lies, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to apologize for lying when I was in over sixty thousand dollars of student loan debt.

Four weeks later I left that job, along with a gig from an up-scale card store, in hopes that Columbus would help me forget Cleveland and everything that came with it.

I ended up moving back in with my mother. Back to Cleveland, and back to Hell. 

I’d stay up past one in the morning, writing and listening to music because I couldn’t sleep. I thought it was because I was a night owl, and that my best work spawned during the odd hours of the night. Other times, I used it as an excuse to watch celebrity live streams and interviews. But I knew the truth—I just refused to say it outloud. Speaking the truth only solidified everything else in my life, and made it even harder to swallow. 

I used to enjoy going outside, but as I got older, it got harder to leave my room. I was stuck in the house all day watching movies, eating soup and leftovers, while convincing myself that I’m content with being a homebody. There was a snow blizzard one day, and it snowed all morning until suddenly stopping in the afternoon. As the last snowflake fell, I understood it was time to take a shower, get dressed, and deliver everyone’s Christmas presents. I had even blanked on the merriest time of the year.

I hadn’t seen my best friend since she moved into her apartment with her first girlfriend, and I couldn’t stop making false promises that I’d come over at some point. Truth is I didn’t feel like going and making small, awkward talk. She was just as bad at communicating as I was, lacking any filter or decision-making abilities.  Not to mention all the careless drivers I had to deal with between my house and her’s—it wasn’t worth it. Eventually though, I’d trudge to her. That was the most basic thing a good friend could do. I’m supposed to enjoy visiting people I don’t like because it’s the right thing to do. My personality is nothing but an expectation.

That’s why I continue to go to work everyday,  the dollar store, and Chipotle twice a week. I have to deal with the teenage boy who tries to sell me his mixtape in front of a movie theater, always refusing to look me in the eye when he talks. The janitor at my job who grabs his junk every time he sees me walking down the halls, and the white girl serving my $10.80 chicken bowl with more rice than chicken.  I deal with it and I sit, not saying a word, not saying anything because what good does that do? 

I said something that day in the library computer room,  and had to retell the same story several times over. The security guard had banned the boys from the library for two weeks—a good, firm slap-on-the-hand. Well done. Three teenage boys harassed me, and the treasurer only cared enough to correct my terminology. A white, privileged woman, who probably hadn’t spent more than an hour or less with a black person—didn’t give a damn about what happened to me. No one cared, and I was left unheard.