We're Going to Need More Wine - Gabrielle Union Page 0,38

not even when I am back in my car. I will feel only safe when I am home. When every door is locked and checked.

After I was raped, in 1992, I didn’t leave my house for a whole year unless I had to go to court or to therapy. I simply did not leave. That spiraled into me not going anywhere that I could be robbed. Anyplace where there was money exchanged, I simply avoided. The other day I was telling my husband that I couldn’t remember the last time that I actually went into a bank. The idea of being in there while it was robbed—that shallow-breathing-inducing fear of “I could be robbed right now”—is too much for me. Anytime I go to a restaurant with someone, I joke, “Sorry, the Malcolm X in me can’t sit with my back to the door.” But I can’t. I cannot enjoy a meal if my back is to the door.

Twenty-four years.

That feeling of surveillance, of being hunted, never goes away. Fear influences everything I do. I saw the devil up close, remember. And I see now how naïve I was. Of course I can never truly have peace again. That idea is fiction. You can figure out how to move through the world, but the idea of peace? In your soul? It doesn’t exist.

I often get asked if my fears have decreased as I move further from the rape. No. It’s more about me moving from becoming a rape victim to a rape survivor. I am selective about who I allow into my life. I can spot people who make me feel anxious or fearful, and they are not welcome.

But with the accessibility of our culture, I can’t keep boundaries. It could be the guy who grabs me, yelling, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO GET THIS PICTURE!” People will grab me as I’m walking through a crowd. They may turn it into a joke, but they are also not taking no for an answer. No one understands how much female celebrities are physically touched and grabbed and shoved and fondled. We all talk about it. I can’t tell you how many times people—men and women—feel your body. “Oh, you’re just a little bitty thing,” I hear, with someone squeezing my thigh. Men take pictures and get you under the armpit so they can feel the side of your boob. But we’re supposed to just take it.

I was talking to someone about this recently. “You have a lot of rape energy around you,” he said. “Something happening to you that you had no power to stop. And it keeps happening.”

The first time I said no, my ex-husband Chris and I were on a casino floor in Vegas. We were having a huge argument and I was crying. I stared down at the incredibly tacky carpet of giant red and green flowers surrounded by gilded latticework. I followed the loop of the lace over and over with my eyes, hoping to disappear into the rug. But I felt something. Even before I heard the yell, I sensed I was in someone’s sights.

“Bring it on!”

It was a cheerleading squad first marching, then running toward me. They were in full regalia, head to toe, clearly in town for a cheerleading competition.

“It’s already been brought!” they yelled.

I was still sobbing as they surrounded us. “I am so sorry,” I said, practically heaving. “It’s not a good time, girls.”

They looked so disappointed, curling their lips to smile at me, willing my ugly cry away.

When they finally walked away, I felt a wave of panic that I’d let these people down. I wanted to call them back. “I can do this!” I wanted to yell. “I can be what you need!” I still think about that moment.

I can remember each time I said no, because I have panic attacks about backlash. When my husband Dwyane and I are together, we’ve got double the attention. Don’t get me wrong—I’m incredibly grateful to represent something so very positive to a group of people, but the flipside is that each interaction is anxiety producing for me and an opportunity for me to disappoint yet again. I have such a fear of not fulfilling the ever-changing wants and needs and expectations of strangers that I become terrified of what should be basic encounters. Going into a bar with friends, I’m like a rabbit that has wandered into a yard where a pack of wild dogs lives. One minute, I’m just hanging, chilling