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The Department Chair of Medicine is tall, tan and kind. The Internal Affairs specialist is patient, quiet, and thorough. The Internist PA has dropped her patient load, sits with me at the table. We gather in a bright office in the rain. They take notes, I tell the story. They shake their heads. I shake a little, lips trembling, every bit of my skin a little twitchy.

I know what happened. I know that it happened. I know it could have been worse, am glad that it wasn't. I know that I know intellectually, it's not my fault. I wonder, unintellectually, if anyone everyone sizes me up, measures the likelihood against my face my hair my body. I wonder if, somewhere, unwittingly, they agree or disagree, that this really happened. That it really happened. I know that it happened and I know it could have been worse, am grateful that it wasn't. What I do not know, cannot understand, hard to intellectualize are the doubts. Did it really happen? Did it? Yes my frontal lobe screams. Was it as bad as I'm telling it? The words are harsh. To expose them to true light hangs heavy, a thick rope. I am aware of the consequences.

 I am retelling the story, answering the questions, yes he said that, yes he closed the door almost completely, yes there were accidental bumps, no they weren't in private, no only on my hands or arms, yes he used those words, yes that's what happened, yes he said that, yes he did that, yes there was a patient in the room, yes that's what happened. I feel the knife in my hand and I don't know quite what I'm doing with it. 

They are reassuring. Professional. Kind. Supportive. I ask about protection, fall out, indemnity. I want to know, plainly, will he be able to come back into the office and tell everyone, anyone, that friggen (insert expletive of choice) said I sexually harassed her. They reassure me. They allude to the unlikely possibility that he will be back in the clinic, ever, without being escorted. I feel the rope in my hands. I don't know what I'm doing with it.

Sexual. Harassment. The words feel over used over powered underwhelming. I want something else to call it. I want another word. I want another word for creepyinappropriateimmaturestupidity. I want another word that says I got into my car and bit my lip until it bled because I felt powerless to tell him to fuck off because I want need want need want need a job here because I was afraid he'd get to whoever would hire before I would because was afraid he'd tell everyone I did it, because I was afraid of confronting him. I want another word that explains what it is to be someone who thinks she can handle it but actually couldn't. I want a word that says that without using the words sexual. Harassment.