That Violet Looks Pretty Hardy To Me

When I was in 6th grade, one of my best friend’s brothers pinned me to the seat of the bus we took to our private Catholic school and dry humped me in front of the entire bus. A year later, two of my classmates held my arms and legs down while a third climbed on top and pretended to screw me under our art room table while the entire class watched. Almost a week ago, in the middle of one of the nicest hotels in San Francisco, a complete stranger (I thought) shoved his hand so far between my legs that had I had a prostate, he could have checked it for me. But unlike my childhood experiences, I didn’t keep my mouth shut. Not even close. And what transpired that night has very rapidly spiraled into increasing PTSD-triggered anxiety for me and lightening-fast unemployment for him.

Hands down, my company controls the largest piece of the niche industry in which I work, and everyone who works in it knows who we are, especially the lawyers. That’s because we control how much work their firms get (and get to keep) and how much ultimately they get paid for that work. Rest assured, this isn’t a post about my job. It’s merely an effort to set the backdrop for just how much power my company, and by extension I, have in this industry.

It was the last night of the biggest annual conference in my industry. It had been a fantastic trip, with productive business meetings, great food and wine, and even better time with people I have come to call friends. I was at the bar where we all invariably end up convening every night at the end of our respective events. I was surrounded by people I know and trust, enjoying some Basil Hayden, and recounting stories from the last 5 days in one of my favorite cities when quite literally out of nowhere, I felt something slide forcefully between my legs from behind. Trust me, it wasn’t as sexual as that sounds, even for a sexual degenerate like me, so please leave your pervy comments at the door.

In mere seconds, my mind was racing with scenarios. This wasn’t some dive bar – I was standing maybe 100 feet from the room where Tony Bennett first sang his famous song about San Francisco. There was no way someone of the caliber lewd enough to shove his hand in my ass (without my consent, that is) was drinking in this bar.

I whipped my head around just in time to see a tall, decent looking guy in a suit re-positioning himself in his seat at the bar. While I didn’t know him, I had seen him around the conference with some of the very people I was drinking with at that moment. That meant he had presumably seen me too. (OK, let’s be honest for a second. I’m a little hard to miss even if I try).

I was dumbfounded. He was sitting with both his elbows stiffly resting on the bar staring straight ahead at its mirrored back-splash like he was hiding, or more likely, protecting himself from the shitstorm he knew was coming his way. Either way, his demeanor at that moment screamed guilty. I swiftly approached his right shoulder.

K: What the FUCK, dude?!?! You just grabbed my ass.

Tiny-dicked Cockbiter: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

K: Excuse me? You don’t know what I’m talking about? I fucking SAW you do it.

TD-C: It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything. Whatever.

Gobsmacked…Not only had he basically committed what amounted to sexual assault in pretty much all 50 states, he was denying it. Belligerently.

K: Are you SERIOUS? It was fucking you. What the fuck is wrong with you?

TD-C: …

By now, he was standing and my colleagues had gathered around, having heard and (later confirmed) seen the whole thing unfold. This douche bag had pushed my last button. The gloves were fucking off.

K: Do you know whose fucking ass you just grabbed, you asshole? I’m Kat Deevers with ABC Company.

TD-C: So. I don’t fucking care.

There was no way he didn’t know my company’s name. His firm made multiple millions of dollars annually just on accounts I handled, not to mention a large number of my co-workers’ accounts. And that was just from my company. There was also no way he was so drunk he didn’t realize what he was doing, yet had the balance to lean off his bar stool far enough to give me a rectal exam without falling. I was absolutely incredulous. As I glanced to my right, I noticed a friend who essentially runs a company just like mine standing slack-jawed at the insanity in front of her. I remember thinking to myself that this can’t be happening. This guy cannot be this fucking stupid.

K: (pointing to my friend) Do you know who this woman is? She fucking RUNS XYZ Company.

TD-C: Whatever. I don’t fucking care.

K: You don’t care? YOU.DON’T.CARE?! You should fucking care because between the two of us, you’ll NEVER get work again.

What happened after this exchange is a blur, thanks to the bourbon and the defense mechanism my memory has developed after years of verbal abuse. What’s not a blur is the feeling of fear that started growing in my gut. He was like a rabid dog that would not back down and I vaguely remember backing away from him. Unfortunately, I knew that dog very well having been married to one very similar for almost a decade. From what I’ve pieced together after talking to various people who were at the bar, he was forcibly removed from the bar, dragged into the elevator and put into his room. A room I learned he had been escorted to by his business partner three times earlier that evening. Unsuccessfully, obviously.  Someone bought me a drink or two to calm my nerves, and the rest of the evening at the bar was thankfully uneventful.

But as the booze wore off and I made my way to the airport, I became increasingly uneasy about the incident. I don’t use the term PTSD lightly. I’ve done my research, and there’s no doubt I have some residual issues as a result of my years of being married to an abuser. Ask anyone that was out celebrating a friend’s birthday a few years ago what happened when a random guy started screaming at me when I innocently, and quite naturally, turned around after hearing glass break behind me. After reading him the riot act (the glass didn’t fall, he actually threw it at his wife and it broke on the table) and telling his wife to stop enabling him (after she apologized for his behavior because he was just “really drunk”), I completely fell apart, crying uncontrollably at the table in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Or the time I had a panic attack leaving work after I saw a guy screaming in his girlfriend’s face in the middle of the sidewalk.

These reactions are visceral and involuntary. This time, the reaction was delayed, most likely due to the bourbon, but it eventually happened. Big time. The more I recounted the details of the evening to people who knew my story (some of whom were his business partners), the more anxious I became. Their anger and outrage for me at having experienced this assault validated feelings that, frankly, I hated having validated. Some 36ish-hours later, I was home balled up in my bedroom in hysterics. The very hallmark of PTSD is that it doesn’t just stop with the most recent trigger, it brings back all the memories associated with the trauma. I was alone and scared and angry. So fucking angry. Angry that anyone could make me feel that vulnerable again. Angry that anyone could by their sheer size intimidate me. Angry that someone put me in a position of weakness in a room full of the very people I never want to be perceived by as weak. I was angry at him, I was angry at the guy at the restaurant, the grade school classmates, the random guy on the street and I was angry at my ex all over again.  As the anger and anxiety each took turns with me, I started wondering if I had done something to provoke it. I knew intellectually I had not, but thanks to years of gas-lighting, it somehow had to be my fault, I must have done something. And that internal rhetoric only fueled my anger more deeply.  I eventually crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep. 

The days since have no doubt been a struggle of varying degrees and I’ve tried not to focus on it, but between having to talk to HR about it and monitoring his employment status, it’s been difficult. A could-have-been-simple text exchange with my ex about a Rubbermaid container a few nights ago set me off all over again. (Have I mentioned he’s a HUGE jerk off?) That’s another problem with having anxiety of this nature: it takes much less to trigger one of these reactions and much more to get passed them and back to baseline.

So what now? What’s the point of posting this story other than to vent? The guy got shit-canned and I’m safe, right? He claimed he had no memory of the events that transpired that night. I call bullshit. His (male) colleagues said this was totally out of character for him. I don’t buy that for a second. Not because I think they’re lying, but because I don’t think men always pick up on the same things women do about other men. He’s apparently a creep according to some females who know him. And I’ve been around enough guys like this to know there was no way this was a first time offense for him. Maybe it’s the first time he assaulted one of his firm’s larger clients in front of other firm clients like a douche nozzle, but I know it’s not the first time he touched someone inappropriately and without her (or his) consent. And I definitely don’t think it was his first time speaking to a woman that way; it came way too naturally to him. So while I was perhaps the worst person to whom this could have happened for all of these reasons, I was also the best. Because I’m not the girl who’s mortified and runs off, never to tell anyone and he gets away with it.  Or worse, does it again. I’m not the elementary school girl who was so embarrassed of those run-ins with her classmates that she never told anyone who could have done anything about it. I’m not the girl who backs down when some drunk asshole starts yelling at her because he’s an abusive prick who sliced his wife’s finger in the process of chucking that glass at her. And I’m not the woman who stays in a destructive marriage and lets her daughters grow up thinking violence is OK because daddy just had a bad day. I have a voice. A very fucking loud one. And I plan to keep using it as often and as loudly as I can. I am no shrinking violet. Guide yourselves accordingly.


22 thoughts on “That Violet Looks Pretty Hardy To Me

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      1. I am very glad you have your voice and use it for yourself and for your girls. It’s shitty this and the other incidents (attacks) had to make you stronger.

        Liked by 2 people

  1. Truly sorry you had those past experiences and had to deal with this recent asshole. There’s no way this was a first time for him. Know that your girls will grow up seeing how strong their mother is and you will be the major influence for them to become strong women.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Kat,
    I’m sorry that you have to deal with this – past and present. I’m proud of you for being brave enough to share your story, and know that it will be just another example to your daughters of how strong their mother truly is.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. OK Kat…this makes me really angry.  I know our interactions have always been virtual…First via The Chive Twitterverse when you first started posting from your office, to drunk bathroom selfies (always a favorite) to mostly Instagram (when they let you post) to  now under The Sh#tshow. You have been always one of my favorite people to connect with on social media….even so far as to consider you a friend…even virtually.  Still my favorite Philly Chivette Ex-Lawyer…❤🇨🇦

    Friend IRL or virtual…I will always have your back. If there is one thing about me you should know…I am extremely loyal and protective of my friends.

    I am glad to see that you took this ass down…but you, nor anyone should be treated like this…ever. I am sorry you had to go through this.

    ❤ Ottawa_Rob 🇨🇦



    **You may not be able to decide the people that come into your life…but you sure can decide which window they leave it from…**

    Liked by 1 person

  4. SO sorry you had to go through that shit. ALL of it.
    I can empathize with the anxiety, but not the assault.
    I’ve told you before that you inspire me to write my own blog about my extremely sever depression and PTSD. The catch? (as you know, of course) With depression comes Zero motivation… to do Anything.

    I’m very proud of you for having the guts/fortitude/willpower/bravery to write this one.

    Of course, I’m not a lawyer, so have never hung with them. But, as someone above (kind of) mentioned: If he was in and around myself and my people, and did anything close to that, he wouldn’t have been simply escorted back to his room. There are places, even in San Francisco, where there are no cameras. He would not only never work as a lawyer again (I know, double negative… but I’m fuming), he probably would never even be able to feed himself… Ever. He’d be pulp, tubes and machines. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I am so sorry you (or any women) have to deal with this abhorrent behavior. There is no way someone who is a nice guy just does this, and there is no amount of alcohol in the world that “makes you do it” either. I was mortified reading your post. I applaud your unwillingness to back down, to quiet down or to take any crap from him or anyone. I was hoping your sentence was going to say he was dragged from the room and beaten to within an inch of his life and then tossed from the rooftop.

    I’d tell you what I would have done to him, but there are a few unsolved cases out there and I don’t want to give away my methods.

    I hope all women who read your posts are inspired to NOT tolerate any unwanted act even remotely similar to this. There’s no way those acts from your youth were “just kids being kids” or anything like that either. Holy hell. I’d add them to the list to be disposed of to, even all these years later.

    I usually like to respond to stress with humor, but there is no humor that’s appropriate here. I just wanted to let you know another set of eyes read it, and I offer you my complete support and I am at least heartened to know you are setting a good example for young girls out there everywhere.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I am very glad you have your voice and use it for yourself and for your girls. It’s shitty this and the other incidents (attacks) had to make you stronger.


  7. Kat,
    This blog is so important on so many levels, not the least of which is how insidious sexual assault and male privilege is, but, also, for others to whom these acts have been perpetrated on, and understanding the views of others, business, and good old boys, yet, also huge for people to realize that PTSD is not just for combat vets. It can happen from any traumatic event and most sexual assault or rape victims struggle with it. Mugging victims, traffic accidents, natural disasters – Post Traumatic stress is natural human brain reaction to traumatic events and is serious and can be debilitating and is NOT mental illness. People are not “broken”. They are not “insane.”. They are not “messed up.”. It is NATURAL. The stigma is the most dangerous thing about it. We need to get over that.

    So glad that you reacted as you did, made repercussions happen, and wrote about this to emphasize how wrong this is and how hard the effects of it are. And, that you were able to be so transparent about the difficulties that trauma, especially repeat trauma, have on a person.

    So sorry you have had to endure this in your life. Thank you for your strength and irreverence to highlight this abhorrent behavior. You are an incredible person!


  8. Hi Kat,

    My name is Dan, I am recovering from violent crime, sexual, and domestic child abuse.

    As a result of the crimes others inflicted on me, I am suffering from PTSD, General Anxiety Disorder /panic attacks, and I drink to forget.

    My last drink was February 15, 2009.

    Thank you for sharing your pain. You are not alone.

    You and the violets are SMASHING!

    Peace to you.


    Liked by 1 person

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