Jun 22

Written by: michaela renee
6/22/2009 10:30 AM

The definition of vulnerable is: capable of being physically or emotionally wounded.
The definition of violation is: doing harm to a person, especially the chastity of.

My life is now public and open for attack. While most of the world is generally kind, there are critics, and there are those who are jealous, and worse, there’s those that stalk you.

No stalker is good. But some are better than others. There’s silent stalkers, who never reach out but you know they are lurking, there’s stalkers that reach out to you privately but make themselves known, even showing up to public places, and then there are obsession stalkers.

Those ones are the worst. They follow your every move, they wait for anything to catch a closer glimpse at your life. Usually they start by imitating it, and when that doesn’t get the response they’re looking for, they start doing things to instigate you, including saying nasty things. They’ll do anything to capture your attention, because even if it elicits a negative response, it‘s better than nothing.

While stalkers can be scary, frustrating and sometimes incredibly hurtful, the invasion stops there. They don’t know who I really am, most of the time they’ve never seen me in person. Most importantly they can’t touch the core of my being. Because I do have a private side, a private life, and that has a protective shield around it, one that’s kept from the public world.

So after a long couple weeks of putting up my impervious front, enduring the critics, the stalkers and enjoying the pleasantries and support of my fans, I escaped to the comfort of a very private spa, with my closest girlfriends. The ones who know what I’m incredibly confident about, and in the same breath know all my insecurities. The ones who know that I probably shouldn’t step on a scale, because I suffered from anorexia many years ago. The ones who know that despite the fact I have big boobs, I hardly ever show them, because I’ve had them my whole life and really am not sure what to do with them. The ones who know, I’ll usually choose black over any bright color, because like any woman, I have insecurities about my body too.

The manager walked us to the back of the women’s area and escorted us to our lockers. As I punched in the code and opened the door to the mahogany locker cabinet I began to take off my clothes. I’ve always been fairly modest, yet comfortable in my skin.

I wrapped the large terry robe around my curvy figure, slid my feet in the slippers, grabbed a glass of citrus infused water and walked toward the waiting area. I was well on my way to relaxation.

He whispered my name from the door of the cozy spa room, and I didn’t think much of it, because if you dumped out a big jar of jelly belly’s and started using them to count how many massages I‘ve had in my life, including those from male masseuses, you’d probably run out.

He led and I followed as we walked past the salt pool, the Jacuzzi and the roman baths. He told me about the facilities but I wasn’t really listening. He opened the door to the massage room and asked me to get undressed and told me he’d be back shortly. He left and shut the door behind him.

I kicked off the slippers and dropped the robe to my feet, the breeze in the room was warm on my skin. I crawled on to the table and let my forehead rest on the pillow. The music was the sound of the ocean and I listened intently to the waves and the sandpipers. He knocked and I said, “Come in.” I wish I hadn’t.

He walked up to me and started to adjust the draping around my body and then I felt him roll up the left side of the sheet and tuck it under my pelvic bone.

His hands began touching my inner thigh and massaging my butt close to my groin. He began talking about chakra’s and started to pull my legs further apart. I tensed up and slid them back together, he reached higher and spread them wide apart. I told him I was uncomfortable and he said that was normal, he said the only way to release the energy in the root chakra, was to open the love energy and allow it to flow through my core and down my thighs.

He continued to mumble something about Reiki massage as he flipped me over and covered my eyes with cucumbers and a wet cloth, the room went dark. It went dark in the scary way it goes dark when you’re a little kid and you swear you hear monsters under the bed. He took my legs and forcefully folded them up, opening them in a way that‘s reserved for someone who has earned it. As I laid on my back in a frog position he began touching me again. I cringed, told him it hurt and readjusted my body. He grabbed my legs at the knee and bent them again.

I laid completely still, naked with barely a sheet covering me, and asked him to please concentrate on my neck and shoulders but his hands did not stop. After what felt like a century, he put his hand on my stomach and asked me to breathe very deeply. As he left the room he said, “Don’t forget to breathe, I’ll be waiting outside for you.”

As I walked back toward the locker room with my head down I tried to forget the whole thing. I tried to convince myself that was his style and that it was normal. I couldn‘t shake the fact that I felt dirty.

I soaked in the jacuzzi, I floated in the salt water pool, I got in the shower, and nothing cleaned it off.

On the way out I mentioned to the manager the technique the masseuse used and was told that was not standard procedure. As I sat in the spa director’s office and retold the story I became disgusted, physically ill. Apparently it was not an isolated incident. I didn’t know what to think, except that I couldn’t put on enough clothes to cover myself up.

My mind started to replay everything over and over and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I wanted to cry, I wanted to throw up, I wanted to go to sleep and forget the whole thing ever happened. One of my girlfriends was insanely upset on the drive home and said, “you were vulnerable, young and naked and he took advantage of that.“

It took me hours of lying awake on the couch when I should have been sleeping, getting angry at the ridge of the cushion for pressing into my side and touching me, to realize, vulnerability is different. With vulnerability you have control over the outcome.

I’m vulnerable because my life is public, and I have critics and stalkers, and I have fans with high expectations. But ultimately I control my vulnerability by deciding what photos my fans see. I can ensure my safety from the crazy stalkers by being cautious when I’m in public. I can alleviate emotional pain from the jealous people by not reading their slanderous statements. I can decide what comments to ignore, and what to take to heart. And I surround myself with a strong support group to help me when deciphering the difference is tough.

But I couldn’t and I can’t take back what that man felt as he groped my body against my wishes. I couldn’t and I can’t take back the fact that he had access to my body as a professional and used it for his own sexual desires.  And I can never take back the memory of his filthy hands touching me. This wasn’t vulnerability, it was violation.

To the critics and stalkers, I say - sticks and stones may break my bones, and your words will likely sting me, for a minute. But to any person in this world who ever violates another, I say - I hope you rot in hell.

Copyright ©2009 Michaela Renee

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