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A therapist asked me once what my safest space was from childhood. My answer was not my home or my school or even my youth group – it was my summer camp, where the days were long, the cabin was all girls, and the boys only entered by invitation.

There was something pure about my camping experience – like Brigadoon; it existed outside the boundaries of “real-life.” I loved it there. Nestled in the comfort of a crowd most of the time, I could walk the roads at night alone and not feel threatened. I was invincible. I was protected and safe.

I was fortunate, for sure. Doubtless many women’s most terrifying sexual exploitations trace back to their days at a camp somewhere. Like Kristie McNichol and Tatum O’Neil in 1980, pressured to compete with their virginity in “Little Darlings,” camp is not inherently a safe space.  

In fact, for women, a truly safe space is hard to find. As a traveler in a woman’s body, we are a walking target wherever we go, regardless of our age. I was too young to understand this in my childhood as I navigated what I now know was an abusive situation. I only knew, then, that at camp I felt completely safe, in my cabin of girls.  After puberty, no place ever felt that way again.

As I became aware of my sexuality, I saw the gifts and risks inherent in wearing the body I had at 13. The gifts were easy – I could entice, influence and manipulate, and society encouraged me to use womanly wiles in that way. The risks came from “manning” the female form, objectified by the outside world, lacking confidence in my own internal struggle. That was more than 30 years ago. While (thankfully) my understanding of the gifts of my body has certainly changed, the risks remain ever-present, a constant if unwelcome companion on a woman’s journey.

To explore our sexuality is to be vulnerable, and to risk being wounded, both emotionally and physically. I had many “encounters” in my early years of sexuality that blurred the already muddied border between inappropriate and abusive. The one that sticks with me the most –nearly 35 years later – was, perhaps, the most innocent of them all. It leaves me wondering still, all these years later: when does teenage sexual curiosity and experimentation cross the line from inappropriate suggestion to abuse?

In eighth grade I was physically a fully developed young woman, and I started to look for outlets for my sexuality. I wasn’t dating, yet, when a ninth grade boy (might as well have been a senior he seemed so old and mature) began to flirt with me. I’m sure I encouraged him. I remember a particular conversation on the telephone (remember the telephone as a teen, cord wrapped around your finger as you paced in a three-foot area, connected to the wall by a giant rottini noodle?) I was wearing a long, pale blue, silky, quilted “housecoat,” standing in the kitchen next to a beige laminate kitchen table, my face flushed as I extended myself into a conversation with a supposedly “safe” stranger (he went to my school, right?!) about the details of playing the bases. 

We arranged to meet at the movies the next day, and even discussed what I should wear to feel most comfortable. It was premeditated petting.

The day was rainy and gross. The other kids I thought were going to the movie were not there. I suppose the mall must have been crowded, but all I can tell you for sure that the stairwells were quite empty. Just me, the ninth grade boy, and his right hand.

I don’t remember his name. I don’t know what movie we were to see. I do remember feeling dirty, and used, and scared, and shameful. I never told a soul about my encounter with this boy – the ninth grader who never spoke to me again. He’d gotten what he wanted. But hadn’t I wanted it, too?

I have often pondered whether it ‘qualifies’ as abuse if there is mutuality involved. I was clearly interested in experimentation, so was he really to blame for my shame? Sure, he probably manipulated me and the situation, but I was a willing participant… that is, until he crossed the boundary of my comfort, and I wanted to cry, and I didn’t know what to do, and I did nothing.

For the next several years I reached out to fill the void, toying with promiscuity, throwing myself into shallow relationships, trying to feel wanted, loved, worthwhile—something! Often, I found myself in situations I wasn’t ready to handle.

In college I became a rape crisis counselor and learned about the psychology of rape, and anger, and control. I learned how typical it is for women to do nothing, and then to blame themselves for it later. I understood it all too well.

As a kid, I had been conditioned to beware of crazy men lurking in bushes. We were taught to fear strangers, solitude and the dark. Sexual abuse was “out there” in the shadows, violent and menacing. It was an external force to be feared.

But what of the abuse that was so much closer to home? What of the vast majority of sexual predators, those who actually live with us in our daily lives, compounding abuse by their very presence in our kitchens, living rooms and yearbooks? Abusers are usually not strangers. And sometimes, we stand with them on that fine line between inappropriate and abusive, unclear ourselves as to where that line is drawn.

With a mature understanding of the nature of sexual abuse, I look back on my experiences and recognize the moments that, while moderately consensual, still managed to cross a fundamental comfort line. Certainly there’s a distinction to be made between sexual misconduct and sexual abuse. In my youth I encountered both – the former left me feeling dirty and ashamed, the latter, violated. Both have had their impact.

There is no doubt in my mind that abusers are not always aware of their abuse, as most people are unaware of their privilege of class and race. It’s the invisible privilege of power. That is probably even more the case when there is familiarity in the mix, and that makes it all the more challenging for the abused to get clarity about the nature of the experience.

As women, each of us must come to terms in our own way with surviving in a world in which our bodies are both a gift and a liability. We are taught to flaunt and celebrate them, and to hide them and hold them accountable. Our bodies are a wonderland, and they are a minefield. This conflict throws up a volley of confusion for all of us, male and female alike.

So, we women are captive to our bodies, caught in a contradictory culture, dancing on that invisible line between inappropriate (Clarence Thomas?) and abusive. Women continue to be victimized in the most vulnerable way possible, an outward manifestation of men’s challenges with rage and control. But we are also compromised by our own confusion. 

As we believe in ourselves, and the beauty of our bodies, and the confidence of our sexuality, we will teach our daughters to stand firmly on one side of the line, highlighting it clearly so that no one steps over it by accident.

Elaine Taylor-Klaus is a Life, Leadership and Parenting Coach and the founder of Touchstone Coaching and ImpactADHD™. She is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist.

Read more articles by Elaine Taylor-Klaus here.

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