The Digital Body

I sense it before I actually see the evidence that someone has been inside my car. My body is like a radio tuned to pick up the vibrations of a violation. On a subconscious level, I register things I should not be able to detect, like the skin cells flecked across the interior, the stench of pheromones and sweat, like the reek of a cat in heat. Then I see the pieces: the open console, the mail that I had forgotten to bring inside strewn over the seat, the maw of the glove compartment gaping like a scream.

It's Monday morning, and I need to go to work, but anxiety flares in my belly. I peer into the backseat. Though I know that violence is subtle, often invisible, in my mind it's sensationalized into blades and slashes and red and blood, the dismantling of the physical body. When I look behind me, I expect to see Michael Myers seated there, wielding a life that's as long as my ulna, because that is how I envision violence. But he is, of course, not there.

I don't use the word survivor, because I think it's disingenuous. To keep living in the body after something bad has happened to oneself does not mean they have survived it. The self, on a psychic level, cannot "survive" trauma in that it cannot exist unchanged. The new self that emerges after the experience is a facsimile of the one that came before it.

I've been told that survivor gives the agency to the recipient of the trauma, whereas victim takes it away. But it's a small step from agency to accountability, and I am tired of feeling (being) accountable for events in which I had no say.

The language of consent is embedded in technology. Permissions, request, and then response. Utilizing the internet requires that we enter into agreements, some explicit and some only implied. Binary suggests the existence of a no as well as a yes. When we want to do something, we must ask. And as with anything that necessitates boundaries, physical or digital, there will be people who break through those limits simply because they want to.

One day, my data is compromised. The how of it doesn't matter, though the reader may feel they are entitled to my trauma. How can we empathize unless we know the circumstances surrounding the violation? which translates to How will we determine whether or not you are to blame? The demand is the same for any type of violence I've experienced, whether it's against my property, my body, or my self; I am not myself, but rather I am the narrative of what happened to me.

When I was twenty-one, I fell for a scam. Again, the details of how don't matter. I called my dad and tearfully asked for help, and he responded roughly. There's something about this you're not telling me. And he was right. Even in asking for help, I tried to mitigate the shame ballooning inside me, a physical pain though nothing physical had happened to me. He replaced the money in my bank account that I was responsible for losing, and I said, Thank you, Dad, and I'm sorry, Dad. His love has always felt conditional, and I violated a condition of that love, which was that I should always remain self-sufficient and whole. You're too trusting, he said. I said, I know.

The thief didn't break into my car, in the sense that no aspect of my vehicle was actually broken. They didn't smash the glass or jimmy the lock. Instead, I had forgotten to lock it. (Even now, I fight the impulse to explain away my mistake: I was carrying in groceries, I was distracted by my vibrating phone, it was a cold night and I just wanted to get inside. But, again, as with how, the why of it doesn't matter.

When a group of friends come over to my apartment, I ask one if he is sure he...