The dignity and protection of doors

On privacy and the needs of incest survivors

This essay was inspired by Mother May I Have a Door? in the anonymous A Survivor’s Book of Days, and this instagram post by Kelsey Zazanis.

In the cottage of incest there were no doors on the bedrooms only curtains. The back portion of the cottage consisted of three bedrooms that connected through a series of doorways. The doorways didn’t have doors, only curtains. The room to the far left was my grandfather’s bedroom. My grandmother didn’t share a room with him “because he snored.” The room in the middle, and the room on the far right had various configurations of beds over the years, and it was in those rooms where we, the children, usually slept. The curtain that covered the entrance to my grandfather’s room was bright yellow. In the night I could hear the creak of the floorboards as my grandfather got up and moved around. I could hear him as he paused, standing over the bed I was sleeping in. My entire body would be electrified with terror wondering if this would be the moment he finally chose.

The bathroom had a lock on it. That coveted, precious lock. We got in trouble for using the lock because sometimes someone would accidentally lock the door with no one inside and a child would have to be lifted over the shower that had no roof from the other room, in order to open the door. But I used it anyway. My grandfather had bowel issues and would slam on the door with urgency. When that happened you opened the door and ran, but he was too preoccupied with urgency to come after you then. He would leave his shit filled underwear in the sink for my grandmother to deal with and go back to his room naked. He was always wearing only a tiny pair of underwear.