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Member since: 2003 before July 6th
Number of posts: 41,817

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I am Christine Blasey Ford


In 1989, I was nearly raped in my bed in my bedroom. Up until the last minute, I believed I was going to be violently raped and then murdered. In the safety of my bed in my bedroom in my home with three housemates sleeping soundly nearby.

I wasn't a teenager and had experience with men both wanted and unwanted.

My housemates were guys, unmarried, less than ten years younger than I was. Nice, reliable. One of them invited a friend over. I only met that guest for two minutes and returned to my room to study for the LSATs, scheduled in 3 days.

I was told that guest was too drunk to drive and would be crashing on the couch. Not knowing this guy, I locked my bedroom door before I retired and tested the door. It was secure.

About 4 a.m., I heard a noise. It was a light knock. It was the guest. He called me by my name and asked me to open the door b/c he wanted to talk to me. I didn't answer and hoped the silence indicated I was asleep and not about to wake up.

And he persisted. I heard a drawer in the kitchen loudly open and the sound of rifling of metal utensils. I figured he was going to get something to eat. He wasn't.

I heard metal on metal at my door. Shit, no! The door flew up. In the light, I saw the silhouette of his body. I saw the chiffon yellow V-neck sweater -- and he was wearing no pants or anything else. And he was brandishing a large chicken carving knife.

Let's review the situation: I locked my door, he broke into my bedroom with a large carving knife, and he wasn't wearing anything except a sweater.

I yelled at him to leave. He didn't. He just stood in the frame of the doorway. I yelled for my housemates, who continued sleeping. I picked up my phone and called one of them and screamed that his friend broke into my room with a large knife and he was wearing no pants. The message went on voicemail.

I'm fucked literally and figuratively. I had no weapon to defend myself.

Having no other recourse, I held up the phone and announced I was calling 911. Don't know why that made him back up and leave, but it did. I closed and re-locked the door -- and sat up in bed for the rest of the night.

My friend/housemate/host of the guest was ready to leave for law school at 7 a.m. I asked him if he listened to my message. No, he hadn't and he was in a hurry. I saw that his guest was sleeping soundly on the couch -- with his pants on. Shit, now nobody would believe my story.

I insisted that my housemate listen to the message which fortunately had been recorded entirely. Without a word, he rushed into the living room, picked up his sleeping friend, and literally threw him through the glass pane of the outer door, out onto the grass, and screamed at him to get out of his sight.

I was still shaken, but my friend must have felt that he did enough, and left for school. Nobody else heard anything that night.

Three days later, I began my law career by taking the LSATs.

It's 30 years later. I still remember. And there's no way to prove it happened.

Hurricane Gloria


It was October 1985. My mother was living in a small Cape Cod home in Southampton, on the South Shore of Long Island. I was living and working in northern New Jersey. (My parents had a home in northern New Jersey as well.)

I was at work, typing medical reports. Mom called to tell me that her car had a hole in the gas tank and it couldn't be repaired until next week. Meanwhile reports of the impending hurricane warned not only would it hit Long Island the next day, but the eye of the storm would go over exactly where Mom was. I told her that I'd be there in a few hours.

So in my small Ford Escort, I drove three hours to Southampton. Bad rain and wind. But I made it by 5:00 and it was still light outside. My illusions of rescue were shattered when Mom cheerfully greeted me with "You're just in time for the Hurricane Party!" And no, she was sober and she wasn't kidding. She thought that I left work and risked my life on the Long Island Expressway to get drunk during a dangerous hurricane.

I had a fit of anger. Told her to look out the window at my car, because in 30 minutes, it would be leaving and I didn't care if she was in the passenger seat or not.

Grumbling, Mom decided to return to New Jersey, to safety with me. We then drove with bumper-to-bumper traffic BACK on the Long Island Expressway for four hours with greater wind and greater rain. It was amazing that I had any gas left in my tank. Mom constantly complained about missing the damned party during the ride.

Once home, Mom promptly poured herself a Scotch and attended the Hurricane Party by phone conversation. I was beyond words to express my dismay. I did the right thing. It was just the most bizarre experience I had had up to that point. (But then again, it WAS my family . . . . . )

Epilogue: Gloria did in fact hit Southampton hard. Many old trees were uprooted and laid across streets. No electricity for 10 days.

Generally, Trump reminds me of my father when he was 92.


Dad had to have two cataracts removed, obviously one at a time. He chose to have the surgery in NYC, about 45 minutes drive from our home in NJ. His status post-op would be one eye with a cataract, one with an eye patch, and effects of anesthesia.

I offered to drive him there and back. He refused outright. I asked if he were ordering a car service. Nope. How did he intend to safely return home as he wasn't staying overnight? Taxi? No, he intended to drive to the hospital and drive back.

I outright told him he wasn't going to do that as his vision would be severely compromised, he wouldn't be alert, and he'd be attempting to drive Midtown during midday during midweek. And three major highways. There would be a great chance of an accident with injury(ies) of other cars and/or pedestrians.

While I was in the bathroom, he snuck down to the garage, got in his car, and drove to the hospital. While I wasn't going to call the Police, I did the next best thing: I called the surgeon's office and advised them not to release him as he didn't have a driver. I further advised the office if they did let him drive home and there were an accident, I'd call the victim's (victims') attorney and give the law office the surgeon's name, address, and phone # to add to the Complaint.

To my horror, the surgeon and hospital released my father and he drove home himself. How he managed NOT to hit anyone or anything still amazes me.

My point: My father was a dangerous driver even without the surgery. But short of a court order and/or an arrest, you couldn't keep him from driving. My siblings and I knew he was dangerous and felt helpless. Like Trump, out father had poor judgment and impulse control. And a mercurial temper.

Epilogue: Dad died because he rear-ended a van at a gas station, hitting his chest on the steering wheel (no airbag). He didn't tell any of us about the accident. For one week, he internally bled from a torn aorta, thus suffering a fatal heart attack.
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