In a recent development, a discovery has been made that has Egyptologists all atwitter, so to speak. A chamber in the Khafre Pyramid was discovered last year, and when opened was found to contain the computer servers for that ancient kingdom. As luck would have it, one of the first blog accounts they deciphered was that of Potiphar’s Wife, Survivor.
Speaking Out At Last
. . . and so this is why I decided I could remain silent no longer. I have three younger sisters, and if I can encourage them by telling my story, it is the least I can do.
My father had always been distant, remote. As Ra would have it, my husband turned out to be the same kind of man, exactly the same kind of man. He was distant and remote as well, almost all the time, except when he had been drinking. Then he would show some interest in me, but for no more than five minutes. When he was done, he would become loud and abusive, and shortly after that, would totally ignore me. I felt entirely shut up, worse than being in the prisons of Pharaoh.
It would be nice to think that a different breed of man might exist, but that kind of wishful thinking should really be banished from our minds. For example, among all his other faults, Potiphar added this one—he brought a Hebrew slave into our household, a man named Joseph. Not only that but he promoted him and put him over the management of the whole household. At first I thought he might be different from all those other men, but now that he is in prison, my therapist has helped me to see how carefully Joseph was grooming me. What I thought of as “different” was simply cold and cruel calculation on his part.
For example, he would carefully avoid me, making it clear that he thought I was hot. Whenever he was on the other side of the house, I could feel him undressing me with his eyes. Then there were all the unspoken things that passed between us, which I would carefully rehearse in my mind, right after he had not said them. Looking back, I can see it all so plainly. What a fool I was!
Then that fateful afternoon came when he tried to rape me. Yes, I am no longer afraid to use the word rape. If he been a little more patient, if he had groomed me for just another month, I might not have cried out. I had been almost completely absorbed into the rape culture that Joseph truly embodied. I was truly in a vulnerable place, which my therapist has really helped me to finally grasp. I still am in a vulnerable place, in so many ways. My therapist is so kind and gentle . . . not at all like Potiphar. He truly listens to me. He actually believes me when I dare to share my innermost thoughts. I am almost to the point where I can tell him what would really satisfy me.
But Joseph was too impetuous, too like a man, and that is where he made his fatal miscalculation. Almost his victim, in another sense I will always be his victim. I will never forget that afternoon, his rugged profile, his strong muscular forearms . . . actually, please excuse me. That is the grooming talking. It still comes back, sometimes very strongly. I will carry those scars for a long time. I will actually never forget how he abused the position of authority in the household that my blockhead of a husband gave to him.
So I will overcome it. I must. I will stand strong. I will try to forget and I will never forget. True, I am a victim, but I am more than that. I am a survivor.
Thank you for telling your story. Others will be inspired.
I recently had occasion to visit the Pharaoh’s prison in, ah, an official capacity, and this is not the story they are telling down there. Believe you me.
Mahu, Chief Cupbearer to Pharaoh
Hater! Why don’t you go drown yourself in a bucket?
Don’t let people like that discourage you, sister.
Amen. You almost give me the courage to tell my own story. I just might someday.
Chief Cupbearer to the Patriarchy, you mean
No, l mean you can’t be a victim if you are lying about the whole thing.