Archives for posts with tag: rape culture

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It has been six days since my boots marched on D.C. streets. I feel like it was just yesterday. This week went by quickly as I was getting back into the routine around here, planning a move, cuddling with a toddler who seems to be needing to make up for lost time, and every other normal task I tackle daily. Realizing that it has been almost a week and the dust is settling felt a bit surreal this morning.

I wrote about my experience during the entire trip. I want to touch on why I marched. Why I will continue to march. I touched base on this via my instagram a month ago. I then tagged it properly and much to my utter astonishment, the Women’s March shared the post! I shared it knowing they asked for our reasons. I shared it not ever thinking it would be shared by them. Ultimately, I shared it because I am involved and want to stay vocal and active.

Why did I march? I will start with my opening point on the post. I march because I am a mom of two boys. Two little boys who will leave my home one day knowing that women are strong, equal, intelligent, capable, and worthy of respect. I refuse to put two more men into the world who treat women and other humans poorly. I will fight tooth and nail to help them be open hearted, tolerant, kind, respectful, and open-minded men.

I encourage them to dress and play with whatever they want. They love Shopkins and Minecraft. You can walk through my home and hear me saying “There is no such thing as boy toys and girl toys, there are just toys.” I let them grab items from the girls clothing department if they see a shirt or something they like. They will check out every aisle in the toy section, there is no invisible border for them between the clearly divided sections.

I repeatedly explain that “everyone is different.” My oldest has carried that with him into the world. As they grown they begin to encounter people who are not raised as they have been. Kids have given him a hard time that sometimes his water bottles do not have boy things on them. He replies “there are no girl or boy things. Everyone is different.” I asked him many times if it is bothersome to him when comments are made, and he always says no. I reassure him to be himself and I use blue water bottles, I use pink water bottles. Who cares what the bottle looks like, we just want the water! One time kids were harassing him to try ketchup, which he hates, and finally he told them (at the age of 4) “I don’t like it and that is ok because everyone is different!”

I marched because I have a responsibility to help shape the next generation of men. I only have two of them to guide and love, but two people can make a difference. Two boys can go out there and be helpers not harmers. I will end rape culture within my home. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be kind humans and do good works. I will do my best for them to see a strong woman with a loud and active voice. I will do my best for them to know that women can do anything they want, that men aren’t inherently better at certain things than women. I marched so that when they look at me and ask “Mommy what did you do to stop Trump? What did YOU do during this period in our history?” I can look them in the eye and say, “I fought with all my heart. I marched. I tried to be a voice that championed love, equality, kindness, respect, openness, and strength.”

I marched a woman who has experienced sexual assault. I marched because there is a man in the White House who openly admitted to grabbing women by the pussy, and yet a sickening number of white women still voted for him. Maybe they have never had their pussies violated. I don’t know their story. Everyone is different. But my story? That includes a sexual assault that left me blacked out before waking up in a hospital scared, alone, and not knowing where I was. When you talk about trigger warnings, he is one giant trigger warning for people who have been violated sexually. The most respected office in the country is filled by a man that flippantly discusses sexual assault and then is not in the least bit remorseful. In fact, he just attacks any of the women who then came forward to talk about their experience with his tiny grabby hands. I marched for myself, for the other women who have told me their rape stories, for women who may not have told me their stories, for women who haven’t been assault and for their right to not have someone violate them, and for women who unfortunately may be assaulted in the future. I marched for all of us in an attempt to change the narrative about rape. To shift the focus on the attacker and not the victim. It took me 13 years to come forward and open up entirely about this. Women shouldn’t be afraid. We shouldn’t have to walk to our car with keys in our hands. We shouldn’t be thinking “dont’ get raped.” The world should be shouting “Don’t fucking rape people! (or grab them by the pussy)” I marched because that is just one instance of sexual violation in my 31 years on this planet. There are many other smaller stories I have gone though. I am not alone in that. That is why I marched.

I marched because I am aware as a white woman with a comfortable income, that my experience may be uniquely different than my other sisters out there. That intersectional feminism is the only way we will move forward together. I recognize the privilege I have based on my skin color, sexual orientation, economic status, and life experience. I respect the fact that not every woman experiences sexism and injustice in the same way. There are layers to each person’s life experience and things are not so clear cut. I marched because I want to listen, learn, support, and engage in meaningful educational moments from women that are different from me.

I marched with my mom. I marched with her because I have seen a fire lit in her during this election. It has given me a push forward on my strong opinions. I marched with her because she has always told me I can do whatever I want to do. I marched with her because she is responsible for the eventual family motto I coined “everyone is different.” She instilled that in me growing up. I marched with her because marching with your mom is so incredibly empowering. I was not aware of how empowering that would feel. To stand arm in arm with the woman who birthed you. I was in the position of the child asking my mom “What did you do to resist this?” Her answer will always be, “I marched. I resisted. I refused to go away quietly.”

I marched for myself, my nieces, my sisters in law, my aunts, my cousins, my friends, the strangers I met along the way, and yes, even the women who are against this movement. I marched for you just in case you ever need a hand to lift you up. I hope not. I hope you can live your life without feeling marginalized, but if something changes, here is my hand, to hold and march with yours. I marched for all people who are aghast at the fact that this is where we are as a nation right now. I marched for our future.

Where do we go from here? There are many ways to stay active. There are more marches coming up. Personally, I will be attending volunteer expo event at the end of February. I have some ideas of where I would like to put my time, but I think the expo will open my eyes to even more choices. Then, I pick a place and I get involved. If you are in Illinois, this is a grass roots organization, Action for a Better Tomorrow . It started out of Pantsuit Nation and grew into its own movement. There are local chapters. I started to get involved in the local one in the ‘burbs where I am now, but we are moving, so I will have to shift focus once we are settled in.

The march is not where it ended. It was the beginning. Keep speaking out, writing, volunteering, calling your representatives, reading and researching, sharing  things on your social media. Do not become complacent now that our boots are back in the closets or shoe racks. Keep those boots dirty. Nasty, if you will.

 

Initially I wrote about this almost two months ago. I shared it with a select few people. My mom, husband, and three aunts. It was a huge step forward for me. I considered posting it, but went back and forth for a few days. Ultimately, I ended up not sharing it publicly. A week and a half ago I began working on an application for grad school. One of the essay questions was about a moment of adversity you faced in your life, how you handled it, what it meant to you, how it shaped you, etc.

I shared my story again. Not quite so detailed, but I shared it. With complete strangers. I laid it out there for them to assess and ultimately make judgements about me based on that. It was one of the more difficult things I have ever done. This might be even more difficult, but I won’t know until I hit post. My advisor contacted me via phone call and told me how moved she was by my story and my willingness to share that part of myself. So maybe it is time for me to put this out there. To open a piece of myself. To expose my vulnerability. Which is a difficult pill for me to swallow, being vulnerable. I hate getting emotional over this. It is one of the bigger reasons I try not to speak out loud about it.

My story is not unlike thousands of other tragic stories that happen. In America, every 2 minutes another person is sexually assaulted. Let me repeat that in America today, every TWO minutes another human being is sexually assaulted. Here are my 2 minutes.

 

My mom said to me “You have to forgive yourself in order to move on. You did nothing wrong.”

I am not upset with myself. I haven’t been for years now. I am upset with him. I am upset with a society that blames victims. I am upset with a system that failed me before I even had a chance to regain consciousness.

13 years. It has been roughly 13 years since I went through the most difficult moment of adversity in my life. Over the last couple of months a lot of emotions about this have come flooding back. Mostly due to the outrage I felt over the Stanford Rape case. The details sounded eerily similar to what I went through, and I could not help but be set back a bit. It triggered a lot of anxiety and emotion for me. When you see articles that say “warning possible trigger post,” this is what they mean. I didn’t have two heroes to stop things though. I didn’t have the opportunity to face my attacker. I didn’t even have a hospital that did more than the bare minimum of making sure I was alive and then send me on my way alone and barefoot in a vouchered cab. I was 18 years old.

My mom begged me to put my story into words. We have had lengthy discussions over this fact. I lamented that I am not certain I am ready. She is supportive of whatever I decide. She wants me to have the power. If that means sharing this or that means writing and rewriting it a 1000 times and never hitting post. 13 years later and we still live in a society where the victims of rape are so often blamed or at the bare minimum second guessed. Why would I share this? Why open that can of worms? Maybe we are on the brink of change. Awareness is there. Certainly more than I knew of 13 years ago.

I was so confused. I was terrified. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t call my parents. I called my aunts and left out the part about the questions the doctor barked at me over and over. Questions I had no answers to. I just said I had drank a lot and ended up in the hospital. Please don’t tell my parents. PLEASE. PLEASE! PLEASE!!!

The hospital sent me home with a bag of my things. The few things I had on me. My phone was gone. My shoes were gone. I walked through the building barefoot. I was a mess. I knocked on my own door until my new roommate and stranger heard me and let me in. I threw that bag of things somewhere. Eventually it made its way to the back of my small closet. I crawled into bed.

It took me weeks to look through that bag. The doctor’s questions ringing in my head. I wasn’t sure where my underwear went. I didn’t have any on when I left the hospital. I couldn’t even tell you what I WAS wearing when I walked into my room. I was still so foggy. I do know I was barefoot. That stands out. Even more humiliation. When I worked up the courage, weeks and weeks later, to look through the bag I kept thinking “please let my underwear be in there, please.”

They were not.

The things I do know:

  • I was at a party. I drank a lot. I had never really drank much before. Certainly not THAT much.
  • I remember sitting on a couch laughing.
  • There was pot. I don’t know if I smoked any. I remember the couch. And the room being kind of dark.
  • There was a door to another room to the left behind me.
  • There were guys sitting with us.
  • There was a wooden coffee table in front of me. Covered in assorted stuff.
  • I have a vague memory of the room behind that door to the left. Very blurry and foggy but there.

  • I woke up in the hospital.

  • A male doctor stood over me and barked questions at me about my genitals. I had no answers. I just didn’t know. He left. I never saw him again.
  • I begged to go home. I didn’t know where I was or why.
  • No one called the police. Or offered that as an option. Or offered a rape kit. I wouldn’t have even known what one was if they had. I had never heard that phrase before.
  • They told me I had been “found outside.” That’s all. I was left outside somewhere. Where outside? They didn’t mention that. (Imagine my panic attack when reading about the Stanford victim be assaulted behind a dumpster outside)
  • My underwear were missing. My pants were not.

It took me a while to put the pieces together. Like I said, it took weeks for me to even build up the courage to check for my underwear in the bag of things. When I did and when I was finally honest with myself, I realized what had happened to me. It took me even longer to tell people about it. Years.

I didn’t deal with things in the healthiest of manners early on. I didn’t even want to admit to myself what had happened. I pretended nothing had happened. Denial. I didn’t tell people the scariest details. I went through many phases. Partying. Drugs. Drinking. Anger. Anxiety. Depression. Nightmares. So many nightmares. For a long time I was numb. Or at least did my best to make sure I always felt numb. Then for a long while I felt everything all at once and it was all too much for me. It was like a sensory overload in my emotions.

It took time for me to put my life back together. Yet, at that point I still had not told anyone what I had truly gone through. People maybe knew I had ended up in the hospital for drinking. My parents eventually found out about that as well. I didn’t tell them about the missing underwear. Or the Doctor’s genital questions. I was ashamed. I was humiliated. I was in denial. While, I am no longer in denial, in some ways I still do feel humiliated. A lot of those emotions were brought to the surface again this summer.

A big weight was lifted when I finally told my mom. It was years and years later. I told my husband before I told her. I have shared it here and there with other people. Not so much the nitty gritty details. My mom and husband got those. Those are the above. This is the first time I have put them all in words written down at once. I still struggle to tell that story out loud. You may have known me when this happened. Yet, I didn’t share all of this with you. One of my reasons, on my list of many, for not sharing my story earlier is because of that. What would people I knew then think of me? Would they even believe me, since I wasn’t completely open then? Would they think I was making this up? The more and more I think about those fears, the more and more I realize I am playing into Rape Culture. I shouldn’t care if someone from 13 years ago is mad that I didn’t tell them the whole story. That is their problem and issue, not mine. This is MY story. This is MY journey. This is MY life. This was MY battle to win and use to find MY voice. I have the power to decide when/where/if I share my story. 

Sadly, every 2 out of 3 sexual assaults go unreported. I make up half of those two. Again, in 2016, ⅔ of rapes go unreported. Let that sink in. We consider ourselves a modern society and yet we allow our most vulnerable victims to fall through the cracks. We have created a culture of fear for victims, not assailants. What kind of world do we live in that someone who was violated is afraid of coming forward because they know there is a great chance that they won’t be believed and justice won’t be had? We can even have two reliable witnesses physically stop a sexual assault, and still the rapist gets a 6 month slap on the wrist. Why would a scared girl, without witnesses, who can barely remember anything, bother to come forward? 

My nightmares have returned lately. When I say nightmares, I literally mean I have nightmares about being raped over and over. Or being held captive and having to escape. I believe they have returned due to the fact that this has simmered to the surface again. I feel that this is a lifelong scar I will deal with. Sometimes it will be more faint and I won’t really even notice it. Sometimes it will be bright red, angry, and sore to the touch. My anxiety and panic attacks also never quite leave me. As I type this with shaky fingers. I have learned to manage them in much healthier ways these days. Pilates, deep breathing, running, meditation, visualization, acupuncture, and just talking myself out of a bad attack.

I understand a lot more about myself now that I am in my 30’s. With age comes wisdom. I use my voice. I will not be silenced ever again. I was recently called angry for speaking out against sexism. That may be, but I have my reasons. I have my reasons for wanting equality for women. I have my reasons for speaking out against Rape Culture and sexism over and over. Two of my reasons are sleeping in their comfortable beds above me. They are two little boys. I am responsible for sending them out into the world knowing they will do no harm to other humans. It is my job to keep them aware of how we treat others. No means no. We respect other people’s bodies and choices. You are entitled to nothing and no one. If you see someone being harmed, struggling, in need of help, do your best to help. I think those are some pretty solid reasons for keeping my voice loud, active, and yes, sometimes angry.

There is a lot that is still unclear from that night nearly 13 years ago. I still am missing pieces. Over the years small foggy fragments came through. Not everything, but some. I was unconscious. I was beyond incapacitated. I cannot expect my brain to put everything into a neat package for me. I cannot expect to remember every detail vividly. Maybe this is my blessing. Maybe this is my curse. It really depends on the minute, day, week, month, year. I will never remember it all. I will however, never ever forget those underwear.