The Burden

Validation

Five Star Friday Recognition!

My post Naming Names – It’s My Choice has been featured on this week’s Five Star Friday! Thanks so much to Nic for nominating me. I feel so honored to have been chosen!

What Is Five Star Friday?

Five Star Friday, run by Schmutzie, hosts a weekly collection of links to superior weblog entries from all genres that have been submitted by the people, for the people. Anyone can submit entries. So if you know of excellence happening out there in weblog-land, send in the link for the next edition at Five Star Friday.

If you are ever in need of good reading material of the blogular variety, it is the place to be. Enjoy!

Stopping Rape…

I am sure most of you have heard about the Richmond High School gang rape case. For those of you living in a closet here is just a bit of the coverage available on the news lately:

Police in suburban San Francisco believe as many as a dozen people watched, laughed, took snapshots, and stole jewelry as a 15-year-old girl was beaten and gang-raped outside her high school homecoming dance without reporting it.

One suspect is in custody, but police said as many as six other men attacked the intoxicated girl over a two-hour period Friday night outside Richmond High School.

The girl left the dance at approximately 9:30PM and was walking to meet her father for a ride home when a classmate invited her to join a group drinking in the nearby courtyard. The victim had already consumed a large amount of alcohol by the time the assault began. Investigators say as many as 15 people, all males, stood around watching the assault, but did not call police or help the victim.

“She was raped, beaten, robbed and dehumanized by several suspects who were obviously OK enough with it to behave that way in each other’s presence,” Lt. Mark Gagan of the Richmond Police tells CNN. “What makes it even more disturbing is the presence of others. People came by, saw what was happening and failed to report it.”

“Based on witness statements and suspect statements, and also physical evidence, we know that she was raped by at least four suspects committing multiple sex acts,” Gagan said. “As people announced over time that this was going on, more people came to see, and some actually participated,” he added.

Manuel Ortega, a 19-year-old former student at the school, was arrested soon after he fled the scene and will face charges of rape, robbery and kidnapping, police say. He is being held on $800,000 bail for investigation of rape, and robbery.

“That’s just wrong,” senior class president Gina Saechao, who helped organize the dance, said on Monday. “What if it was your little sister? What if it was your mom?”

The victim remained hospitalized with non-life-threatening injuries.

Much of the coverage of this and most high profile sexual assault cases are frustrating because of our culture’s tendency to blame the victim and minimize trauma. I was pleasantly surprised to find the following post. It focuses on what men can do to change the cultural climate that allows for rape and violence towards women to happen.

Men Can Stop Rape:

mobilizes male youth to prevent men’s violence against women. We build young men’s capacity to challenge harmful aspects of traditional masculinity, to value alternative visions of male strength, and to embrace their vital role as allies with women and girls in fostering healthy relationships and gender equity.

The following is their letter published in PTA Magazine.

Everyone would agree that the gang rape outside Richmond High School was horrific. While this criminal act is particularly troubling because of the large number of perpetrators and witnesses, the incident should not be viewed in isolation. According to the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN), a sexual assault occurs every two minutes in the United States. In Men Can Stop Rape’s (MCSR) view, rape happens because we as a country have not committed to creating cultures of prevention focused on sexual and dating violence in our schools and communities.

If we pay attention to who commits rape, we see that the majority of assaults are perpetrated by men attacking women and other men. But the majority of men do not commit sexual violence and therefore are potential allies with women. By providing a blueprint for transforming bystanders into active agents of social change, MCSR mobilizes young men across the country to create cultures of rape prevention in their schools and communities.

What gets in the way of prioritizing the creation of these cultures nationwide? Victim-blaming, for one. We worry that people will hold the the young woman in Richmond accountable for her assault, especially since there were reports in the media that she had been drinking alcohol. No rape survivors are ever at fault for their assault, whatever the circumstances. To place responsibility on her is a way of diverting responsibility from the young men who committed the rape.

Outsiders typecasting sexual assault as occurring in communities with troubled youth serves as another way of not addressing rape as a social issue. In an October 28 Contra Costa Times article, one student is deeply disturbed that all the Richmond High students were described as animals in response to the assault. There were 400 students at the prom who did not commit rape. And there were female and male students who took steps to call the police. What enabled them to act in a humane manner? These students should be part of the story.

So, what can we do? First, we need an understanding of rape prevention that is broader in scope, that involves females and males, and that is based on respecting our cultures and ourselves. Historically, preventing sexual assault has been thought of in terms of females engaging in risk reduction, such as walking in pairs or dressing conservatively. For lasting change to occur, however, men and women can prevent sexual violence by challenging the attitudes and assumptions that dehumanize women. Atianna Gibbs, a recent Richmond High graduate, says in the October 28 Contra Costa Times article, “That could easily have been their sister, their mom. …Nobody deserves that.” Her comment suggests that it is easier to hurt someone who is of no importance to us than someone who is. This act of dehumanization is an attitude connected to rape and other forms of violence. Racist violence, gay bashing, and rape clearly all share this dynamic.

Fathers can serve as role models of healthy masculinity for their sons and daughters by treating everyone with respect and empathy. Mothers and fathers can discuss with their children what consent and healthy relationships look like. They can become involved with groups like PTA to work to ensure that there are multiple ways schools engage in creating a culture of rape prevention, such as classroom curricula, after-school groups, teacher trainings, and public education campaigns. Parents should support their sons’ involvement with youth programs that encourage healthy masculinity and relationships, like Men Can Stop Rape’s middle school and high school Men of Strength Clubs.

Through our clubs, young men choose to define their own masculinity by evaluating whether messages about manhood, like “don’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” play a role in creating unhealthy and unsafe relationships. They learn skills to speak out effectively when they see attitudes and behaviors that degrade women and girls. Club members translate their curriculum lessons into public education and peer education, uniting a wide cross-section of the community consisting of students, parents, educators, administrators, and business leaders. The young men in the club pledge to be men whose strength is used for respect, not for hurting.

If we want healthy cultures, empathy must occupy the center of a culture’s core, nonviolence must be a shared value, and everyone must matter. Men and women can prevent rape by sharing responsibility and by recognizing that if our cultures are going to be healthy, everyone must play a part in caring to make them so.

Patrick McGann, PhD, is vice president of communications for Men Can Stop Rape, Washington, DC.

Neil Irvin is vice president of programs for Men Can Stop Rape and a member of the Forrest Knolls PTA of Silver Spring, Maryland.

My Final Letter To Xander…

I want to empower other survivors to use their voices. To help foster that effort, I am allowing anyone who would like to share their story to submit posts to the blog.  You already saw one of these shared stories earlier this week from Nic.

Our next post is from my Twitter friend, Heather.  Heather blogs at Singing With My Heart. I want to thank Heather for allowing me to share this powerful letter with you.

Viewer Discretion is advised.*

And love is blind but then I knew it,
My heart was blinded by you.
-James Blunt “Goodbye My Lover”

Dear Xander,

Today, I want you to know, it stops.

I have spent the past several weeks, writing letters to those in my life, who have changed me, who have helped me, hurt me, healed me, and given me hope. I have poured my heart and soul into these letters, hoping that at some point, I will feel that release.

From the time of my first blog post, in 2004, I started to chronicle my life with, and without you. And as I look back, I know there are many things I have learned. A million emotions, and feelings I’ve had towards you, and for you. I’d like to go over them, so you can truly understand just what I’ve been through, and what you have put me through.

Acceptance.
ac⋅cept⋅ance /ækˈsɛptəns/
–noun
1. the act of taking or receiving something offered.
2. favorable reception; approval; favor.
3. the act of assenting or believing: acceptance of a theory.
4. the fact or state of being accepted or acceptable.
5. acceptation (def. 1).
6. Commerce.
a. an engagement to pay an order, draft, or bill of exchange when it becomes due, as by the person on whom it is drawn.
b. an order, draft, etc., that a person or bank has accepted as calling for payment and has thus promised to pay.

I will never go a moment in my life, without thinking of you. There will be nights, for the rest of my life, that I will wake up in a cold sweat, screaming “No” at the top of my lungs. I will never be able to get back what you took from me. I will never be able to look at my inner thighs, without thinking of you and that horrific night you took it upon yourself to turn me into a human ashtray.

I have accepted this.

Regret.
re⋅gret/rɪˈgrɛt/
verb, -gret⋅ted, -gret⋅ting, noun
–verb (used with object)
1. to feel sorrow or remorse for (an act, fault, disappointment, etc.): He no sooner spoke than he regretted it.
2. to think of with a sense of loss: to regret one’s vanished youth.
–noun
3. a sense of loss, disappointment, dissatisfaction, etc.
4. a feeling of sorrow or remorse for a fault, act, loss, disappointment, etc.
5. regrets, a polite, usually formal refusal of an invitation: I sent her my regrets.
6. a note expressing regret at one’s inability to accept an invitation: I have had four acceptances and one regret.

I let you ruin my first, and what should have been my only, college experience. I let you talk me into things I should have thought twice about. I let you control every decision in my life, and every aspect. I let you convince me my friends, family, and life outside of you, was unnecessary and pointless. I let you convince me condoms were useless, and sex was a game that I was going to play, whether I liked it or not. I let you change everything about me; my morals, my dreams, my entire life. I regret that.

I regret that I let you ruin me.

Hate.
hate /heɪt/
verb, hat⋅ed, hat⋅ing, noun
–verb (used with object)
1. to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest: to hate the enemy; to hate bigotry.
2. to be unwilling; dislike: I hate to do it.
–verb (used without object)
3. to feel intense dislike, or extreme aversion or hostility.
–noun
4. intense dislike; extreme aversion or hostility.
5. the object of extreme aversion or hostility.

The actual feeling I’ve been holding onto for the past 5 years. Anguish, hurt, ache, heartbreak, pain, sadness, anger, regret, blame, and acceptance. Those are all feelings I’ve had, over the past 5 years. One feeling has stood out over the course of those long months. One feeling has torn me apart, sending shivers down my spine, and emotional roller coasters through my days. I hate that.

I hate that I hate you.

I want to tell you so many things, Xander. I want to tell you that not only did you rape me physically, you raped my mind. I can say with certainty, that there are times, where I hate you with such an intense rage, that I see red and am doubled over from the sensation of anger pulsating through my entire body. There are other times that one noise will send me into a full blown panic attack, and I am immediately taken back to days where you slammed my body into a wall, or held my wrists down as you pounded into me. Tears flow freely out of my eyes at any given moment of any given day. My moods change at the slightest word. I lost all faith and hope in myself, in God, in men. I can’t close my eyes without seeing your face over mine. I can’t sleep without feeling you on top of me, in me, surrounding me. I can’t hear the crack of a baseball bat without cowering in fear, and the smell of anything burning sends bile rising to my throat. You did this to me, Xander. You and only you.

And the emotional scars, while incredibly painful at times, are no match for the physical scars you’ve left on my body. The broken wrist. The six cracked ribs. The cigarette burns on my inner thigh. The permanent bruise on my left hip from the baseball bat. The countless black eyes and cuts on my face. Sure, these things have all healed, but they have still left lasting impressions on me. You know, Xander, that I could list more scars than that. I can’t even begin to know the scars you caused to my body and mind. And the constant, physical ache. I just hurt, all the time. But worst of all, Xander, worst of all, there is still a very teeny, tiny part of me, who says “You will never find another person to love you for who you are now, now that you are broken, tattered, and torn.”

I hate that part of me.

I hate that part of me that you made weak. That part of me who still feels that I could have stopped you from taking so much from me. I hate that years of therapy will probably never change that. I hate that no matter how much progress I make, still, in the very depths of the back of my mind, will be that teeny, tiny voice, that you have permanently embedded into me. The voice that tells me I am nothing but worthless, that I will never find anyone to love someone as pathetic as me, and the voice that haunts me in my sleep, in my dreams, in my day to day life.

Today, I’m going to settle the score with me. Not with you. You took that option away from me when you decided that you would take the easy way out. I hear your words echoing in my head, “You’re pathetic,” and some days, I almost smirk.

Who is the pathetic one?

I chose life.
I chose living and breathing, which is more than you can say.

And even on the worst days, the days where the flashbacks rip into my core, I still can smile knowing that I have made the right choice. I say choice because at one point, Xander, one low point, in the sleepless nights after your death, I thought about ending my life.

Not just “thought about” but actually tried to, with the intent to die. I remember sitting there, my stomach flipping over, the vomit rising in my throat, and thinking that I was no better than you. At that exact moment in my life, I chose life because I picked up the phone and called for help. I didn’t want to live at that exact moment, but I knew for a fact that I didn’t want to die.

I didn’t want to be you.

Over the past 5 years, Xander, I have learned a lot about myself, and a lot about our relationship. It was toxic. And toxic seems like such a trivial word to use. It was one of those relationships that ruins the lives of those it touches, ruins the faith in love, and destroys the people within it. I would like to think, at this point in my life, that I am ready to move on from this. That I am ready to let go of this toxicity in my life.

Slowly, but surely, as I heal, as I grow, I start to feel some semblance of normalcy in my life. And as that normalcy creeps in, settling into my soul, I start to feel sadness. For you. You’ll never know what it’s like to be blessed with all of the things I have been blessed with. You’ll never hear a child laugh again. You’ll never see the sun set with someone. You’ll never feel a snowflake fall on your cheek. You’ll never graduate college, walk down the aisle, or celebrate the birth of your first child. You never saw the age of 21. You’ll never eat Chinese food (your favorite) again. You’ll never scream as your whipping around a roller coaster, or smile as you pose for a family photograph.

Pity.
pit·y (pĭt’ē)
n. pl. pit·ies

1. Sympathy and sorrow aroused by the misfortune or suffering of another.
2. A matter of regret: It’s a pity she can’t attend the reception.

I feel pity for you. I feel pity because you were too selfish to realize that you were going to miss out on all of these things, that you were too selfish to realize that by killing yourself, you killed those around you, in a way. You snuffed your life out, and everyone who loved you, went out too. I feel pity for you because you will never be able to enjoy the little things in life, ever again. You will never understand the life that I have now because you cannot feel these things, and you didn’t want, ultimately, to feel these things again. You didn’t want the feeling of free-falling into love, of cuddling on cold nights, or stargazing as the warm breeze blows across your face. That is sad. And while I pity you, I also recognize another emotion that has never dared to rear itself into my life. I’ve kept it out for so long, that I almost forgot about it.

And that emotion is forgiveness.

You see, Xander, I’m afraid to forgive you.

It’s honestly, stupid, the reasoning behind it.

But once again, your power overcomes my hope in letting go.

Because if I forgive you, then this chapter in my life, has closed. And in some sick and fucked up, twisted way, I don’t want your chapter, in my book of life, to close. If it closes, that means that you, your hurt, your abuse, your power struggles are over. I’ll have to truly rely on me again. I’ll have to take back that power one hundred percent again.

It scares the shit out of me.

Part of me, as horrific as our relationship together was, doesn’t want to forget you. The you who held my hand while we talked of our dreams and whispered “I love you”, when we made love the first time. The you who made me mayonnaise and pickle sandwiches to cheer me up after you started using drugs, and stopped caring. The you who slapped, hit, and hurled verbal assaults at me, while forcing me onto the bed. The you who once laughed as you pushed me down a flight of stairs. The you who made me a victim, and then left me helpless, scared, and all alone.

I’m not a victim anymore, Xander, and I haven’t been for awhile.

But it’s still a part of me that I can’t let go of. A part of me that I won’t let go of. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll loose me completely, even though I know who I am again. For the first time in my life, I’m self-aware. Even though I hated you with a passion, I still loved you. Loved. You. I don’t anymore.

And while I have accepted you, regretted you, loved you, hated you, and pitied you, it still doesn’t feel like enough. That’s how I knew there was still room for one more emotion.

Forgiveness.
for·give·ness/(fər-gĭv’nĭs, fôr-)
n. The act of forgiving; pardon.

I’ve been told that it’s easier to forgive, then to hold onto other emotions, but at times, I find that a crock of shit, Xander. It’s easier to stay angry, to hate, to not let go. Letting go means finding the true meaning of your life, and moving on. It means finding peace, in your life, and the situation that allowed the hurt and anger to overtake everything else in your life. It takes so much more strength to forgive, then it does to just stay in the same place. Being angry and hateful is easier, it’s allowing the walls to stay up, and staying inside a shell that one has created.

I’m crumbling those walls down, Xander. I’m tired of taking the easy way out. When it comes to you, I have always taken the easy way out. I’ve let you hurt me, I’ve let you control my feelings, I’ve let you stop me, from truly living, even after you took your own life. I can’t do that anymore. When you took your life, you took mine. I want my life back. I want me back. And the only way to get me back, is to forgive you, even if it’s hard. Even if it forces me to leave my comfort zone of “angry”, my safe place of not letting go. I’m scared, Xander. If I take this risk, I will absolutely become a new me, and I am not sure if I’m ready for that. But I’m not willing to stay here. I’m not willing to stay in this place any longer. It will be hard. I will still have my moments. And forgiving you doesn’t always mean I’ll be able to understand the reasons why, I know this. I’m willing to try though. I have to try. My life depends on me doing this.

Out of all these emotions and feelings I’ve told you about today, the one I want you to take with you most, is forgiveness.

I forgive you, Xander.

We attach our feelings to the moment when we were hurt, endowing it with immortality. And we let it assault us every time it comes to mind. It travels with us, sleeps with us, hovers over us while we make love, and broods over us while we die. Our hate does not even have the decency to die when those we hate die–for it is a parasite sucking OUR blood, not theirs. There is only one remedy for it. Forgiveness.
-Lewis B. Smedes

Love,
Heather

Find out more about the “Open Letter Series” by clicking here.

Naming Names – It’s My Choice

I read a great post over at The Curvature this morning, Protecting Your Safety While Speaking Out is Not Irresponsible.

Cara speaks exquisitely about Katie Price and why she does not need to name her rapist.  Cara also talks about her own decision to leave her rapist unnamed:

Katie Price has not done something particularly different from what I have; she has only done it while people know her name. I have spoken about being raped, and while I have never been particularly specific about the details, I have constantly mentioned that my rapist was also my boyfriend at the time. For those who have known me for many years, that is more than enough information for them to know his name. For him, were he to find me, it is also almost certainly more than enough. And that makes it enough period.

I have not given his name. I will not ever give his name publicly. And no amount of victim-blaming bullshit is going to change that.

Why? Because I value my safety. Because I value my mental health. Because I value myself.

Because printing his name would make it a million times easier for him to find me. Because it would make it easy for his friends to google his name and find me, too. Because it would open me up to extraordinary harassment by someone who through his very narrow definition of rape, which he undoubtedly uses to maintain his belief that he’s a decent person, almost certainly believes with all his heart that he did not rape me. It would open me up to charges of false accusations, to questions about why I have not pressed charges and statements about what a liar I am because I haven’t. It would back me into a corner, because while not pressing charges makes me a liar, pressing charges means setting up an impossible case on the grounds of something that happened many years ago with no witnesses, for a crime that rarely results in conviction, anyway (something that is especially true in the UK). Because it could potentially open me up to charges of libel. I will not name him because I deserve — no, because I have the goddamn right — to not spend every second of my life looking over my shoulder, afraid of just when he will appear.

And I imagine that if not every one of these things is true for Katie Price, a significant majority are. Her choices, right now, are being called an irresponsible coward by feminists and an attention-seeker by the media, or being sued for libel by her rapist and being called a liar by every single person under the sun.

What a brilliant fucking set of options, right?

These are many of the same reasons I have chosen not to name my own rapist in this blog.  Sadly, I have had numerous comments (some of which I have approved, many of which I have not) about how I need to name him, tell his family, let the world know, etc.  Let me clearly state right now, once and for all, I am not going to out my rapist publicly. That is my decision to make. Don’t think that it is one I make lightly.  I have thought about it for years. More than you could ever imagine.  So please don’t think you need to write and enlighten me as to all the reasons I need to name names.

I am speaking out about my rape, but I have to do it in a way that does not endanger me or my family. That is my choice; that is my right – and it is the right of every other victim out there. It does not matter if she (or he) is a celebrity, an activist, or the girl next door.  It takes a lot for a person to put herself (or himself) out there. Please don’t berate her (or him) for not doing it the way you think she (or he) should.

Polanski, Whoopi and Rape Apologism

I find the response to Roman Polanski’s arrest flat out shocking.  I can not fathom how anyone could support a man who drugged and anally raped a child, took a plea deal, and then fled the country before he could be sentenced. It blows my mind that so many people think this is a waste of time.

Most disconcerting was hearing Whoopi Goldberg’s pronouncement on The View yesterday:

WTF is rape versus rape-rape?  This is not a “little mistake.” Rape is rape! Do you have any doubts? Read the victim’s testimony from the  grand jury testimony:

A. I was going, “No, I think I better go home,” because I was afraid. So I just went and I sat down on the couch.
Q. What were you afraid of?
A. Him.
. . . .

Q. What happened then?
A. He reached over and he kissed me. And I was telling him, “No,” you know, “keep away.” But I was kind of afraid of him because there was no one else there.
. . . .

Q. What did he do when he placed his mouth on your vagina?
A. He was just like licking and I don’t know. I was ready to cry. I was kind of — I was going, “No. Come on. Stop it.” But I was afraid.
. . . .

Q. What happened after that?
A. He started to have intercourse with me.
Q. What do you mean by intercourse?
A. He placed his penis in my vagina.
Q. What did you say, if anything, before he did that?
A. I was mostly just on and off saying, “No, stop.” But I wasn’t fighting really because I, you know, there was no one else there and I had no place to go.

I’ll leave off there before we get to the part where he rapes her anally and ejaculates in her anus.

How can anyone read that and say she was not raped?

I was raped at thirteen by a man whose child I was babysitting.  Heck, he and his wife used to babysit for me when I was younger.  It reminds me a lot of the way Polanski’s victim described her rape.  No, I was not drugged.  Yes, I did say “No” repeatedly.  I did struggle and try to push him off of me.  I did not scream or kick.  I was scared. I was f-ing terrified!  So Whoopi, was I raped or rape-raped?  I’ll tell you right now, by all definitions of the law, I was RAPED! Rape is rape is rape. There is no gray area. There is no “kind of raped.”

Nic at My Bottle’s Up put it elegantly,

“I find myself ashamed to say that I was once a fan of yours… a fan of your successes… a fan of you as a woman… and now, you disgust me.”

Oh and on the discussion of the judge putting Polanski away for 100 years, here is how Patterico’s Pontifications addresses it:

I have read variants of this claim all over, mostly commonly that the judge was going to give Polanski 50 years. What?? The judge wasn’t even going to give him 50 extra days. He was going to give him 48 extra days. I get this from the motion filed by Polanski’s lawyers.Paragraph 16 of the declaration of Polanski’s lawyer says: “Judge Rittenband announced to counsel that he now intended to send Mr. Polanski to prison for the second time under the following conditions: (1) that he serve 48 additional days in prison . . .” The other conditions were that there would be no further hearing, and that Polanski “deport himself.” Polanski had been sent to prison for a “90-day diagnostic” and had served only 42 days; the 48 days was meant to complete the 90 days.

This allegedly went against a previous in-chambers promise by the judge that the initial 42 days would be all Polanski would serve; however, Polanski did not plead based on the previous promise, which was made after the plea. That previous promise did not induce the plea, and when commentators say the judge “reneged” on a deal they are adopting the language of Polanski’s lawyers, who argue that the judge said he would make his decision after reading the probation department report and listening to the lawyers’ arguments. Instead, Polanski’s lawyers claim, the judge made up his mind before listening to the lawyers. Which, truth be told, judges always do; they just usually put on a better show of listening to us.

So, Polanski claims the judge was biased and justice wasn’t being served. He could have stayed in this country  and fought for his rights and put this behind him years ago. Instead, he fled and lived the good life.

Roman Polanski left this country because he’s a guilty, cowardly rapist.  He plead guilty to sex with a minor. He admitted that he drugged her. Those are the facts! What I don’t understand is how all these elite filmmakers could sign a petition asking for Polanski to be released.  Do they support Polanski’s actions?  How do they separate the man from the act?  Is he such a great filmmaker that he deserves to get away with rape?  I just don’t get it!

Woody Allen signing the petition, okay that doesn’t shock me.  But Whoopi’s comments really threw me for a loop.  I always thought of her as a strong woman; one who supports women’s rights and equality.

So what are all the Hollywood types thinking?  Could someone explain it to me?  Come on Martin Scorsese, David Lynch, Jonathan Demme, Mike Nichols, Tilda Swinton, etc. why do you think he should not have to face justice? Can you explain it to me? Can anyone explain it to me?

Oh and if you are curious, click here for a complete list of people who have signed the petition to “Free Polanski.”

Peter Gross has another good point,

“What I find most loathsome is his supporters’ use of the death of his mother in the Warsaw ghetto, and the trauma he received there during the Holocaust, as an excuse for his behavior. The Holocaust was a horrific event. Tens of thousands of children survived and had to live with that searing experience all their lives. Virtually all of them managed to live without committing horrific crimes. To invoke the Holocaust as an excuse is revolting, and a mockery to those Holocaust survivors who have lived with dignity and humanity.”

Just because you have lived through trauma, does not give you an excuse to abuse others. If you commit a crime, you commit a crime.  I feel bad that he has had to deal with so much trauma in his life. Yes it is horrible what happened in the Holocaust.  It is awful that he lost his wife and son to the Manson murders. But being a victim of trauma does not make it okay to cause trauma to someone else! What is worse, he admits it. He admits he drugged a child and f-ed her. But for some reason he doesn’t think he should face justice for his crime.

Scrutinizing his behavior, can we really consider him as having admitted to his crime? It seems  more like BRAGGING about it to me.

Songs With Meaning: I Didn’t Know My Own Strength

Occasionally I will post a song that I find inspiring as a survivor.  I hope you find them inspiring too. And don’t forget to suggest songs that you would like to see featured in the comments. I am always looking for new songs.

I Didn’t Know My Own Strength by Whitney Houston.

Lost touch with my soul
I had no where to turn
I had no where to go
Lost sight of my dream,
Thought it would be the end of me
I thought I’d never make it through
I had no hope to hold on to,
I thought I would break

I didn’t know my own strength
And I crashed down, and I tumbled
But I did not crumble
I got through all the pain
I didn’t know my own strength
Survived my darkest hour
My faith kept me alive
I picked myself back up
Hold my head up high
I was not built to break
I didn’t know my own strength

Found hope in my heart,
I found the light to life
My way out the dark
Found all that I need
Here inside of me
I thought I’d never find my way
I thought I’d never lift that weight
I thought I would break

I didn’t know my own strength
And I crashed down, and I tumbled
But I did not crumble
I got through all the pain
I didn’t know my own strength
Survived my darkest hour
My faith kept me alive
I picked myself back up
Hold my head up high
I was not built to break
I didn’t know my own strength

There were so many times I
Wondered how I’d get through the night I
Thought took all I could take

I didn’t know my own strength
And I crashed down, and I tumbled
But I did not crumble
I got through all the pain
I didn’t know my own strength
Survived my darkest hour
My faith kept me alive
I picked myself back up
Hold my head up high
I was not built to break
I didn’t know my own strength

“Drugged” by Nic

I remember what I wore.

I still have the denim jacket.

I didn’t want the med examiner to put it with the rape kit and the rest of my clothes as evidence.

It’s designer.

I remember he was a friend of a friend.

A friend of a friend I once trusted.

I remember eating pizza at Mellow Mushroom.

I remember talking about friends we both knew from back home.

I remember enjoying myself.

*****

I remember getting in the bar underage because he worked there.

I remember sitting at a table against a dark wall.

I remember feeling “cool.”

I remember him ordering drinks.  Not from a waitress but at the bar himself.

I remember waiting for the drinks.

I remember how many I drank.

I remember talking about my boyfriend (now my husband) and how they would get along well.

I remember saying, “I have to pee.”

I remember going to the bathroom, flushing, washing my hands, and then walking out of the restroom.

My legs went numb.

*****

I remember telling him, “I can’t feel my legs.”

I remember he said he would take me home.

I remember him lifting my arm over his shoulder to help me to his car.

I remember him opening the car door for me.

I remember getting in the car.

I remember buckling my seat belt.

That’s where I stop remembering… I think…

What’s in my mind after clicking the seat belt could be true or false… reality or imagination.

*****

I don’t know.  I will never know.  Truly.  I cannot turn back the clock.

I remember wanting to turn back the clock.

*****

I remember saying “no.”

I think I remember saying “no” as he pinned my wrists and spread my legs.

It was a whisper.

My voice was hoarse.

I remember pain… physical and emotional.

But did I say, “no”?

*****

I remember waking up in his bed.  He was on the floor.  Naked.

I remember seeing the condom wrapper on the alarm clock.

I remember what time it was.

I remember searching his apartment for a bathroom and being violently ill.

I remember finding articles of my clothing scattered.

I remember not knowing where I was.

I remember getting dressed while he was still sleeping.

*****

I remember seeing that he had gone through my purse because my wallet was out, opened, invaded.

*****
Nothing had been stolen.

Everything had been stolen.

*****

I remember him waking up as I zipped my jeans.

I remember him asking why I was crying.

I remember him driving me to my dorm.

I remember the silence.

Deafening.

*****

I remember him putting his hand on my knee when I opened the car door to get out.

I remember wanting to vomit on his hand.

I remember him asking me if I wanted to go to church with him tomorrow.

I remember wanting to vomit on his hand.

I remember thinking “what the fuck?!”

I remember him asking me if I was ok.

I remember saying, “I don’t think so.”

I remember wanting to vomit on his hand that was on my knee.

*****

I remember showering in scalding water.

I remember burning my skin.

I remember using an entire bar of soap until it disintegrated.

I remember using a new, fresh towel when I got out of the shower.

I remember vomiting more and more and more…

Til there was nothing left inside of me.

*****

But it was all already gone.

Nothing was left.

*****

I remember driving myself to the ER.

I remember telling the triage nurse, “I think I was raped.”

I remember her glaring at me and asking, “you think?”

I remember having vials of blood drawn.

I remember the med examiner looking for evidence from my body.

Hairs, finger prints, scratches, skin under my finger nails.

They took what was left of me.

*****

I remember she was frustrated with me because I had already showered and peed.

“Very little evidence here,” she said while I laid with my legs spread open.

I remember being alone.

Entirely alone.

*****

I remember the exam, the doctor, the cop who sat in the corner.

The rape kit.

I remember the doctor saying, “the abundance of tearing of the tissue is sign of trauma to the area.”

I remember thinking “what the fuck does that mean?”

I remember crying while some stranger combed my pubic hair… for his strays.

I remember pictures were taken of bruises on my inner thighs, my breasts, my arms.

I remember a bruise under my right arm pit from him carrying me over his shoulder.

A bruise on my collar bone.

I remember someone saying, “it’ll be he said/she said…”

*****

I remember asking someone to call my mom.

I remember they left her a voicemail.

Who leaves a fucking voicemail?

I remember leaving the ER and going back to my dorm.

I had to be given clothes to wear home.

They were tossed in the garbage that same day.

I remember hating those clothes.

*****

I remember curling up in a ball on my twin-sized bed and bear-hugging myself until it hurt.

I remember wanting it to hurt.

I remember emailing my boyfriend (now husband) to “CALL ME.”

*****
I remember my dad having to get off a plane he had just boarded after receiving a phone call from my mom, saying what had happened to me.

I remember not speaking for an entire 24 hour period, once my parents arrived.

I remember sitting with my knees curled up to my chest for those 24 hours in the hotel room I stayed in with my parents.

I remember my mom on the phone with my brother.

I remember hearing him ask, “how is she?” and mom answering, “she’s quiet, very quiet.”

*****
I remember being questioned incessantly by the police…

I remember the district attorney was female.

I remember being grateful for that.

*****

But I didn’t know.  I didn’t know everything they wanted me to know, to answer.

I remember the police finding the drug in his apartment.

I remember being told by the police officer “he and his roommate are in the next room,” as I gave my written statement… signed my written statement.

I remember wondering if his roommate was there that night.

Involved…

*****

I remember not remembering.
__________

Nic blogs at My Bottle’s Up and originally shared her story at Violence Unsilenced. She is very brave to share her story and I thank her for letting me cross post it.  Please be sure to show you support and thank her for helping spread awareness of sexual assault. If you use twitter, be sure to follow Nic.

Bring “Can I Kiss You?” to Your Campus, School or Military Institution

RAINN is auctioning a live presentation of Can I Kiss You?, by Mike Domitrz. Can I Kiss You? has been used by hundreds of schools, universities and military installations to teach males and females about healthy dating and intimacy.

Mike Domitrz

As the executive director of The Date Safe Project, Inc., Mike Domitrz is one of the leading authorities, authors, and allies on addressing consent, healthy intimacy, and sexual assault awareness. The “Can I Kiss You” program will meaningfully engage each audience member in a candid, in-depth, interactive conversation about what is often labeled a “silent” issue.

Your presentations will be specially tailored to the age and size of your audience, so you can be sure it will be appropriate for pre-teens (sixth grade or above) all the way through college students and military service members. Depending on the venue, we can accommodate audience sizes of 15 to 5,000.

For more information on how to bid, please visit RAINN.

This presentation has been donated to RAINN by The Date Safe Project Inc., so your entire winning bid will be used to support the National Sexual Assault Hotline and RAINN’s other programs to help victims and educate the public.