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Frat Boys Don’t Get Prison Time

The potential impact these cases are having on young girls and boys.

 

I woke up this morning to the news that a former Baylor University fraternity president who was accused of rape will not see a day in jail. He won’t serve time, he won’t have to register as a sex offender and because of a plea deal, four counts of sexual assault were reduced to unlawful restraint, three years deferred adjudication probation and $400 in fines and counseling. To add insult to injury, the deferred adjudication could mean that the charges could eventually be dismissed if he doesn’t violate the terms of his probation. [1]

 

In a victim impact statement, she called out both the assistant district attorney and county district attorney for not having enough respect for her, to show up to the hearing. Her words for the accused angry and understandably disappointed in what transpired. A brief excerpt of what she said as reported by the Washington Post: “It must be horrible to you,” she said, “to know what you did to me. To know you are a rapist. To know that you almost killed me. To know that you ruined my life, stole my virginity and stole many other things from me.” [2]

 

As a survivor her statement struck me deeply. As a 44-year-old woman, however, I read that statement with a veil of cynicism because I do not believe he will feel much else other than, victorious. Here is where I plug in that I am obviously biased, given my personal experience on the matter and do not have a psychology degree that might give me further insight into the mind of a rapist. But I think that when you have a legal system that for all it’s truly remarkable qualities still allows rapists to walk our streets without so much as a slap on the wrist, and like the Stanford University case of Brock Turner, where the judge felt a harsh sentence (despite a conviction for sexually assaulting an unconscious woman) would ruin the athlete’s life and therefore only imposed 6-months, you are telling young women and men that they don’t matter. In fact, you are telling all women and men that if they should be assaulted that it’s better to keep silent. Why? Because it’s just so darned hard to prosecute and get a conviction in an assault case. If I sound a bit acerbic, good. It’s intentional. No one plans on going to a party and getting raped. So, forgive me if I forgot to bring my DNA kit with me.

 

It angers me that girls, especially, are taught to travel in packs. They are taught not to dress a certain way in school because it might bring unwanted attention from a boy. If you’re at a club be wary of who is around you and watch your drink lest someone drops a rufie in it. If they’re raped, they’re still held somewhat accountable for what occurred. Why were you at the party alone? Why were you dressed like that? Why were you walking back to your apartment that late, by yourself? If you were drinking, even you’re of age it’s worse. Were you watching your drink? How much did you drink? Didn’t you think it unwise to drink so much? Oh, and if there’s more boys than girls at a party it’s sure to draw a raised brow. Didn’t you think it strange there were so few girls? Weren’t you concerned? However, nowhere, that I’ve seen, is there the same kind of scrutiny with boys. Nowhere, that I’m aware of, do they teach boys how they should act. It is a very imbalanced way we show children and teens how to regard one another and respect one another’s boundaries. How then, we have the audacity to tell them they are equals, I don’t know. I’m sorry, but Johnny and Jane are not equal when Jane has to constantly worry about how she is dressed, whether she is having too much fun at a party with some guy friends or whether she can go out at all, if her girl friends can’t make it. What this is teaching girls is that if they are raped it’s somehow their fault. You could tell them all day that it’s not, but when society tells them that they can’t go to school in spaghetti straps because Tommy might get a hard-on seeing a bare shoulder, there is a problem. And it’s sure as hell not the girl.

 

Maybe it shouldn’t anger me as much as it does. Maybe I should take consolation in the fact that we put away many rapists and just let it go, but I can’t. Is it wrong for me to want something better for all women and men? Something that doesn’t look at the victim as though they had some unseen hand in it all, or that doesn’t penalize them for not doing enough to stop it or prevent it from happening? These cases, while maybe not the norm is getting the spotlight in social media and the news enough where they are shaping the perceptions of young and old survivors. For a victim, it may make them reconsider telling anyone that they were assaulted especially if the person was regarded highly in some way. It shapes the entirety of their lives when the rapist gets a deal and can walk away virtually scot-free, while the victim- the survivor, never gets to walk away scot-free. The rapist, no matter how much you move on and continue with your life, leaves an ineradicable stain there. An imprint of the horror experienced. This kind of permanent violation should come with a price. And I won’t stop being angry about it. I won’t stop fighting for something better for our sons and daughters.

 

 

 

Citations

[1,2] Rosenberg, Eli and Phillips, Kristine (Dec. 11th, 2018) Accused of rape, former Baylor fraternity president gets no jail time after plea deal Washington Post

 

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What I Hide

(from my friends and family)

About My Anxiety

Though any group gathering can make me worse, what stands out right now is the holidays. That time of year when people have parties, families get together and the stores become a treacherous gauntlet. There are some people who thrive during this insane season, while others, like me, need to ready the mithril armor in preparation.

In my head, I know it shouldn’t be so difficult. Unfortunately, the rest of my body doesn’t seem to be aware of that; they didn’t get the memo, I will have to send a stern letter to management. Oh, wait! That’s me. At any rate, the moment I find out there’s some kind of gathering I have to attend, friends or family, the panic sets in and there’s an incredible amount of mental prep involved. This is partly because I’m ashamed of my anxiety and partly because I feel guilty for it.

1.)  Mental Prep

Here’s how a typical mental prep goes:

“Alright, Liza. Auntie and Uncle are flying in. Mom’s having a bbq and you need to look decent. Enough to pass Mom’s critical eye and enough that I won’t provoke any questions about my mental health. I also have to make sure I fly under the radar of Auntie and Uncle, which I am never certain I do, but they’re always good about not saying anything.” The scenarios will change, but it’s always the same basic idea. I want to appear as normal as everyone else. But I also want people to see that I do have limitations, but that I am still me. I’m a girl. I’m complicated! The mental prep, all humor aside, can be exhausting in itself.

2.)  OCD Worrying

I fret for weeks what I am going to wear. And that is if I know way in advance. If I don’t and it’s something sudden, where I didn’t have time to play, it’s worse. Even when I finally decide on something, I’m not happy. Too tight, too hot, too frumpy, or the always popular, I look fat. Anything to criticize myself and my choice. But no one, aside from my darling Mister, will know how much I worried over everything.

3.)  Gearing up for Conversations

This sounds benign right? I assure you that it is far from it. It’s basically three parts. The first, questions about my health. The second, what I plan on doing with my life. The third, casual, random conversations that should be easy but because I am hyperventilating about one and two, it never is. And, it’s always worse when I don’t know the people I’m around. Alright, so the first question about my health always stumps me. Do I answer honestly? Or will this provoke to much pity? Do I lie and possibly elicit the opposite response which is anything between apathy and skepticism? You might think this is harsh, but t is universally known that someone trying to acquire disability shouldn’t be happy, shouldn’t enjoy anything and definitely shouldn’t laugh. Let’s slide into home with the last, my life’s work- which couldn’t possibly be writing because I don’t get paid for it. Basically, this is just some glorified hobby of mine too keep me busy while I wait for disability. This is truly my least favorite topic of conversation because there is no winning. I could tell them I was being featured in Time or that I was Oprah’s newest favorite thing, and the reaction would still be, “That’s nice dear. When are they going to pay you?” Finally, I don’t do small talk very well. I hate, hate, hate, having to do small talk with someone I do not know. I have no problem sitting in silence and staring at them uncomfortably until they leave.

4.)  Can You Bring Something?

I am lucky that I do not typically host any event at my house. We’re far too small a space for the six people already occupying it so there’s little reason to torture everyone else too. But it usually means I have to bring food and while I don’t mind, I often worry about what to bring. Thinking about it as I write it, I am cognizant of the ridiculousness of this worry and what I put myself through, but it is what I do. I worry about the dish pleasing everyone even though I consider it divine intervention of some kind when I please every palate in my own house. I worry that if it is too simplistic of a dish it won’t be pleasing enough and yet, if I make anything too complex, I know that I will need help or that I will end up exhausted.

5.)  The Anxiety Over Having Anxiety

Finally, and I made this the last thought not because it’s the least of my anxieties, but because I want it to linger in your thoughts.

It’s hard for people who do not understand anxiety to comprehend all the stressors we go through, sometimes just getting out of the house. Yes, just to get out of the house. I’m now sharing a little-known fact about me that not even the Mister knows. On bad days, I can’t leave my house. When I used to work, to compound my misery and guilt over missed days because I was sick, there were days I just couldn’t leave my house because my anxiety was so bad. And, what is worse, is that logically I get it. I’m willing to bet we all do on some level. Stepping out of the house won’t kill me, but my body and the racing heart and the inability to breathe and sickness and nausea I feel, tell a whole different story to my brain. I’ve tried to leave my house and gotten as far as my car, locking the doors as I sit inside and hyperventilate myself into feeling that impending doom. I don’t want to feel like that and I just jack up the anxiety and stress even more when I try to logic my way out of it. I wish there was a way I could be free of it and maybe I will find it one day, but until then, remember that we don’t want this. Remember that before you make fun of someone for being anxious or diminish what they are feeling by trying to rationalize it for them, as though they didn’t already try. Saying things like, “It’s all in your head.” I may know that. I may know it in every cell of my body, but when my heart is pounding and I’m struggling for every breath and the tears are rolling, I just don’t give a fuck. I just want you to hold me.

High Functioning and Disabled

What you see

is not how I feel.

A carefully crafted exterior

ghosting past 

friends, family and strangers

with that perfect smile-

doing everything I’m supposed to,

or close to it.

While in private, I collapse.

In private, I cry.

In private, I fall to pieces.

But before you see me again,

the pieces are taped together,

the smile arranged into place,

and the carefully crafted façade

is all you will see.

 

I first realized how dire my personal battle with pain was almost 15 months after I stopped working and I didn’t feel a noticeable difference. There had been some hope I’d been harboring, mostly in secret, that a little rest and relaxation would somehow, miraculously cure me. That truly brought the complex nature of my chronic illness/pain, into sharp focus for me. What was worse, was that now that I was considered a “house-wife” (and while I could write a whole other blog on the misogynistic origins of that term, what I simply mean here, is: not working outside the home) it seemed that I was even more busy than when I was working. There is this pervasive idea, that not being employed outside the home makes your life easier, when in fact, it does not. It does afford me some luxuries that working did not, such as: being able to take a nap when I need it, or the ability to spend a lot of time in the bathroom when I need to, but much of the time I am just as busy, or busier, than when I was going out to my job. Oh! And I do not get paid! However, this ill-descriptor leads both men and women to look at you with a measure of contempt, as though some great weight has been lifted from your shoulders and you should be elated and profoundly grateful for your situation. Oy…

 

Let me start by saying that I do not feel any resentment toward my “outside-working-counterparts.” I can’t fault them for their perceptions, however skewed it might be, partly because of how all facets of the media portrays those of us who stay home. I’ve mentioned before that lovely, turn of phrase, “staying at home and eating bon-bons.” Makes me grate my teeth till my jaw hurts, but I get it. At the same time, it’s those ill-conceived notions that make life so much harder for us who are struggling with chronic illness of chronic pain and spend the majority of our time at home. To bring this all together (finally) is that people, including friends and family and a good number of strangers, see me and many of us in the chronic world, as “high functioning.” Let me add here two things. The first, is that those who actually go out to work have an even harder time than I do. Their peers only see an individual who functions at work like a healthy person. The second, is that I added my situation within this definition of high-functioning because I consider my blog and my free-lance writing, my work and I also manage my house and everything that goes with that, from grocery shopping to cleaning and I also have all four of my children still living at home, in various stages of adult-ing. We are all seen as “high-functioning” though I would use “surviving” in its’ place. Many of my fellow warriors have no choice but to work. I have the luxury of being able to stay home, though “luxury” is not the word I’d use because we struggle a lot. I have a good partner, an empathetic partner, who knows that working outside the home was not only physically difficult, but mentally draining. I don’t want to be the kind of employee who misses work all the time or can’t keep up with my share of the work. It kills my self-esteem.

 

My biggest problem with “high-functioning” is that it fails to acknowledge my daily struggle. It fails to acknowledge the vast number of us that are defined this way solely because we’ve mastered the art of blending in. We’ve become as adept as a chameleon in masking how we feel because life does not simply come to a halt because we are having a bad pain or flaring. There is also a fear, for some, that if they are open with their situation that they might not have a job in the future or, that their employer may begin to scrutinize their work, looking for an excuse to let them go out of fear their job performance will eventually suffer. Slyly hiding within all this is the blind-eye we also feel from family members and friends and even strangers, with regards to our pain/illness. It never fails to surprise me how even those closest to me, evade the obvious.  It’s as though if they ignore it, it’s not there. There is also the continued attempt at comparing how I feel to how they feel after they’ve had a bad day. It puts me in quite a pickle because on one hand I am mentally screaming at how obtuse they are while on the other hand, I don’t want there to be this conversation about how I feel so much worse and ticking over the infinite number of symptoms and reasons why it’s not the same thing. Finally, there’s the pity that seems to be the go-to when they don’t know what else to say. I don’t want your pity, I don’t want to hear some cookie-cutter sympathy. I want you to stop for a minute and try to have some empathy. I want you to try to understand that while I might look “fine,” I’m far from fine and you don’t have to be psychic. What I have will never go away. You sprain your ankle or twist picking up a box, you might hurt for one or two weeks. I won’t ever wake up and feel better. You ache and feel miserable from the flu. A week later you’re up and around feeling better. I flare and feel like a train hit me sometimes and that won’t go away. It might for a few weeks, but it will happen again and again, no matter how hard I try. But I’m “high-functioning.”

 

It seems ridiculous to label someone “high-functioning” when all we are doing is living. Is there another option? Maybe I am being too sensitive about a label that implies I am doing pretty well for what is going on with me, but when that definition misleads people and gives them the wrong impression? Yeah, I take issue with it. I might look like I have it together, but I’m still disabled, I still struggle and the pain is very real.

Mindfulness Matters

What if you became a Day-Maker?

When people hear “mindfulness” I think they immediately take on a petrified expression, expecting a host of complicated philosophy that can be impractical for most of us. But in reality, much of what mindfulness embodies are things you are familiar with and which you can not only practice, but teach to young children.

Something I read or heard about recently that captured mindfulness and the nature of my friend Lisa, who recently lost her battle with breast cancer, is the idea of being a “Day-Maker.” She was the type of person who radiated such warmth, that you wanted to get closer if only to feel it glance your cheek and whose laughter was so contagious that you’d fall into a fit of giggles right beside her. To me, she illustrates perfectly, the concept of Day-Maker.

Working in retail and dealing with people from all walks of life, who come into the store having all kinds of days, Lisa was always adamant about treating people with kindness even if they weren’t being the same way in return. Why? Because Lisa had battled cancer six times at that point and understood that our brief interaction with customers could never convey whatever battle they might be facing. For example, she would say: “Maybe John just found out that he lost his job. Or, maybe Jane just lost her mother. Or maybe, Debbie just found out she has cancer.” There could be any number of reasons for why someone is acting the way they are that we will never know. So, Lisa felt that it was imperative to treat people with compassion and compassion and mindfulness go hand in hand. In fact, there is research to suggest that being mindful makes you more compassionate, but Lisa wasn’t aware of any of that. She simply did it because that is who she was.

So, how was she a day-maker and how can you be too? Lisa brought a smile to every situation. She spoke with kindness and encouragement always. I am not saying that she was Zen-like and didn’t have a temper, but that more times than not she considered how her words were going to affect a person. She tackled difficulties (both people and situations) with hope, optimism, love and compassion. Even in her own life, and her own situations, dealing with her cancer she never gave up hope. And when there was no more hope and she was faced with death, she still managed to see the brightness in that. Now, we’re not all built like Lisa. I know I tried to emulate her and failed because I am far melancholier than she was, but you can still be a day-maker.

Just think of it as bringing a little, unexpected sunshine into someone’s day. It can be a friend, a co-worker, a client, a patient, a neighbor and yes, even a stranger. We’re all pretty hardwired to think the worst in people and at the very minimum, simply not expect a “free” or “no-strings-attached” kindness, from someone that we don’t know that it usually surprises us. These instances of being a day-maker do not need to be much to truly affect someone. Here are some examples of how you can be a day-maker.

·       Smile and say hello to a stranger: We live in a world where people have fallen victim to their phone and texting. Human contact is becoming less and less. But, that smile and meeting someone’s eyes is something that cannot be conveyed in text and when relating to people you do not know, can break the ice in an instant.

·       Tell a co-worker or even a friend or nighbour how much you appreciate them: We often fall into a pattern of life and forget to tell people they are important. We also can fall into a pattern of only bringing up the negatives, thinking they already know the positive. Hearing the positive can really make a difference in how people respond to you.

·       Take a moment and call that friend you haven’t chatted with in ages: In a day of social media and texting we don’t connect with people’s voice and through their voice, them. Hitting like or posting a pic of where you went on vacation is static and not the same as picking up your cell and calling them. It may really be something that changes their day.

·       Pay for someone’s coffee, meal or groceries: Being a day-maker does not need to be expensive but if you can, this is one of those gestures that is wholly unexpected and can really brighten someone’s day. Also, if you travel the tolls frequently, paying for the person behind you is something inexpensive that you can also do.

·       Spend time at an assisted living facility: It is sad to think that many people in these facilities either have no family or don’t have contact with their family through distance or neglect. You can really be a day-maker by visiting one of these facilities and spending an hour with some of the residents. Just call your local facility and ask if they have volunteer options or if you are able to visit once a week for an hour and maybe read to a resident.

 

So, what’s stopping you? Be a Day-Maker! We can all be Day-Makers. We can all bring a little sunshine into someone’s life. And you don’t have to believe in karma, but I do believe we get what we put in to the universe.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

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Escaping and Surviving Domestic Abuse

*Trigger Warning*

In December of 1997 I made the decision to leave my husband. This decision came after four-years of being emotionally and physically abused.  This decision came after repeatedly leaving him and taking our two, young, daughters to live at my parents’ house where ultimately, he would manipulate me enough through apologies and promises, that I would go back. That summer he decided to move us to Alabama, a small town where he still had a lot of family and where he had inherited his grandfather’s home. It would alleviate us of rent and he’d have a job at a cotton mill and we’d be happy. Well, that was supposed to be how the story turned out, but it didn’t.

It did not take long before problems resurfaced. Arguments over money, over his drinking and over his violent temper. There was little I could do right, in any facet of our home life. I was constantly being reminded that he was the one working and therefore I could not do anything without his approval. My job was cooking and cleaning and maintaining the house as well as being available for sexual use whenever he wanted, regardless if I refused. I was repeatedly raped during those six months I lived there, before I left that Christmas. I did not understand I was being raped until much later, because I did not understand you could be raped when married- that a wife still had the ability to say no.

I was extremely homesick in Alabama. I am an only child and my parents have always tried to support me even though we don’t always agree with one another, or get along. My marrying at 19 because I was pregnant was very difficult for them and so I truly tried to spare them the grief of my failing marriage, even though I would ultimately go back home a total of six times, for sometimes 2-3 months and live with them, with the two children. They knew I was unhappy, that he was controlling and had a temper, but not to the extent of what I was experiencing.

I asked to go home for Christmas because I was homesick and after many arguments, he finally gave his consent and purchased tickets for me and the two girls. I did not plan on not returning, however I had discovered I was pregnant prior to my departure and I was devastated. He…was happy. Many things went through my head, from the non-consensual sex that had me in this predicament to the knowledge that if I had another child, I would never be able to leave him. I didn’t have an education or a job because I had two children under 4ys and a baby would pretty much anchor me to a marriage that I was afraid would kill me. We’d had a fight about something, I can’t even remember, but what I do remember vividly is me, in one of the closets of the bedroom crouched down and praying he would be distracted by something and not hunt me down and then him finding me, yelling at me with a sawed off shot gun in his hand and pressing the barrel to my forehead. I was not going to disobey him, again. So, I got on that plane and while I don’t even remember the trip I remember crying at some point, holding my youngest and pulling the older one close against me and telling them we weren’t going back.

People have told me that I am so brave for leaving but it wasn’t bravery. It was survival. This wasn’t some Hollywood-hatched-plan of escape. It was luck. I believe that sometimes the universe opens a door that you may not understand the meaning of until you are in that moment. Going back home was nothing more than wanting to be with my parents for the holidays but it opened up a window of opportunity that only made itself known to me when I opened up my eyes. I needed to survive because I had two small daughters who depended on me to protect them and care for them. I am often asked if I have any advise for women in domestic violence situations or survivors. Here is what I can offer from my experience.

·       It’s not just physical: I wasn’t aware I was being sexually abused/assaulted, repeatedly until much later. Domestic violence includes: Sexual, Emotional, Psychological, Financial and Social abuse.

·       Boundary Building: When you are in this situation you become so acutely focused on pleasing someone else you forget entirely about you. Where you once may have been able to say no, you are unable to because “No” becomes associated with rebelling and violence. If you cannot learn to create boundaries with people you remain a potential target for abuse.

·       It’s not your fault: The abuser cannot take responsibility for their abuse and so it is pushed onto the victim. This burden is not yours. You were not to blame. It is one of the biggest hurdles because it is one of the first things they do to assume control. “You made me do this” or “If you could just do this right, I wouldn’t have to..” You’re not to blame.

·       Remember happiness: You were once happy before things took a downward turn. Remember what it was like to not be afraid, to be happy, to see yourself smiling, or laughing, and to see your kids smiling. Abuse shatters happiness and leaves you as a shell of your former self. It robs your children of their happiness too. You deserve happiness. Children deserve happiness. Hang on to that hope, don’t let it get away from you and you will eventually get there.

I am not a counselor or therapist. This is only my opinion and perspective from experiencing domestic abuse/violence. If you are in an abusive relationship please call:

In the US: National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)

[*Wrote this for The Migraine Mantras published Oct. 5th, 2018]

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How My Assault Has Shaped Me

And Shaped My Mental Health

*WARNING* *POSSIBLE TRIGGER* *WARNING*

I’ve been thinking a lot about my rape. Everything in our news has sort of forced me into thinking about a subject that I tucked away for 30rs. I recently wrote about how I feel my assault has perhaps had a hand in much of my chronic illness, if chronic illness/autoimmune disorders are in part, caused by elevated stress. Today, I want to talk about how I feel my assault shaped me and my mental health. To be clear, I am only talking about my assault here as a teen and not including a four-year marriage that was also violent and abusive and no doubt had an impact on all facets of my health.

It was 1987 and I was 13yrs old. I went to a YMCA day camp in my town. Day camp was the closest thing I got to a “camping” experience. My mother was not the out-doors type and because I was an only child, and probably because she needed some me-time too, I was sent to day camp for a couple of sessions. I was always a very introverted child- an INFJ to the core and I wish I had known that then or had come with an owner’s manual for my parents, because it was very hard. Both my parents are very extroverted and it simply did not carry over to me. They felt that day camp would get me around kids my age and I would blossom from the cocoon of introvert-land. No such luck, but I did love going to camp.

To sum up the hierarchy of the camp you had the camp-goers and staff/counselors and also counselors-in-training (CiT). These were kids that were too old for camp and who were 16-18 years old and who worked they’re under the guidance of counselors and would play with and monitor the camp kids. Please keep in mind that these memories are 30yrs old and from a child’s memories. I have always loved kids. I felt like I was an adult trapped in a child’s body. I don’t know if this was because I was an only child, if it was because for a lot of my childhood I lived in neighborhoods without children and where my companions were senior citizens, or because I just got kids. While I had a few friends my age, when we did age-related activities, when we were all thrown together, I spent a lot of time playing and keeping company with, the younger kids and also with some of these counselors-in-training. Among them, were both boys and girls and at the tender age of thirteen, I both idolized them and wanted them to like me, including the boys. But I was 13 and approaching in Junior High and awkward and didn’t feel very pretty. Until, one of the boy-CiT’s eye landed on me. He payed attention to me and whenever he needed help would recruit me. I felt very special.

My day-camp, though I do think they had a special week that was overnight, was not that kind of camp. My parents were extremely frightened of something happening to their only child and in a day and age of “Adam,” they had a good reason to worry. So I did not get to go to the special overnight week that some of my friends were able to attend, however, we did have day trips where we would go to an area with a lake (and forgive me, as this is a place I have not been back to in 30yrs, so my memory is foggy) and where they had areas for art and crafts and other things, bathrooms and showers for after the lake and places that were out of sight, though you were not allowed to wander off without an adult or CiT. This place is where my assault took place. The boy had me wrapped around his finger and so when he asked me to help him get some stuff for a project later on, I didn’t question it and it didn’t seem odd to me that it was in the are we weren’t allowed to wander to. He was a CiT, which was the equivalent to an adult for me and I was glowing with pride that he liked me and trusted me to help him. It was here, away from the others and in a supply closet that he raped me. I remember the surprise and the fear with a terrible acuity. I remember the way he pulled down my shorts and put his hand over my mouth and told me not to scream. I wouldn’t have dared anyway, the fear had me all but silenced and all I could do was cry. He raped me and told me if I said a word, if I tried to tell anyone, that he would hurt me and my parents. After it was over he brought me to the girl’s bathroom and told me to wash up. He left me there and I did as he said, still feeling the horror. I washed everywhere. So even if I had told, I’d already ruined any possible DNA being found. I was a kid. I was terrified. I don’t know how I made it the rest of the afternoon. Mostly, I don’t even remember. I think I slipped into some rote function and did what I was supposed to and when I got home I pretended not to feel well.

I never told anyone. Not a camp counselor, not anyone.

That up-coming school year was horrible. I have no doubt I drove my parents to the brink. Things get fuzzy for me here. I spent a lot of time in detention and I was not doing well academically either. Everything from my demeanor to my style changed. I was more withdrawn than normal; my favorite color was black and I was always seeking trouble. I was experimenting with boys and not in a healthy way. I had it in my head that I brought this on myself and that I somehow deserved it for flirting with this boy because I wanted him to like me. So, my perception of myself in relation to boys was a thing to be used. At some point my parents sought help for me, taking to me a psychiatrist who apparently at some point had been a priest. I was seeing him because I had begun to not eat. Anorexia and bulimia, for me, was a way in which I could control something within myself because I wasn’t able to control what happened to me. I told this doctor I had been assaulted and this doctor did not believe me. I remember recounting to him in excruciating detail what had happened and he told me that it was an imagining. That my brain had conceived this idea as a way in which I would not have to be culpable for my actions. In other words, I invented this horrible experience because I did not want to be responsible for my bad grades, or my mouth, or constantly doing things wrong in school that landed me in detention. To be fair to this doctor, these are my 30yr memories and it is from the perspective of a child. It may not have been how he intended, but it was how it was perceived. This only made me more combative against my parents and they decided that therapy was not working and we stopped going.

Jump forward to High School, I turned my focus on writing. I wrote poetry and fiction and I spilled my pain onto paper. I also fell into some sports and found a way to release some of the anguish I’d been feeling. My behavior in High School was either way, way up in elation or way down. I cycled fast, and there could be days I was good and days where I shut out the world. I knew something was wrong with me but I did not have the words for it. Sometime in my Sophomore year, I think, I went on a choir trip for a competition in Virginia Beach. This was the first time I’d been allowed to embark on such an excursion, by myself (without parents) and I was excited. Everything went well until the night before we had to leave when we were out on the beach and met some men in the military. We were expressly told to stay away, but I was high on life and daring and I befriended two marines. One of them more so than the other and I invited them up to my room (That I shared with 3 other girls). They showed up and half surprised and half dizzy with excitement that they did come up I let them in. Two men who were probably between 18-21 years old, in a room with four girls around 15. I thought I was in love with the one. He held me the entire night and when morning came, excitement and that rush of love drained faster than I can even describe, leaving me with torment and anguish because we were expected to leave. He promised he would write and I half believed him but knew it was unlikely. I didn’t want to go home and I can’t even put into words how quickly and how devastating my mood plummeted. I couldn’t even register the possible danger I had placed my friends in, as I recall their fear when they showed up at our door and when I let them in.

I believe that my assault had an impact on a developing mind as well as developing emotions. I think that whatever made me predisposed to Bipolar biologically, was set-off by the assault and changed the wiring in my brain. I’m not a doctor or psychologist and I don’t claim to know a lick about the biochemistry of it, I’m just saying how it feels in my own head and body. That the body who raped me when I was barely a teenager most likely altered the course of my mental health. I also believe that this alteration predisposed me to an attraction to men who were abusive. I think it’s naïve to believe that events in our lives have no impact on our brain and body. I think in some ways that it is unfair to lay the entire burden on biology for making us this way. That our brains were simply pre-wired for all of this. Can’t it be both? I believe that my sexual assault, and later on my abusive marriage, were integral in making me who I am today. This includes everything from my personality, my quirks and anxieties and my bipolar. Sure, it’s possible that even if I’d lived a charmed life and never encountered the kind of pain I had, that I would have turned out exactly the same way, but I believe pain changes us. And when it’s all said and done, despite it all, I like how I’ve turned out. My experiences have allowed me to become a writer and to share what happened to me with all of you so that maybe, we all heal a little. I feel truly blessed that I can use my platform to engage with other survivors and other warriors out there. We over-come our pain through unity. We use our powerful voices to change things.

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Relationship Between Chronic Illness and Assault

A personal experience #MeToo

I have done a lot of reading about how stress can affect the immune system and how it can have a pretty hefty hand in our over-all health. There are even some doctors who believe that stress is a major contributing factor in autoimmune disorders. This is not to imply a direct cause an effect, but something that I think is interesting and may warrant further review. In my own case of rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia, I can see where stress throughout my life may have had an impact, however, in my daughter’s case I do not seem the same correlation and she also has the same diagnosis. Something to mull over.

My reason for writing this is many. The Kavanaugh hearings and controversy surrounding it has been very difficult for me. In fact, last week was probably one of the worst weeks I’ve had in a long time. The painful memories this brought back affected my mental health, emotional stability and physical well-being. Even I was surprised by the totality of it. Something that I haven’t thought about much in roughly 30yrs, was brought into acute focus. Not only was it brought into forefront of my memory, but the discussions surrounding the Kavanaugh case and the arguments on both sides made me question decisions I made when I was no more than a child. So, I am writing this as a survivor who supports and believes other survivors and as someone who struggles with many aspects of her health posing the questions: 1.) Did the stress of my assault predispose me to chronic illness? 2.) Did it predispose me to my mental health struggles? 3.) Does reliving the experience via these hearings cause more harm?

To answer the third question first, I actually feel that while it has been a very painful experience to listen to the testimony of Dr. Ford and Judge Kavanaugh, that it has in some ways brought further healing through discussions with my husband. A question that re-surfaced not only because of these hearings, but because of the #MeToo movement itself, has been the price of my silence. I never said a word of what happened to me as a kid to anyone. I was far too frightened of my assailant and moreover, I was terrified of what bringing it to trial could mean for me and my reputation. Not because I was a promiscuous teen-ager, but because I’d flirted with him, he was older than me and I felt it would be used against me like “I was looking for it.” Thirty years later, the question that arises from all of this for me and the pain with it is: “Did my silence lead to more girls being assaulted?”  “Should I have said something?” and, “If I saw my assailant was about to be nominated to the Supreme Court, would I bring it all back up?” No easy answer there. And as my husband comforted me he reminded me that not only was I just a kid who was scared, trying to protect my parents from the grief and anguish of not being able to protect me and the ordeal of a trial, but that even if I had said something it would not necessarily mean I could have prevented further attacks. I don’t think that the reliving of the experience through these hearings has caused more harm, but I do think that hearing the issue of assault as a partisan matter has caused some harm. It not only re-injures the child-victim within me, but also the adult who struggles with how assault can be seen as anything but abhorrent and wrong. Not Republican or Democrat. Not something chalked up to boys will be boys or wild antics of a youth. Because while the boy who may have drank excessively and tried to assault someone or did assault someone grows up, never held accountable for his actions, and revered for successes as an adult, the survivor of that assault never forgets, deals with the emotional injury done to her for a life time and may end up with life-long struggles because of that. Though I understand there is only a small window of opportunity to be able to criminally charge someone, and that after that time there is no way to really hold someone accountable, I think the true crime here is that women feel and have always felt, that if they say something they will be the ones to stand trial, they will be the ones to be picked apart, not their assailant.

Jumping to my first question, did my assault predispose me to chronic illness? Sadly, I am unsure. One of the things I believe my assault did, was predispose me to thinking that this was supposed to be how I was treated. There was no longer a boundary between allowed and dis-allowed behavior from boys and later on, men. In High School I was constantly touched when I didn’t want to be, whether it was the juvenile “snapping of bra” or slapping my rear that sent boys into fits of laughter, especially and even more heartily, if you got angry about it. I did not have healthy relationships with boys and that would eventually land me pregnant and married at 19. This was an abusive marriage that I stayed in for four years because not only did I not know how to get out but I believed it was deserved. The job I held during that time was also ripe with sexual harassment, something I felt was just par for the course and all women were treated this way. No one said anything and I simply tolerated the behavior of men who would touch me without permission and just chuckle about it. There was stress everywhere in my life and I can’t even quantitate it. So, while the initial assault may not have predisposed me to chronic illness, it predisposed me to consistently being in environments where sexual harassment pervaded and where I was under continual stress, which may have made me more susceptible to chronic illness.

Looking at my second question, and whether or not it had a hand in my mental health issues, yes. I believe that my assault caused severe depression.  While my brain may have been hardwired for bipolar, I believe that the assault and continuous environments of sexual harassment, coupled with a marriage that was abusive in all ways, exacerbated my mental health and caused my OCD and anxiety and left me with PTSD. It has taken many years to come to terms with things that happened to me and to be able to function as well as I do and more importantly, be happy. Much of it was done without clinical therapy though I do see a psychiatrist who monitors my health, I’ve used writing as my therapy and sharing my story when I can. I’ve never shared my story as publicly as this before, but I felt that with everything going on it was high time. My whole purpose for my blog is sharing my experience of chronic illness with others, so they know they are not alone. My assault left me with chronic memories and I felt emboldened by others who are sharing their experiences to share my own so men and women who have experienced an assault know they are not alone.

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