Archive for the ‘survivorship’ Category

today marks the first anniversary celebration of Violence UnSilenced… the place that gave me the strength to speak out last august and share my story.

it is all thanks to maggie, that i was able to do this…

***EDITED: 5:27 pm***
after spending the majority of today, watching this video repeatedly, dancing with my beautiful son and then seeing him recognize me in the video and exclaim “MOMMY!!!!!!” i asked for maggie’s permission to embed the actual video on my blog so that you readers don’t even have to click to go elsewhere to witness the awesome empowerment that takes place when people come together and SPEAK OUT!!!!

***UPDATED MON. JAN. 25***
click here for the latest info with regards to the t-shirt outrage that started last week and hopefully will not cease until these shirts are pulled off the shelves.

**********

Dear Mr. David,
It should be noted that I am writing this post using proper grammar and capitalization. This does not happen often. In fact, I much prefer writing using all lowercase letters as I am a lazy ass.

Now that we have that business out of the way, it has come to my attention that you have designed and created what I can only hope does not become the latest fashion trend for men.

The t-shirts you are currently selling in which women are blindfolded and gagged are disgraceful.

It is not uncommon for me, a 9 year rape survivor, to address offensive messages that ignorant individuals verbalize with regards to rape.

I am personally grateful to Melinda Tankard Reist for her blog and advocacy, otherwise I would not be writing this post and suggesting to you what I see to be the only way to rectify this situation.

Mr. David, I recommend you remove these t-shirts from the shelves of your store immediately. Take the proceeds you have made from the sale of these t-shirts, and donate them to a women’s crisis center.

Be a man… a good one… one your mother would be proud of.

Unsure how to sign this as I am repulsed by you,
Nic

**********

You can visit Melinda Tankard Reist’s site here.

You can visit Roger David’s website here to contact him and let him know your own thoughts.

the aftermath of sharing something intensely private with the world via internet is an interesting thing.

at first, upon sharing, no one really knows how to respond.  so things are quiet and the sharer wonders not only, “oh shit, what have i done?” but also, “did anyone see what i said?”

then words trickle in to people’s minds, thoughts collect… and are then shared.

an exchange is made.  a connection.  and a voice is heard.

after posting this on thursday of last week, i experienced a high that i’m not sure how to express in words.  and i’m still riding it.

since last thursday, my inbox has nearly exploded, the number of comments that have been left on Violence Unsilenced has reached triple digits (which some of you veteran bloggers may experience quite often.  for me, this is entirely new and overwhelming.)

i have connected with survivors who have never told anyone their own stories until they read my post… now they’re telling their families and loved ones.  i have connected with current friends who now know my worst… my skeleton… my secret… what was my secret.

people, women and men alike, have embraced me… fully.  because it’s out.  my darkest of the dark is out.

and gosh have i wanted to get that out.

so i’m high as a friggin kite.  i’m floating on air.  i am released.

and damn it feels good.

*****

in addition to the tremendous amount of support, encouragement, and strength that i have gained since last thursday from everyone, i have received a lot of questions via email…  and that was to be expected, and i understand why those questions exist.  since there are so many, instead of responding to each individual email with “yes” and “no” and elaborate explanations, i thought i’d post about it, in the hopes of continuing to shed the light on such a dark subject…

FAQs post “drugged” post…

• “is the fucker in jail?” no, he is not in jail.  he never was.

• “please tell me he has the label of ‘sexual predator’ attached to him for all eternity.” i wish i could say that he did, but no, he does not.

• “do you know what you were drugged with?” yes.  i was drugged with GHB (Gamma hydroxybutyrate)… you can google it yourselves and learn how dangerous it is.  or you can click here and really freak yourself out.

• “how do you know what you were drugged with?”  ”did it show up in your blood tests?” i know that i was drugged with GHB because it was found in his apartment when the police searched it.  i am unsure as to whether or not my rapist was charged with any type of “possession of an illegal substance” or anything like that.  given the state of shock i was in at the time, my rapist was the last thing on my mind.  my mind was blank.  and no, it did not show up in my blood or urine tests because GHB is nearly undetectable and leaves your system very quickly.

• “what was going through the court system like?” i did not go through the court system because i never officially pressed charges.  upon driving myself to the ER and submitting to a rape kit, it is state law that the hospital contact the local police department and make them aware that a sexual assault has taken place.  the cop i was lucky (heavy sarcasm) enough to see that day tried so hard to talk me into pressing charges at the very moment that my rape kit was being done on my bruised, violated body.  i wasn’t ready to make that decision yet.  i was alone.  my parents were driving from atlanta to auburn to come get me.  so i reported the crime in order to have the rape kit done and have what little evidence they could collect from my body collected in case i decide to pursue pressing charges, but at that time, that moment, i was not ready to make that decision.

• “how did you decide to not press charges?  and why didn’t you?” ultimately pressing charges was my decision to make and mine alone.  multiple individuals attempted to coerce me into pressing charges while i was at the police station, filing my report, etc…  but quite honestly, i had no evidence.  none.  the nurse at the ER was correct in saying, “it would’ve been he said/she said.”  so going through months of trials and questioning in a small college town for something that i don’t even entirely remember happening to me was not something that made sense for me to do.  so i chose not to press charges, and had full family support in my decision.  for my rapist, this meant a crime involving him had been reported and in the state of alabama, i (as the victim) had a 3 year statute of limitations to decide whether or not i wanted to formally press charges.  and i never did.  to me, it wasn’t worth it.  it’s a difficult decision every survivor has to make… and that was mine.

• “do you regret not pressing charges?” not a day has gone by in the (almost) 9 years since my rape that i have regretted my decision.  not once have i regretted it.  it was the right decision for me given my situation.  and it was my decision to be made, again fully supported by my loving family.  i truly support those survivors who do press charges and formally go through that process, and i truly support those who don’t as well.

• “what about your husband?  how was his reaction?” paul and i were in a long-distance relationship, in our sophomore year of college.  he came home (to atlanta) immediately and came straight to my parent’s house.  he held me for days, cried with me for days, stayed with me when i didn’t want to be left alone.  of course he had his own anger and rage to deal with, which he did.  we both sought counseling regarding the rape and PTSD (for me).

• “did the rape affect your relationship with paul?” of course.  how could it not?  but not in the way you think… i did not tremble any time he touched me.  i was never afraid of him harming me.  i did not quiver when he hugged me.  being a rape survivor has done nothing but bring us closer as a couple.  we endured together… we survived together.

• “are you involved in any rape advocacy programs now?” not at this moment, but i was for a long time.  when we lived in jacksonville, florida, i was a rape victim advocate at a nonprofit agency.  a pager would rotate amongst each advocate for a period of time, and as calls from victims came in, whoever was on-call would respond and meet the victim at the hospital.  this was so very important to me because i did not have an advocate after being victimized.  i had no one to even explain to me what happens during a rape kit examination.  being an advocate enhanced my survivorship and allowed me to help other survivors.  paul and i donate each year to a charity that works to promote and enhance awareness.  i have also spoken out and shared my story at “Take Back the Night” rallies on college campuses.
• “so apparently the rapist used a condom… were you still scared of a pregnancy resulting?” absolutely.  that was one of the reasons why i went to the hospital.  i wanted the morning-after pill, even though i saw the condom wrapper on his alarm clock.  there’s no way of knowing that wrapper was used with me.  so yes, i was afraid of a pregnancy resulting from the rape, and yes, i took the morning-after pill.  (and yes, i am pro-choice.)

i guess it’s fair to say that your questions are astounding.  i truly do appreciate all of your emails and all of your tweets and comments left on Violence Unsilenced.  please don’t feel like you can’t ask questions.  i know they are out there, and i also know that the readership i have respects me enough to know that if i don’t want to answer a particular question, i won’t.  and i trust that will be honored.  if you do have more questions, please keep them coming.

i truly believe that awareness and promoting awareness is the greatest weapon against these predators… but in order to make others aware, we need to speak, share, listen and learn.

Everyone has one… some have more than others. But stories put everyone on an even playing field. We all have stories of joy, stories of sorrow. Pain. Love. Pee-in-your-pants laughter. Cry-til-you-vomit breathlessness and hurt.

We choose who we share our stories with, who we allow into our little worlds. We choose who gets to know us at our best and our worst.

And I have been meaning to post this for a long time. I have been meaning to write about this for a long time. But writing one’s story, even pieces of one’s story, is not an easy task.

So I waited… until the time was right… until my muse sang in my ear… until I felt strong, brave, stable, ready.

And I am.

I have tattoos. I love my tattoos. I have three (well, four but the fourth was an addition to the third so I guess that counts as one).

In the middle of the sun tattoo is the first tattoo I ever got; a Chinese symbol that means “to seek.”

I was a sophomore in college, at Auburn University, and months into my recovery process and healing after having been raped.

I am a rape survivor.

What specifically took place to me on the night of September 26, 2000 is not something I am willing to share here, yet. But the fact that I am a rape survivor is.

At that time in my life, I was seeking something, anything, everything… and I found it in the form of a small Chinese symbol etched with an ink-filled needle into the small of my back.

That’s how this story began… and since September of 2000, it has grown, spread, and taken on an identity all its own.

And I am proud.

As my healing continued, so did my love of expression… Self expression. I learned to love my Self again. The love of my life still loved me for my Self, visible/invisible scars and all.

And so years after my own rape, when I worked as a rape victim advocate, I embraced the true survivor in me and got this tattoo…

It is fitting and now almost laughable that “Self” is my maiden name. I promise; it is. I grew up with the “ooohhh, Nicole loves her SELF” jokes as a child.

During a time when I was newly married, having just taken Paul’s last name, I also found myself encouraged, strong, and empowered in a new way.

I went back to my roots. I needed my maiden name on my wrist… my pulse… because at my core, that’s who I am. I am a Self. A self provider, a self lover, a self seeker, looking to affirm one self, my self…

The color that fills “Self” on this wrist tattoo of mine is teal, the nationally recognized color of rape survivors. I love the color, now. It’s beautiful, now… almost 9 years later.

My story, that portion of my story I should say, left its mark on Paul over time. We had been married a few years and he too loves his name, his middle name… Dempsey. It’s a family name, passed down. Strong. Masculine. Proud. And so he chose to express himself and his love of family by tattooing “Dempsey” in Gaelic on the inside of his left bicep. It suits him well.

If you have tattoos yourself, you know that its addicting… it’s like this itch that is never quite satisfied. The itch that you can’t quite reach no matter how much you stretch your arm behind your back and reeeeaaaach to scratch. You kinda get it, it goes away for a bit, and then the itch creeps back.

So the day that Paul got his “Dempsey” tattoo, I asked our tattoo artist (who became a friend) to draw the sun around my Chinese symbol.

I hadn’t thought it through. We went to our tattoo artist/friend with the intention of Paul getting his tattoo… but within minutes of being there, hearing the buzz of the needles, seeing the tubes of Vaseline and strips of gauze, my itch came back.

I love the sun, the light, the warmth. I love when the sun surprises me behind a cloud, poking out to say “hello.” I love that it brings out the freckles I have on my nose. And I love that the sun lights up the darkest parts of my life.

And then comes Jackson… my SON… my SUN. My joy. My strength. My light. My love. And so it was only fitting that his name and birth date be etched in ink on my other wrist, my other pulse.

Because once upon a time, our hearts beat together.

And so that’s where my story in ink ends… begins…

A story is a work of art.