remembering a muse
i had an english professor in college who, when i was 19 year old, was exactly who i wanted to be. she was crunchy and well-read. she hadn’t cut her hair in who knows how many years and had to move it over her shoulder so that she could sit… on her desk with her legs crossed and shoes off. she lived in a van with her husband who was a painter. we were allowed to call her by her first name.
i remember her crooked teeth. they were the cute kind of crooked. her teeth added to her eclectic nature and personality. she loved her job as a teacher. she made sure to tell us that nearly every day in class. i remember loving that she did that. it made me feel important, needed even, like she needed ME in her class in order to love her job.
her last name is one of my favorite words in the english language, inspiring in itself. i felt like it was meant to be that i was in her class, with her teaching me, with her badass last name, long hair, weird ensembles, van-living lifestyle.
i really looked up to her.
it wasn’t too long after that first semester of my sophomore year in college that i was raped. i had only been in her classroom for mere weeks before i took a week off in an attempt to figure out how the hell to go on with my life. i remember missing her class during that week. missing her. i remember worrying that she would think i was one of those slacker students who didn’t give a shit about english or any other class for that matter.
english was the only class i ever cared about in school.
in those few weeks of being in her classroom, i felt like myself. i felt like i was just beginning to tap into this writer that i longed to become. there had been teachers prior to this college professor who had impacted me and my writing in various ways, but this was different. i was an adult now, making my own decisions, figuring out who i wanted to be.
until it was all taken from me. i was taken from me. and i didn’t go to her class for a solid week.
i went to my other classes, for the most part. i didn’t care about those classes. i showed up for attendance and then stared at the dry erase boards until i was dismissed. but her class, i couldn’t make myself go. it hurt too much. i cared about that class.
eventually my fear of her thinking that i was a slacker student got the better of me and i showed up in her classroom. i didn’t participate that day, but i was there physically speaking.
i remember her asking me to stay after the rest of the class had been dismissed. it was clear she wanted to know where i had been. it was as though she knew i cared about this class and she was confused. as soon as the last student left the classroom, my eyes welled-up with tears.
i told her why i hadn’t been in class. i told her i was raped. she listened. she held my hand. she gave me tissues. she was the first person, aside from family and paul, that i had said those words to out loud.
it was real.
and when i was done talking, when i was more focused on blowing my nose than spilling my guts, she looked as though she had something to say. when she was certain she had my eyes and undivided attention, she said two words that have stuck with me for over a decade.
“me too.”
and then she wept. and i wept with her. i wasn’t alone. she wasn’t alone.
that week was her last week of teaching our class. she said that she had some demons to deal with and she quit without notice. for a while, i worried that it was my fault she left.
it wasn’t. who knows how long she had buried her story… a story she hadn’t even shared with her husband. her story needed to be told, but gently and in time. her story needed her full attention. it wasn’t my fault that she left. it was just time.
i wonder about her a lot. i hope she has made her peace. and i really hope she is happy.
sometimes you won’t know your own triggers
i couldn’t watch 127 hours. i tried. but i didn’t even make it 45 minutes into the film before i had a full blown panic attack and asked my husband to turn it off and place the DVD back into the netflix envelope.
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years ago, when i worked as a rape victim advocate for the state of florida, my boss at the time (and fellow survivor) told me, “sometimes you won’t know what it is that triggers you.”
since i was raped, there have been the “obvious” triggers that a rape survivor suffering from PTSD may experience. these include but are not limited to an unending list of things, ranging from the sound of ones voice, to the touch of another human being, to the color of a shirt.
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my boss was right. it’s been over 10 years since i was raped and a little over a month ago, i found myself in the midst of a moment filled with panic, anxiety, rage, and uncontrollable emotion… because i watched a movie where the main character had zero control over what was happening to him, and i could relate all too well.
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may is National Mental Health Month. if you find yourself feeling alone, like you are the only one who thinks the way you think or feels the way you feel, please head over to Band Back Together. you’re not alone… not by a long shot.
intake
i share my birthday with a very special person.
the day i met her, almost five years ago, she had come in to my place of work with her mom. the two of them sat out in the lobby, while i was in my office at my desk. my coworker and fellow rape recovery team victim advocate poked her head into my office.
“are you in the middle of something important?”
“nah, not really. what’s up?”
“there’s a victim out in the lobby with her mom. the rest of us are in the middle of SAAM planning with donors. she wants to talk to an advocate, learn about her options, but she wants to do it without her mom present. can you do her intake?”
“yeah, no problem. i’ll get the paperwork.”
“great, thanks. debrief with me about it this afternoon.”
i closed the documents that were open on my computer, locked the screen, and grabbed the intake paperwork from the drawer of my desk.
before my coworker got too far down the hallway and back into her meeting, i called after her and quickly jogged towards her.
“where’s the paperwork from the night of the call? i didn’t have the pager the night of her rape.”
“ah shit, sorry. it’s in d’s top drawer of her file cabinet. key is under her mousepad.”
i got the victim’s name and then went to d’s office to get her file.
all of us had locked file cabinets, paperwork that had been filled out in confidence, that was respected. always.
flipping through the pages of her file, i learned a bit about the victim… the girl… young… too young… i learned about her assault, who responded to the scene, and what protocol had been followed in order to provide the victim with support, information, and resources, should she choose to use the services that we, as victim advocates, provide.
i took her file, along with my intake paperwork, to the front of the building and introduced myself to both the girl and her mother. the mother began speaking very quickly and with total disregard of the fact that we were in the lobby where others were clearly within hearing distance. her daughter stared at the floor and flicked her fingers at the buttons that were on her yellow raincoat.
once i was able to escort the victim back to one of our counseling rooms, i clicked on the sound machine that was kept at the bottom of each door of those rooms. this was to assure whomever we were meeting with, would be respected and met with total confidentiality.
amongst the paperwork and questions about her rape, from both my end and hers, there were times of basic human interaction. i remember her telling me that she liked my shoes.
she then asked me how old i was… and then she corrected herself.
“i’m sorry. i probably shouldn’t be asking you that.”
“no. it’s fine. i will be 25 in a few weeks.”
“i’ll be 17 in a few weeks. you seem really young to be doing this kind of work.”
“i am.”
we both laughed.
after the intake process was complete, i explained the options she had in terms of services that she would be receiving. (this can fall along the spectrum of legal information, to obtaining safe shelter, to establishing free counseling sessions that were provided at my place of work.)
she took a deep breath and asked if she had to share all of the information i gave her with her mother. i told her that what she chose to share with whomever was entirely her decision to make, but i encouraged her to speak with someone, even if it is not her mother.
she then told me why she felt she couldn’t talk to her mother.
her assailant was her stepfather.
the amount of time i spent with her for this intake ended up being more time than i spent during any other intake i had done as a rape victim advocate. there was something about this victim, this girl, that i couldn’t quite put my finger on. but i knew that i wasn’t ready for our time together to end, and i got that feeling from her as well.
for a while, we just sat there and talked. about normal things. because survivors are capable of doing so… talking about normal things.
when i looked at the clock that hung above the door to the counseling room, i grimaced and told her that we should probably wrap things up. i asked her if she had any other questions, if there was anything i had discussed with her that she needed clarification on.
“yeah, i have one question and then i’ll go…”
“absolutely. shoot.”
“how do you know? like… you have sat here and nodded with me for over an hour… you like ‘get it.’ how do you know?”
“i was raped too. a long time ago.”
she hugged me, thanked me for my time. she took the folder of information that i had for her. i compiled her intake forms. we opened the door and i bent down to turn off the sound machine.
when we walked up towards the lobby, where her mother was waiting, i told her that i wished her well and to remember that she was not alone.
her mom saw us and got up from her seat to approach her daughter.
i wished the girl a happy early birthday, and when she did the same, she asked me what day mine was on.
“may 3rd.”
“mine too.”
she smiled and clutched the folder i had given her tightly to her chest.
not a single birthday has passed for me, since that time, when i haven’t thought about her as i blow out the candles on my cake.
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april is sexual assault awareness month. if you or someone you know is in need of support, resources or help, please visit RAINN. the national sexual assault hotline phone number is 1.800.656.HOPE
wherein i write another post about sexual assault
UPDATED 3-1: in an effort to continue promoting awareness of the texas rape story, i wanted to post about the incredible efforts people have made to petition at change.org, demanding the New York Times apologize for victim blaming. over 38,000 of your voices have been heard. thank you! if you have not yet signed the petition, you can do so by scrolling to the bottom of my sidebar or click here. the Huffington Post has given attention to campaign for an apology as well. you can read about that here. lastly, the Associated Press has (in my opinion) stated it best,
All that matters is that she is 11.
UPDATED 3-10: with the help of change.org, there is a petition you can sign by clicking here or by scrolling to the bottom of my sidebar. unfortunately the New York Times, while attempting damage control, is remaining unapologetically loyal to the story posted yesterday please support change.sign the petition. the victim is never to blame.
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i consider the work i did as a rape victim advocate years ago, and the work i continue to do with my writing, to end domestic and sexual violence, very seriously… and having this space on the internet has given me the opportunity to do this work very publicly as well.
a few weeks ago, a friend, who is aware of my blog, emailed me a link to a story. in his email, he told me,
If you haven’t already seen it, I thought you might be interested in reading this Washington Post article from yesterday about a class action (15 women and 2 men) lawsuit against the Pentagon/DoD, citing a culture of ignoring rape victims in the military / sweeping rape under the rug. Troubling stuff.
(it should be noted that this article can no longer be found on the Washington Post website. the original text can be found here. and additional information can be found here.)
receiving emails like the one above are quite common for me. i consider this to be both a blessing and a curse. while i am grateful that my readers and friends feel comfortable enough to confide in me with such disturbing stories and situations, i am also heartbroken with each one that i read, as it confirms some of my worst fears… raising my son and the possibility of more children in a world filled with such ugliness and hate.
so it should come to no surprise to me that today, as i signed on to twitter, my direct message column had blown up with stories of sexual assault and rape allegations.
but it did.
i clicked and read this story about 4 young men who allegedly raped an 11 year old girl in texas. i continued to click on my next link and read this story found on Jezebel, a continuation of the first with additional commentary… which then linked me to the NY Times coverage of this story.
according to the piece that ran in the New York Times,
The affidavit said the assault started after a 19-year-old boy invited the victim to ride around in his car. He took her to a house on Travis Street where one of the other men charged, also 19, lived. There the girl was ordered to disrobe and was sexually assaulted by several boys in the bedroom and bathroom. She was told she would be beaten if she did not comply, the affidavit said.
A relative of one of the suspects arrived, and the group fled through a back window. They then went to the abandoned mobile home, where the assaults continued. Some of those present recorded the sexual acts on their telephones, and these later were shown among students.
the New York Times continued…
Residents in the neighborhood where the abandoned trailer stands — known as the Quarters — said the victim had been visiting various friends there for months. They said she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s. She would hang out with teenage boys at a playground, some said.
“Where was her mother? What was her mother thinking?” said Ms. Harrison, one of a handful of neighbors who would speak on the record. “How can you have an 11-year-old child missing down in the Quarters?”
i then found myself on the website for the Houston Chronicle, and my eyes widened as i read the 5 words that titled the piece, “Girl’s sexual assault rocks Cleveland.”
i’m assuming you can see where i’m going with this… the bile in my throat rises seeing the title alone.
i am no journalist. i have not conducted interviews with regards to this story, nor do i intend to. but i am a rape survivor, one who was not as strong as this 11 year old girl is, as i chose not to come forward after i had been victimized. i can only hope that her strength is unwavering as this battle has only just begun for her.
when it comes down to it, i stand with Margaret Hartmann, author of the Jezebel piece,
the only thing we need to know is that she’s an 11-year-old girl, and there’s absolutely no justification or rational explanation for a crime this heinous.
no, there is not. and there never will be. please stop promoting justifications, excuses, and explanations. start promoting awareness.
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should you find yourself or someone you know in need of resources concerning domestic and/or sexual violence, please visit Violence Unsilenced.com’s resources page. i also strongly encourage you to visit RAINN (Rape, Assault & Incest, National Network).
create the mold of a rape victim
*TRIGGER WARNING* the following post contains graphic information about rape and sexual assault, and may trigger a response in some survivors.
to express my anger, frustration, and great sadness that i have in learning of the No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act would add fuel to the fire that is currently ablaze with our new congress. i’m not sure that i’m ready to go there yet… so i’m going to go about this post in a different way, and i ask that you bear with me and respect the topic at hand.
i’ve sat with more victims of rape and sexual assault than i can count. i’ve sat with them in emergency rooms, and i’ve sat with them in SARC (sexual assault response center) units. when i was a victim advocate in the state of florida, my job was to provide support, information, and options to the victims i met.
each victim (woman or man) i responded to had an immediate need and an immediate goal.
for one woman, it was to have a rape kit done in order to collect more evidence to continue building a case against her husband who had been raping her for years.
for another woman, it was to sleep on a cot in the locked SARC unit, knowing her stalker and assailant could not get to her for a few hours while she rested.
for one man, it was to have the cocktail of drugs you are given after being raped in the hopes of killing disease, bacteria, STDs, and any possible infection.
for me, my immediate need and goal after being raped 10 years ago, was to obtain the morning after pill and learn what gamma hydroxybutyric acid was.
for another woman, it was to talk. to tell me about her boyfriend, who after having his way with her, bound her hands and feet and let his 2 roommates rape her.
and for another woman, it was to learn what options she had and what her rights were from someone other than a cop… because she had been raped by a cop.
some victims i have come across have been beaten and bloodied, in need of stitches, x-rays, or a cast to stabilize a broken bone. other victims i have come across have been half naked, wrapped in a blanket, face smeared with makeup. and still other victims i have come across look like you and me… and have spoken to me while fully clothed, without visible bruises.
according to this new bill (full text of the bill can be found by clicking the link provided at the beginning of this post)
‘The limitations established in sections 301, 302, 303, and 304 shall not apply to an abortion–
‘(1) if the pregnancy occurred because the pregnant female was the subject of an act of forcible rape or, if a minor, an act of incest; or
‘(2) in the case where the pregnant female suffers from a physical disorder, physical injury, or physical illness that would, as certified by a physician, place the pregnant female in danger of death unless an abortion is performed, including a life-endangering physical condition caused by or arising from the pregnancy itself.
my question to the co-sponsors of this bill is simply this… why take more away from a person who has already had everything taken from them at the hands of an assailant?
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you can sign the petition to oppose this legislation that is trying to redefine rape, by visiting MoveOn.org, keeping in mind that rape is rape.
Have a Sip
