Shame

I can’t talk about this

And I can’t talk about that

And how dare you put something so private on your Facebook page

And then share it with the whole world

Aren’t you afraid

Aren’t you ashamed

No

You can’t shame me

I did nothing wrong

Take these stories and weep

But please, society, please

Give me validation and peace

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Me Too

I have been doing a lot of thinking about the #metoo movement. It has inspired many women to share their stories of sexual assault and violence. Strong women. I am amazed by all the strength I see in the women who have gone public to tell their stories of sexual assault and violence. It has inspired me to do the same. It is time. The stigma attached to sexual assault has to end. It is time that people placed the blame where it belongs. This is hard for me to write, and harder to share, but it is time.

My story starts before conscious memory. I was two when he started grooming me. Two. I would sit on the couch, and he would have me spread my legs so he could see my panties. He would bounce me on his knees, and stick his fingers between my legs. Sometimes, my mom was right there.

He was never that gentle, kind man that lured me into trusting him. He was my father, and he was all I knew. He was mean. He was a drunk. He was a drug addict. He was many things, but nice? No. Manipulative? Yes. He beat me, and he beat my mom in front of us. He was relentlessly cruel.

When I was five, he laid me down on his bed, put a knife to my throat, and told me he would kill me if I told. Then I watched the light beams overhead fracture into a million pieces as my world fell away into a flurry of pain. My psyche disappeared that day. Thank god I do not remember details.

When I was seven, I had this amazing friend who was deaf and wheelchair bound. I don’t really know how we became friends; communication had to of been hard, but we were little and we made it work. I would go to her house for lunch almost every day. We would have grilled cheese sandwiches while sitting in her yard. One night, my mom babysat my friend, and my mom had to run to the store. While she was gone, my father tried to do horrible things to my friend.

The next day, I went to her house for lunch, as normal, except her mom wanted us to come inside for grilled cheese that day. Right after she gave me my sandwich, she asked me a question about my father, and I couldn’t speak. I dropped my sandwich into my lap, and clammed up and started crying. My friend’s mom called the police, and they took us to the hospital after I told them what my father had been doing to me, my whole life. That day, we all went to foster care.

My father went to jail for his crimes. He was sentenced to sixteen years, but only served twelve. He was released the same summer my oldest daughter was born, 1999.

When I was nine, my mom rented this house from this man who lived in a shack in the back of the house, I can’t explain it better, but the shack wasn’t exactly in our yard, but it was on the same property. The landlord was nice. He was gentle and kind. He always had sweets and fun things to do. His shack was a place the kids liked to hang out.

It was Easter when I went to his place to give him some eggs.  I was alone, and uncomfortable, but he said he had something for me, so I went into his shack. I don’t remember if he had anything for me besides his fingers between my legs, but I ran out of there and told my mom immediately. She called Social Services instead of the police. Nothing happened, except we moved to a new place.

When I was ten, my mom was addicted to drugs, and she was often not attentive to her children. There were many nights we would spend the night alone while my mom was across the street at her friend’s house getting high. She had this friend, a man, who she got high with, and who hung around all the time. I didn’t really have an opinion of him.

One night, him and my mom were hanging out in our living room, while us kids all slept. I woke up to someone taking my panties off. He had told my mom that he was going to the bathroom, and came into my room instead. I slept on the bottom bunk, and shared my room with my little sister. He pulled her blankets down so I couldn’t see him, and when I kicked him, he ran out of my room and ran into the living room. I suppose he must have thought I would go right back to sleep, but I got up. I went into the living room and saw him sitting there, and I knew it was him who had taken my panties off and was touching me in my sleep. I told my mom I wanted to take a shower. She said it’s three in the morning to back to bed. I told her I needed to talk to her, and took her into my room, and told her what had just happened. She found my panties behind the toilet, where this man had thrown them when he ran out of my room. After kicking him out, my mom called the cops. They picked him up a couple of blocks away. Come to find out, he had been molesting many children I knew, both boys and girls. He was sentenced to six years in prison. Six years. At least four kids testified against him, and he got six years in prison. Doesn’t seem long enough.

For six years after that, the only abuse I had to deal with was the physical, mental, and emotional abuse my mom put me through. It’s sad but once you are a victim of sexual assault, you are more likely to be victimized again, and again. And those statistics have certainly proved true for me.

When I was sixteen, I went to a party, and got drunk. My friend put me in his roommates bed, because his roommate was gone for the weekend. I had never met his roommate. Sometime in the middle of the night, I came to and was being raped, but I was too drunk to do anything about it. When I woke up the next day, I couldn’t find my clothes, there was blood everywhere, and I was so sore. I have no memory of that night to this day. I finally found my clothes and got out of there. I reported the roommate to the police, so did two other girls. This guy was a serial rapist. For raping three girls in three nights, he got six months in county jail. Six months.

Not every woman you meet will have a story like or similar to this, but three out of four of them will. That’s three out of four women who have had a sexual crime committed against them. And, that’s only the statistics on crimes that are reported. Imagine all the little girls out there who can’t report it, who do not understand that this is a crime. Who do not understand that the most common perpetrator of such crimes are people you love and care for. People you would never imagine doing such a thing to you. The long term effects of such crimes, I will cover at a later date, because that’s enough sharing for one day.

If you know a woman who has been sexually assaulted, please be gentle and kind, be understanding and patient. Most survivors I know do not want pity. They want to place the blame where it belongs.

You are not alone.  I am here for you. #metoo