Soapboxin’!

If you know me at all (either IRL, through my blog or my other social media outlets), then you know that my political leanings/feelings on social issues are made pretty clear.

As such, I try to avoid being to “ranty…”

But today?
I am feeling all KINDS of ranty.

If I hear the:

“Well, she put herself out there, so she had it coming” argument again-
I’m gonna cut someone.

Because NO, she did NOT.

A woman should be able to express herself without fear or EXPECTATION of attack/abuse.

Whether that be politically, socially, sexually or otherwise.

Note: I did NOT say that she is exempt from being disagreed with.

For example-

You disagree with me?
Fine.

You are more than welcome to approach me and engage in a discourse on the topic, or you can simply disagree privately.

You can even post an argument for your opinion on social media.

That is your right.

But what no one has the right to do is turn another person into a callous epithet, punching bag, etc., therefore dehumanizing them.

But we still live in a culture in which people still cling to the mindset that says if a woman deigns to make anything in her life obvious-

Whatever abuse, disrespect or marginalization she is subjected to is what “she had coming” for daring to say anything in the first place…

And a lot of people will even go so far as to say:

“Well, that’s terrible, BUT-That’s just the way it is.”

Fuuuuuuck Thaaaaaat.

The point??

IT’S NOT THE WAY IT SHOULD BE!

That is precisely that type of thinking that allows misogyny and rape-apologetics to thrive.

And until the sentence is just:

“That’s terrible.”
Or, better:
“That’s UNACCEPTABLE.”

Women, like myself, are going to have to keep on fighting and REMINDING anyone and EVERYONE that we are HUMAN BEINGS.

Worthy of the SAME respect, safeties and dignities of our male counterparts.

Regardless of what we put out there.

And, I know-

It’s terrible…
but for Fuck’s sake, that’s just how it is.

I’m “that” kind of girl.

After happening upon and (despite my better judgement) reading several different things today, I have to ask:

Are we still haggling over the definition of Rape?

For Fuck’s Sake, people!

Rape is RAPE. No means NO.

End of STORY.

It doesn’t matter what you have on, what type of relationships you have/had, where you were at the time or what color/creed/SES you are.

What DOES matter is that it is a SERIOUS crime, an abhorrent violation, and an emotional/physical nightmare that those of us who’ve survived it live with for the rest of our lives.

For those of you who want to marginalize us, condescend to us, and further victimize us know this:

Hiding behind all of your rhetoric and bullshit will not make us go away.

It will not make our stories less true or rape less real.

I understand that it scares you, I understand that you think if you shut it out you’ll be safe from it, and if you paint the victims like the cause of “rape” then maybe it’ll never happen to you and/or the ones you love, but I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND intentional ignorance.

We’re not whores or liars or opportunists or drama queens.

We are wives, sisters, daughters, coworkers, friends, neighbors, HUMANS…we are someone you know.

And we were raped.

It was fucking legit, of that you can be sure.

What I Don’t Want to Admit.

 This post is in response to a question I asked my friend over at Hasta Claridad.

She asked me to answer in kind.

Here is that answer.

It is not a pretty one–

I was so happy that he was home.

That he was safe and alive.

We had never been “official”

Instead, off and on, almost but not *quite* since we were kids…

We hadn’t seen each other in 3 years, but my heart was still in my stomach.

I was afraid he wouldn’t feel like I did and I would look like an idiot.

                           

I walked through the door and we locked eyes.

That feeling was still there.

Thrilling, but terrifying all the same.

He was only home for a little over a week.

Then he would be stationed somewhere else and out of my life again.

I was determined to keep the week simple.

Why make things messy and break my own heart?

Sigh.

We pretty much stayed glued to one another.

There was closeness and kissing, but no more.

There never had been.

We always stopped short of crossing that line.

Such a messy line it could be…

We made plans to go out with his friends.

Some drinking, some pool, some fun.

I just wanted to have some more time.

We ended up getting into an argument.

I thought he was drinking too much.

He could do that.

Not my fucking wife, he said…

Those words stung. 

So much left undone/unsaid between us.

I went and sat outside smoking, and cursing myself for getting attached.

His friend came out to talk to me…

It’s not that he doesn’t want you, you know.  He loves you, but it’s complicated.

Isn’t it always?

He comes out to apologize.

You’re my family, he says.

I love you, he says.

It’s MY job to protect YOU, he says…

I will fix this, and give you what you deserve, someday,

But I can’t now.

I know it’s true.

I get the feeling it always will be.

I want to go home, but he convinces me to stay.

To go with him and his friends to a house party.

I don’t want to go, but he looks at me with those eyes of his, and I relent.

I remember being bored and angry.

I remember just wanting to go home, but knowing it was not safe to walk alone.

Ironic.

I remember someone offering me a beer.

Then things start to go fuzzy and black out from there.

They said they were going to drop us off.

He was too drunk to drive.

Obviously.

Strangely fuzzy and disconnected as I was feeling, even I knew that.

I remember climbing into the back of the van.

I did not feel right.

It was me and him and two of his buddies.

It did not feel right.

I just wanted to go home.

I remember blackness

I remember mocking laughter

And flashes of pain.

I know that he was there.

And so were his friends.

That is all.

Bits and pieces of out-of-focus horror swallowed by black.

The rest of the story was pieced together via bruises and blood as I screamed in the shower the next morning.

And by blood streaming and a baby leaving several months after.

I should have stood up for myself. 

I should have fought for myself.
I should have sought justice.

But I didn’t.

I retreated instead.

I just didn’t have the strength then. 

Honestly, I don’t now.

So many lines blurred.

So many times abused 

So many pleas disbelieved.

So many words.

So many lies.

So many questions I could not answer.

So many things I don’t remember.

So much I want to still forget.

And for that, I am ashamed.

To all of you who have fought, I apologize for my cowardice.

I wish I could promise you bravery…

But I cannot.

I am more ashamed of myself then anyone could ever be.

That, I can promise.

I hope someday, I can be forgiven.

I can’t ever forget.