Thoughts on putting a %&?!”@/! rapist in the White House again.
Trigger Warning: This post discusses multiple forms of trauma, including rape and sexual assault.
Our country has elected a predator of women who has grossly suggested that he is our protector.
There are so many things I would like to point out about this flawed cockroach of a man, but the whole rapist, “Grab ‘em by the pussy” thing is the one that stands out to me today.
Why can we overlook that this man has violated women’s bodies, their minds?
How can we ever expect women to speak up about sexual violence when a predator holds the highest office in America?
When will we be valued for telling our stories? Not described as sluts, opportunists, brave, strong. Valued: heard, believed, respected.
Today we have one more solid answer for why we don’t speak up, why we don’t report harassment, assault, rape.
I’m done.
I will no longer selectively tell my stories with respect for my fellow Americans’ tender sensibilities.
I was 13 the first time a boy, same age, raped me.
I didn’t tell anyone — the shame was all consuming. But then that same young man harassed a friend. In an instant, that shame turned into a fiery need to protect a sister who felt destroyed. So she would be believed, I told someone who could do something. But I didn’t tell the whole story, no. I kept some back — for who? For me?
No. Just for him.
— PAUSE —
This is something that I don’t think men, and maybe a whole lot of women, just get — it’s something they have to hear and believe when we say it: We have been conditioned to put others before ourselves. It’s what good women do, right? So excuse me while I take a step back here and explain how I learned to give this misguided empathy for a young man who violently stole what should have been mine to give.
— OKAY, PUSH PLAY —
I was taught that God is all of these beautiful things at once: Incorporeal, Divine, Supreme, Infinite Mind, Spirit, Soul, Principle, Life, Truth, Love."
And yes, my faith has been tested time and time again, but I cling to the idea that there is a higher power and it is Love.
Why do I say this? How does this apply to a young teenage boy who thought it’d be fine to assault two of his female peers?
I confused believing in Love with believing in goodness.
I confused believing in goodness with believing people are inherently good.
I confused believing people are good with believing everyone deserves a second chance.
I confused believing in second chances with believing I had to give them.
I confused believing I had to give second chances with believing in empathy.
And I confused empathy with Love.
I thought it was a loving act when I told the version that let that young man get a slap on the wrist. Not the version where he duct taped a dirty sock in my mouth and bound my wrists and ankles.
The first time I saw that young man again was at a high school wrestling tournament. He wrestled my brother. My brother who is good and true. My brother who is Love. My heart and mind lived in a state of hypervigilance for weeks after.
Sidenote: I feel the need to mention here that my brother, who is Love, pinned that young man in the first 20 seconds of the match.
The last time I encountered that young man, he was an adult. A teacher. A person trusted with middle school students the same age we were when he desecrated my body and mind, and I gave him a second chance. I processed it with a shitty poem about how I hoped he’d healed.
I heard he was a good student, and that he’s a teacher now.
But what does his mind look like? What does he feel?
Does he ever hear my sock muffled screams,
Feel my fingers fight to break the skin on his face?
The devil on my shoulder would like to know
He is miserable, self-loathing.
But I, I would like to meet him someday
And know he has forgiven himself.
Sidenote: I can love the chick who wrote that and still think, “What the hell kinda brainwashed was she?” I do actually know now the particular brand of brainwash I bought and that it’s still in stock, widely used.
At 17, my boyfriend raped me because I broke up with him.
He stomped on my thighs so hard the treads of his boots were imprinted there for weeks. And I hid the bruises and the limp from my family, thankful it was winter.
A friend found me. We’d made a plan: he knew what I was doing, where I’d be, and to check on me if I didn’t show up at his place in an hour — cell phones weren’t really a thing then. He came and found me folded up on the floor of my car. A few more friends showed up, and someone got me out of there. No one told me what the rest of them did, but I didn’t hear from that guy until he found me on AIM 3 years later wondering if I wanted to meet up for old time’s sake. Again, I processed it with poetry.
In a dream last night
It was me who wrapped my hands
Around the skull tattoo on your neck
And trapped the air in your lungs.
It was me who whispered in your ear,
“How’s it feel to die? That
was your plan today, right?”
It was me who laughed,
Me who threw you on the floor.
Me who kicked and stomped
Your body until it just could not.
It was me. I am me. I am alive.
At 18, a coworker sexually assaulted me at gunpoint.
In hindsight he groomed me. He was beautiful and a flirt. He shared personal stories, got close. Slyly made sure I knew he carried a weapon. He knew I had a hard time backing away from a challenge, and he challenged me daily until he hit a nerve that had me backing off. He left me alone for a while, and then at a house party, while I was on my knees puking — the very last time I ever did shots of tequila — he struck.
Did I report it? Nope. Not even when he bragged about it to coworkers. What I did report was a more minor instance of harassment in a room at work that had a security camera. That guy had 7 kids to feed (not an exaggeration, just a bad basis for empathy), and I hoped he’d get the idea that his behavior was unacceptable and change. And I tried to stuff the shame away. No poetry this time.
The list goes on.
No rape or assault after that one, but there were some near misses. And there were bosses and coworkers who habitually sexually harassed me. There were HR managers who told me to just avoid them. There were promotions I passed up because they meant I’d have to deal with a man who was worse than the current harasser. There were places I didn’t go, jobs I didn’t apply for, good men I didn’t date because I left my self esteem and worthiness in a toilet with 4 shots of tequila.
I spent years developing a meditation practice that didn’t work. Years in yoga, years in therapy. Then, I finally discovered trauma therapy.
#ThankYouTherapistsOfInstagram.
EMDR — check it out — and my amazing trauma-informed therapist were the right fit for me. It only took a few months to kick the shame. I survived. I handled the stuff left from years of trauma responses. And I healed, am still putting in the work. I started to build my mind and my life with Love, the real stuff, not the misguided 13-year-old’s beliefs.
Love knows when it needs to be fierce, when it needs to be gentle.
Love knows the truth is kind.
Love says the awkward thing.
Love listens.
Love acts.
To the men who love us and fight for us with your voices and your votes:
I see you.
Your road is not easy. Thank you for showing up, listening, learning, and knowing our value.
I hope you keep saying the things we can’t say, calling out the bad behavior and condemning the sick patterns, even when your masculinity is called into question. That’s what real protectors do.
To my sisters who will be brave enough to share your stories and to those who can’t:
Over the next four years and beyond, I will bring my fiery protective self and love on you.
There are so many of you out there who know my story is not unique. You know that saying, “It happens once, shame on them, twice, shame on you,” — we’re gonna hear it. Remember, it is absolute BS. We have a culture and systems that are broken, that want us to be quiet, that keep women from speaking up and leading. We have systems that push the repeat button on sick cycles.
You know your female friends and family, they all have stories too. When I finally opened up about my experience, those stories poured out from every living generation in my family and more. My hella independent grandmothers had something to say, and they told me about their mothers too.
We didn’t think we were going back. And right now, in this America, a 34-time felon, rapist, misogynist, racist piece of shit gets to “lead” us from on high.
We deserve to tell our stories.
We deserve a leader who is not the villain in them.
To all my loves (you):
Take some time to rest. Then check on your people and organize. We are not going back. We’re gonna take this fiery Love and set some shit aflame.
Subscribe and come on back later. I’m hell bent on change and hope you are too. <3 Lauren
You continue to impress me with your authenticity, courage, vicious honesty and clarity. Much love to you!