I always ponder whether to share. I am not interested in sympathy and my sisters here know exactly what I mean by that. I feel compelled because of the nature of my story. So Democrat in the south has a great diary on sexual assault regarding the memory. It does a great job of pointing out how crystal clear trauma etches itself in the brain. My story, has been told here before. But my story is a lesson about the underlying social issues, that we must face together if this situation is ever going to change. I am not alone, and I invite others to tell their own stories that illuminate the social complexity of the rape culture. My situation was complicated and the villains were every day people like all of us. It would be so much easier, if it were just a few evil people we could blame, but just like slavery (slavery more violent, invalidating, more Power and control) the cure is far more difficult to face. The problem is inside of us. The blame went way beyond my rapists. And of course it didn’t end there as the consequences of contempt and invalidation continue to linger in my life. (Bullying, sexual abuse, sexual assault, child abuse, domestic violence, and war, all share the common characteristic of misplaced contempt and invalidation). Today I am a counselor, educating and helping people heal from the soul robbing social consequences of power and control. Here’s my story. Share. Support. Validate. Tell the secrets. Count the numbers. But most of all understand that once we call it evil or Satan, once we blame something else out there, we deflect from reality and our human accountability. Be the change. Find yourself in this story. Tell your own. But most of all, let’s not simplify. What role have you played in my story. Who were you? Here’s my story:
I was gang raped, in a suburban neighborhood having literally just moved out of “the north side of town” in one of the most segregated cities, even to this day. (My parents apologizing with long lectures that we are not part of “white flight”. We were moving because we couldn’t afford an urban home that would house a family of six. We got a good deal but we have to move to the middle of no where to get it.) Eyeballs roll here.
We moved to the burbs and I was raped by a group of white boys who ranged in age from 11 to 16. The 16 years old of which there were two, were the ring leaders. I share because my greatest damage came from the realization that it wasn’t just one evil guy. It was “my friends”. What followed further educated me about the human condition. The hatred. What came from being the new girl to a small town who is gang raped in her first year as the new girl?? Hatred. By women. Probably more fear than hate, but it sure felt like contempt. Why were they punishing me?? I needed to understand these social structures for my survival. I was shunned. Ostracized and targeted by several male teachers as well. Yes there was hero or two, but more invalidation than real Help. A football coach who gave a kind word. Females let me down. Women were my deepest disappointment but I know it was their fear. I told myself that if knew what happened to me, they wouldn’t hate me but they only would know if I told my story. Female teachers (I told two, they let me down too. They didn’t know what to do.) Perfectionism my new defense. Maybe if I am perfect and smart they will all stop calling me “slut and whore”.
My situation forced me to confront the truth about the rape culture at age twelve. I realized of course, that this was the same sadistic culture that produced slavery. How? I knew how wrong people could be about a human they judged. My perps were not just “those boys” but the girl who set me up, the parents who burned down the fort but lifted not one finger to reach out to me. The male therapist who told me I was assaulted because my dad was an alcoholic and that I needed to make amends to those boys for my part in my sexual assault. The grown male teachers who later took advantage once my wounds began to show.
I also learned that seeing my rapist hung in the cafeteria naked by his jock strap as he was bullied one night after volley ball practice made me sick to my stomach and sent me to the office to rescue my rapist, one of the ringleaders. It cured nothing for me. It told no truth. It left me empty. There was only one path that would satisfy the pain in me. I needed the “why” and I needed the cure.
I wanted to close my eyes and not see the truth of who we are, but I couldn’t survive in the denial. As I said, I don’t share for shock value. It happened in The middle of the USA. In the middle of no where. And I still see it was a microcosm and it was the truth about “us”. The young boys involved I saw as victims like me. Victims of machoism, hierarchy and power and control. (See that’s how they train boys not to feel.) I knew the young boys had no idea that what happened was a heinous crime. They were likely traumatized too. I felt guilty for that.
I share because it is truth. It happened. I beat on my tummy every night until my period came. I will always be pro choice because I think I might have committed suicide with a life inside me, had it occurred. People are shocked by the “me too” movement, by the sheer numbers. Not me. I knew I was surrounded. I knew hate was the toxin not the cure. I knew that religion, power were part of the problem. And I knew it was not about me. (Maybe…that one has taken a lifetime).
It’s rampant and it’s tenacles are inside of me, and everyone else. The culprit in my view is the abuse of contempt, invalidation, our capacity to dismiss another human based on judgments about worth, entitlement and control. And we all do it. This happens because of the very real mental health issues and life long scars that keep us down or threaten our health and thinking. We all need to face down our shame, stop blame, stop hate. The only thing that has ever made sense was to me was to “be the change”.
It’s so complicated and yet so simple.