"Love" is just one of those funny words. It has sense, but no reference. When we say, "I love you," each of us knows what that means to ourselves, but have no clue what it means to the loved one. And even though each of us understands that we are feeling an emotion we've chosen to call "love," does that mean it IS?
I can't point at Love and say "there it is." I can't see Love. I can't hear it, or taste it, or touch it with my hands. I can't rub it on my skin or sniff its heady aroma. I can't experience Love in the standard way humans have "experience." There are no prima facie indicators of Love, nor can I prove Love IS or IS NOT with standard logical thought or even logical calculus.
So, I can say, "I love you," and know that feeling to be true (as true as I can know), even if I can't put a precise and proven label on it. It's EASY to say "I love you." REALLY easy. It's easy to believe it. Easy to want it. Easy to discuss it with others, whether it be the nebulousness of it or of being "in it." It's so easy to talk about Love, to think about Love, to hypothesize about Love, to dream about Love, to "feel" Love.
But maybe - just maybe! - Love is something we DO. And that's not easy at all, is it?
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
More Epiphanies
Early Thursday morning, my step-brother shot himself, ending his life, after a three-week drinking binge. He'd been sober for 6 years; we were all so grateful to have him back after years spent battling that super-scary form of alcoholism. He married, had step-children that he loved dearly, and (as was the case his entire life) worked hard to care for them.
I am so grateful that his pain and suffering have ended. I am so grateful - perhaps selfishly - to be here to mourn him. I am so saddened that he didn't reach out - to anyone! - for a different viewpoint, a different option, a different voice resonating in his head. And I have my own little brand of survivor's guilt as well, and it chews at my heart and angers me to no end: it is, without a doubt, by the grace of God that I am here today to write this. I had an angel visit me at the crucial moment, an angel who reminded me that there is always time to make a new choice. Where was my brother's angel?? What's so special about ME and not so special about HIM????????
This guilt was enough to re-spark the pervasive anger with God that I felt so profoundly in the 24 months leading up to my own critical incident, and given that I've only recently begun speaking to God again, it was so easy to fall right back into that pissed off mode where I could just ignore the voice of the Divine and feel vindicated and even comforted by my rage and guilt. Because my last-minute choice - that Divinely-inspired last minute choice - brought me right back into the life I hated... but my brother's choice violently removed him from a life he loved. And all I could think, all I could feel, was, "Fuck you, God." The sick irony of it all was just too much to bear.
So, you all will remember that, for some reason, I never have the bathroom to myself. Where I am concerned, there is no such thing as a moment alone in the powder room, and it just doesn't seem to matter to anyone what I'm doing. Not only that, but depending on what it is that I AM doing, those who insist on traipsing in and out while I'm trying to do it can't seem to refrain from making comments about it. Instead of constantly reminding people that I'm IN THE BATHROOM, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I've just learned to live with it. Lo! And behold! Monday afternoon, upon returning from a nice long ride all over the county, I had the whole house to myself... and thus the bathroom as well.
So, enjoying this moment of solitude, I settled down on the commode just to revel in being alone. I wasn't really going to do anything there (at least nothing that couldn't be done in the space of a few seconds), but just wanted to enjoy the absolute RARENESS of it. Alas, once again my attempts at privacy in the bathroom were thwarted, because God chose just that moment to pick a fight with me. And when I said, "I'm angry with you. I don't want to talk to you," God (in a very unGod-like tactic) said, "Too bad."
"Okay, fine," I said. "Where was CHAD'S angel, God?? Where were you when CHAD needed you?? Hunh?? Where were you, you fuck? Because I'm not so sure I deserved your intervention, but HE sure as fuck did! WHERE WERE YOU??"
And She said, in the quietest and most patient voice, "It was only a matter of time, and you know it. And so did he. If you insist of thinking of it in those terms, Chad's "angel" gave him courage, yours gave you time. It is not your place to judge the Grace of the gift and nor is it Mine; your place is to know that Grace guides us all."
And so it does. I hate it that She's always right.
I am so grateful that his pain and suffering have ended. I am so grateful - perhaps selfishly - to be here to mourn him. I am so saddened that he didn't reach out - to anyone! - for a different viewpoint, a different option, a different voice resonating in his head. And I have my own little brand of survivor's guilt as well, and it chews at my heart and angers me to no end: it is, without a doubt, by the grace of God that I am here today to write this. I had an angel visit me at the crucial moment, an angel who reminded me that there is always time to make a new choice. Where was my brother's angel?? What's so special about ME and not so special about HIM????????
This guilt was enough to re-spark the pervasive anger with God that I felt so profoundly in the 24 months leading up to my own critical incident, and given that I've only recently begun speaking to God again, it was so easy to fall right back into that pissed off mode where I could just ignore the voice of the Divine and feel vindicated and even comforted by my rage and guilt. Because my last-minute choice - that Divinely-inspired last minute choice - brought me right back into the life I hated... but my brother's choice violently removed him from a life he loved. And all I could think, all I could feel, was, "Fuck you, God." The sick irony of it all was just too much to bear.
So, you all will remember that, for some reason, I never have the bathroom to myself. Where I am concerned, there is no such thing as a moment alone in the powder room, and it just doesn't seem to matter to anyone what I'm doing. Not only that, but depending on what it is that I AM doing, those who insist on traipsing in and out while I'm trying to do it can't seem to refrain from making comments about it. Instead of constantly reminding people that I'm IN THE BATHROOM, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I've just learned to live with it. Lo! And behold! Monday afternoon, upon returning from a nice long ride all over the county, I had the whole house to myself... and thus the bathroom as well.
So, enjoying this moment of solitude, I settled down on the commode just to revel in being alone. I wasn't really going to do anything there (at least nothing that couldn't be done in the space of a few seconds), but just wanted to enjoy the absolute RARENESS of it. Alas, once again my attempts at privacy in the bathroom were thwarted, because God chose just that moment to pick a fight with me. And when I said, "I'm angry with you. I don't want to talk to you," God (in a very unGod-like tactic) said, "Too bad."
"Okay, fine," I said. "Where was CHAD'S angel, God?? Where were you when CHAD needed you?? Hunh?? Where were you, you fuck? Because I'm not so sure I deserved your intervention, but HE sure as fuck did! WHERE WERE YOU??"
And She said, in the quietest and most patient voice, "It was only a matter of time, and you know it. And so did he. If you insist of thinking of it in those terms, Chad's "angel" gave him courage, yours gave you time. It is not your place to judge the Grace of the gift and nor is it Mine; your place is to know that Grace guides us all."
And so it does. I hate it that She's always right.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Goofy Theory that is Keeping Me Awake at Night
When we talk about cell replication, the process of our bodies’ growth and renewal, people generally speak of it in terms of mitosis, or actual replication like the “splitting” of cells in a fertilized egg. But the renewal of the cells in our body – a complete renewal that goes in about a 7 year cycle – isn’t replication, it’s replacement. The cells are copied, not replicated, by incoming and organized sub-atomic particles. Cancer is blamed on poor replication – that is, an incomplete or “wrong” replication of the original cell, much like copying a videotape. If you make a copy of a videotape, the copy is degraded. If you make a copy of the copy, it’s even more degraded. And so on and so on and so on. Only some of the body's renewal is achieved by the mitotic cell cycle.
BUT… the process isn’t replication, it’s replacement. So the body is replacing the existing cells with the information from those cells. Our bodies, the way we understand them, could function perfectly for at least 180 years… and that is probably a gross underestimation. The body’s degeneration is blamed on this degraded replication process. The process itself is blamed. And that is fundamentally flawed. The process of cell replacement is perfect – it is the cells that are being replaced that aren’t.
So, logic dictates that as sub-atomic particles coalesce for cell replacement, the only information that is available is the cell itself. If the cell that is being replaced is degraded or damaged, the energy coalescing to replace it does not know that, it only knows the configuration present to copy. The process of replication is degraded because the original cell is damaged, not because the process has failed.
So, how do we damage the cells? What do we do that changes who we are at a sub-atomic and (more globally) cellular level? Surely the toxins of our daily living have an impact: the foods we eat, the synthetic properties of some of those foods, medicines, smoking, alcohol, carbon monoxide, etc etc etc. But understanding also that our bodies are not the solid matter that we perceive, but a chaotic conglomeration of particles that are somehow held together by a specific-to-you electromagnetic field through which all cellular communication is established, don’t we also damage our cells with stress? Anger? Negativity of all kinds, especially if it is constant and pervasive? And where does that come from?
Stress… anger… negative self-talk… feelings of oppression… sadness… injustice… suffering, etc. These are all products of our intellect, of our consciousness of ourselves as separate entities and “thinking” things. We feel a feeling and we label it, nurse it, analyze it, deconstruct it. The same with feelings of elation, joy, tenderness, loyalty, protectiveness. These feelings have names because we gave them names. They have sense because we’ve constructed a sense about them – if only to be able to communicate that feeling to others in a way we hope they will understand. AS “thinking things,” have we ever stopped to wonder where these feelings – just the plain, unlabeled, unanalyzed feelings – come from? How are they generated? What is they’re purpose? Because we don’t “think” these things, we feel them. And then we “think” about them, give them names, and compare experiences.
If our choices are the product of our “intellect,” this “gift” of free will that is often attributed to God, what are emotions the product of? Philosophers for ages have discussed the “mind/body problem,” in that we have sense AND reference of and to our bodies, but neither for our minds, except for the basic concept of “I am.” And despite complete cellular replacement every 7 years or so, we continue to have the sense of “I AM” as a continuous stream of being, even as the energy of our bodies changes to something completely new in a cycle that ends only with the death of the body. And when that electromagnetic information ceases to be exchanged within the body, does it also cease to be exchanged between the thing we have sense of as “I AM” and the relative energy that confirms it? The Laws of Thermodynamics shout a resounding NO.
So, it stands to reason that there is something about us that is not our bodies and something else about us that is not our minds. There is no doubt in my “mind” (haha) that when my body ceases to exchange energy information between its systems, my brain – the thing that we posit contains our central computer and thus the “IAM” part of us – will cease exchanging information as well, as it is the central part of that system indeed. But the energy that compels me to know I AM I forever, throughout a life in which all cellular information is replaced several times, must be in direct systemic exchange with a similar and relative energy. An exchange that would continue regardless of the communication shutdown in the shrouded and particular systems of this coalescence of cells that I call my body. Could this direct systemic energy exchange between the field that dictates my particular energy and whatever relative field that confirms it be the Soul? And could this constant resonation from the relative energy be the source of what we call “emotion,” which, for the purposes of this theorizing would then be held as the electromagnetic and subatomic system of… God?
Systemic Memory Theory says…. Maybe?
So, if emotion is the voice of our “soul,” that connection to the relative system outside the system- of- the- body configuration, and we rely on our “minds” to dissect this emotion, respond to this emotion, label this emotion, deconstruct this emotion, dislike this emotion, avoid this emotion, expect this emotion, make choices in relation to this emotion… then aren’t we arrogantly using our dubious power of discrimination (choice) to subvert, muffle, second-guess, and overanalyze our connection with the Divine? Aren’t we then torturing ourselves with the curse of “free will,” when in fact, that sense of “free will” is only a by-product of an inferior and almost completely unrelated system? And when we do that… aren’t we then killing our personal system? Damaging the cells? Poisoning ourselves?
Soooo… that what’s brings me to the question: What if your Soul’s voice was the ONLY voice you heard? What if you had no choice but to listen and obey? What if you realized that the intellect you rely on for “choices” is only allowing you to second guess the voice of your soul and thus, kill it?
They say that God made the angels first, and they were made only to praise and serve him. The Morning Star was angered (impossible if the creation story is right, but whatever) with God for creating humans, who had free will and could choose to praise God ( or not), and choose many other things as well. Lucifer had it backward. WE are not the blessed ones, because we have the choice to hear our Souls… or not. It seem to me that the systemic connection from “I AM” to the relative and ultimately containing field is constant, unending, irrefutable, and is the True Source, the Divine, the Universal Mud, whatever you want to call it. We do the Great System a grand disservice by failing to nurture the connection, and using the excuse of “free will” for the death of our souls.
In other words: We kill ourselves with “what if?” We kill ourselves with fear. We kill ourselves with denial. We kill ourselves with the belief that we are less than perfect. We kill ourselves with the belief that we are separate, alone, entities unto ourselves and nothing else. WE kill ourselves with the overuse of the inferior system (mind) of the body’s configuration rather than nurturing that system with the energy of the connection to the Source.
I can’t get it out of my head: What if your Soul’s voice was the only voice you heard?
BUT… the process isn’t replication, it’s replacement. So the body is replacing the existing cells with the information from those cells. Our bodies, the way we understand them, could function perfectly for at least 180 years… and that is probably a gross underestimation. The body’s degeneration is blamed on this degraded replication process. The process itself is blamed. And that is fundamentally flawed. The process of cell replacement is perfect – it is the cells that are being replaced that aren’t.
So, logic dictates that as sub-atomic particles coalesce for cell replacement, the only information that is available is the cell itself. If the cell that is being replaced is degraded or damaged, the energy coalescing to replace it does not know that, it only knows the configuration present to copy. The process of replication is degraded because the original cell is damaged, not because the process has failed.
So, how do we damage the cells? What do we do that changes who we are at a sub-atomic and (more globally) cellular level? Surely the toxins of our daily living have an impact: the foods we eat, the synthetic properties of some of those foods, medicines, smoking, alcohol, carbon monoxide, etc etc etc. But understanding also that our bodies are not the solid matter that we perceive, but a chaotic conglomeration of particles that are somehow held together by a specific-to-you electromagnetic field through which all cellular communication is established, don’t we also damage our cells with stress? Anger? Negativity of all kinds, especially if it is constant and pervasive? And where does that come from?
Stress… anger… negative self-talk… feelings of oppression… sadness… injustice… suffering, etc. These are all products of our intellect, of our consciousness of ourselves as separate entities and “thinking” things. We feel a feeling and we label it, nurse it, analyze it, deconstruct it. The same with feelings of elation, joy, tenderness, loyalty, protectiveness. These feelings have names because we gave them names. They have sense because we’ve constructed a sense about them – if only to be able to communicate that feeling to others in a way we hope they will understand. AS “thinking things,” have we ever stopped to wonder where these feelings – just the plain, unlabeled, unanalyzed feelings – come from? How are they generated? What is they’re purpose? Because we don’t “think” these things, we feel them. And then we “think” about them, give them names, and compare experiences.
If our choices are the product of our “intellect,” this “gift” of free will that is often attributed to God, what are emotions the product of? Philosophers for ages have discussed the “mind/body problem,” in that we have sense AND reference of and to our bodies, but neither for our minds, except for the basic concept of “I am.” And despite complete cellular replacement every 7 years or so, we continue to have the sense of “I AM” as a continuous stream of being, even as the energy of our bodies changes to something completely new in a cycle that ends only with the death of the body. And when that electromagnetic information ceases to be exchanged within the body, does it also cease to be exchanged between the thing we have sense of as “I AM” and the relative energy that confirms it? The Laws of Thermodynamics shout a resounding NO.
So, it stands to reason that there is something about us that is not our bodies and something else about us that is not our minds. There is no doubt in my “mind” (haha) that when my body ceases to exchange energy information between its systems, my brain – the thing that we posit contains our central computer and thus the “IAM” part of us – will cease exchanging information as well, as it is the central part of that system indeed. But the energy that compels me to know I AM I forever, throughout a life in which all cellular information is replaced several times, must be in direct systemic exchange with a similar and relative energy. An exchange that would continue regardless of the communication shutdown in the shrouded and particular systems of this coalescence of cells that I call my body. Could this direct systemic energy exchange between the field that dictates my particular energy and whatever relative field that confirms it be the Soul? And could this constant resonation from the relative energy be the source of what we call “emotion,” which, for the purposes of this theorizing would then be held as the electromagnetic and subatomic system of… God?
Systemic Memory Theory says…. Maybe?
So, if emotion is the voice of our “soul,” that connection to the relative system outside the system- of- the- body configuration, and we rely on our “minds” to dissect this emotion, respond to this emotion, label this emotion, deconstruct this emotion, dislike this emotion, avoid this emotion, expect this emotion, make choices in relation to this emotion… then aren’t we arrogantly using our dubious power of discrimination (choice) to subvert, muffle, second-guess, and overanalyze our connection with the Divine? Aren’t we then torturing ourselves with the curse of “free will,” when in fact, that sense of “free will” is only a by-product of an inferior and almost completely unrelated system? And when we do that… aren’t we then killing our personal system? Damaging the cells? Poisoning ourselves?
Soooo… that what’s brings me to the question: What if your Soul’s voice was the ONLY voice you heard? What if you had no choice but to listen and obey? What if you realized that the intellect you rely on for “choices” is only allowing you to second guess the voice of your soul and thus, kill it?
They say that God made the angels first, and they were made only to praise and serve him. The Morning Star was angered (impossible if the creation story is right, but whatever) with God for creating humans, who had free will and could choose to praise God ( or not), and choose many other things as well. Lucifer had it backward. WE are not the blessed ones, because we have the choice to hear our Souls… or not. It seem to me that the systemic connection from “I AM” to the relative and ultimately containing field is constant, unending, irrefutable, and is the True Source, the Divine, the Universal Mud, whatever you want to call it. We do the Great System a grand disservice by failing to nurture the connection, and using the excuse of “free will” for the death of our souls.
In other words: We kill ourselves with “what if?” We kill ourselves with fear. We kill ourselves with denial. We kill ourselves with the belief that we are less than perfect. We kill ourselves with the belief that we are separate, alone, entities unto ourselves and nothing else. WE kill ourselves with the overuse of the inferior system (mind) of the body’s configuration rather than nurturing that system with the energy of the connection to the Source.
I can’t get it out of my head: What if your Soul’s voice was the only voice you heard?
Monday, June 21, 2010
What I Didn't Know
I don't know what "normal" people feel like. And until now, I didn't know that I didn't know.
I'm committed to this process of therapy, and have been medicated for about two months now. I've never been one to enjoy "labels," as they always seem like excuses to me. Sure, I was a severely abused child, but I'm not going to use that as an excuse. Sure, I've known that I'm as PTSD as the day is long, but I'm not gonna use that as an excuse either. And now that I've been diagnosed as Bi-Polar (type II) as well, I'm stuck in a place that almost forces me to re-define myself, my behavior, my whole existence. I don't want to use this as an excuse either... but it certainly makes a whole bunch of stuff in my life make a whole bunch more sense.
Before medication, I didn't know how much of my life was spent in an all-consuming anxiety that was positively debilitating. I didn't know I was debilitated. Before medication, I didn't know that most people ("normal" people) feel pretty good about themselves on a daily basis, and that most people don't beat themselves up in a constant internal litany of self-loathing. And of course, I didn't know that's what I was doing to myself. Before medication, I didn't know what "normal" felt like. I only knew what "normal for ME" felt like. And "normal" feels pretty good and pretty scary all at the same time.
Two days ago, MSU told me he misses me being "crazy." I'm still not sure what that means. But *I* don't miss being crazy. I don't miss waking up every morning wanting to cut my throat. I don't miss spending an hour every morning before work puking my guts out. I don't miss that internal litany of self-loathing. I don't miss that debilitating anxiety.
I'm not going to label myself as "bi-polar" and use it as an excuse for choices I am still responsible for. But I AM going to fully enjoy better living through chemical intervention. I might decide "normal" is boring after a while... but right now...
It's GRAND.
I'm committed to this process of therapy, and have been medicated for about two months now. I've never been one to enjoy "labels," as they always seem like excuses to me. Sure, I was a severely abused child, but I'm not going to use that as an excuse. Sure, I've known that I'm as PTSD as the day is long, but I'm not gonna use that as an excuse either. And now that I've been diagnosed as Bi-Polar (type II) as well, I'm stuck in a place that almost forces me to re-define myself, my behavior, my whole existence. I don't want to use this as an excuse either... but it certainly makes a whole bunch of stuff in my life make a whole bunch more sense.
Before medication, I didn't know how much of my life was spent in an all-consuming anxiety that was positively debilitating. I didn't know I was debilitated. Before medication, I didn't know that most people ("normal" people) feel pretty good about themselves on a daily basis, and that most people don't beat themselves up in a constant internal litany of self-loathing. And of course, I didn't know that's what I was doing to myself. Before medication, I didn't know what "normal" felt like. I only knew what "normal for ME" felt like. And "normal" feels pretty good and pretty scary all at the same time.
Two days ago, MSU told me he misses me being "crazy." I'm still not sure what that means. But *I* don't miss being crazy. I don't miss waking up every morning wanting to cut my throat. I don't miss spending an hour every morning before work puking my guts out. I don't miss that internal litany of self-loathing. I don't miss that debilitating anxiety.
I'm not going to label myself as "bi-polar" and use it as an excuse for choices I am still responsible for. But I AM going to fully enjoy better living through chemical intervention. I might decide "normal" is boring after a while... but right now...
It's GRAND.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
The Explanation - A Letter to My Mother
This is a very difficult thing for me to do, for so many reasons. Finally asking for some help was a big step... and offering my apologies and explanations to those who care about me is an important part of the process. Doesn
I
You already know that it
So, on top of that, I came to BC about the same time and had my professional life pretty much crushed by my supervisor at the time. No more teaching. No more participation in task force activities. No more of the stuff that has always made this job worthwhile for me. Then, a year ago, he and I came up with this position that I am holding now, in order to reduce the caseloads of the Community Unit after we lost several staff to budget cuts. This position is a great help to the institutions and to the community unit, but is the worst job I
Thus started a weird sort of existential depression that I recognized as limiting and even debilitating, but couldn
About 60 days ago, I started to plan to end my life. I am heavily insured, and made sure that there were no suicide clauses in any of the policies, though my plan was to also ensure that it would never be thought of as a suicide. Once dead, my family would be able to pay off every debt, including the mortgage, and use any remaining death benefits to go anywhere they wanted, find a better life, get out of this ridiculous state. I didn
About 45 days ago, my plan was foolproof and set for a date. On Easter, I did a modified "test run" just to make sure I could do it (which I totally regret now because my poor bike is all scratched up because of it). And on April 10th (THE day), I spent the day with friends and family saying good bye, then went home to have a quick dinner with another friend who was on duty. As I stood in the parking lot of Tom
But a few days later, that commitment didn
So, that
So for a long time, I haven
So that
There is absolutely no need for you to respond unless you absolutely want to. I just owed you the explanation.
Love, Me
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Response Long Enough to be a Post
David wrote: "Another sad ending to what's become a WAY too typical story. As hard as I try, I'll never begin to understand where these monsters think they get the right to ruin so many lives for a few moments of self-gratification. The only conclusion I can reach is pure evil does exist and it walks among us in all shapes and forms."
As I responded, I realized that this comment fits in with previous posts that will eventually (hopefully) find a more productive venue (once fleshed out and more supported). So I decided to post it as an entry rather than a comment:
We ALL justify our moments of self-gratification to one degree or another. Mine just don't involve a compulsion that requires violence, force, and/or fear.
The sad truth is that we don't have very good luck in rehabilitative efforts with adult sexual offenders. In general, the best we can hope for is management - and that requires a commitment on the offender's part to continue with therapy even when not Court-compelled to do so, adherence to the developed safety plan (a requirement for SO cognitive reconstruction, and continued accountability (even if limited) to the Court. It may surprise you to know that most sex offenders required to register DO make that commitment, and DO manage their own behaviors with the help and support of friends, family, and qualified professionals. It may also surprise you to know that the majority of registered sex offenders are not "child molesters" in the commonly-used definition of the term.
Unfortunately, there will always be that percentage of persons with dangerous compulsions who do not make the commitment, either because they don't want to or because they just can't.
So, statistically, supervision isn't the problem OR the solution. Management isn't the problem OR the solution. Treatment isn't the problem OR the solution. Laws aren't the problem OR the solution. And every time we, as voters, enact harsher punishments and more requirements for sex offenders, we are demonstrating a knee-jerk reaction that affects ALL persons in this category despite the fact that the ones we actually FEAR are a miniscule percentage of that whole.
What IS the problem, then? And what is the solution?
Again, more to come on this. Lots more.
As I responded, I realized that this comment fits in with previous posts that will eventually (hopefully) find a more productive venue (once fleshed out and more supported). So I decided to post it as an entry rather than a comment:
We ALL justify our moments of self-gratification to one degree or another. Mine just don't involve a compulsion that requires violence, force, and/or fear.
The sad truth is that we don't have very good luck in rehabilitative efforts with adult sexual offenders. In general, the best we can hope for is management - and that requires a commitment on the offender's part to continue with therapy even when not Court-compelled to do so, adherence to the developed safety plan (a requirement for SO cognitive reconstruction, and continued accountability (even if limited) to the Court. It may surprise you to know that most sex offenders required to register DO make that commitment, and DO manage their own behaviors with the help and support of friends, family, and qualified professionals. It may also surprise you to know that the majority of registered sex offenders are not "child molesters" in the commonly-used definition of the term.
Unfortunately, there will always be that percentage of persons with dangerous compulsions who do not make the commitment, either because they don't want to or because they just can't.
So, statistically, supervision isn't the problem OR the solution. Management isn't the problem OR the solution. Treatment isn't the problem OR the solution. Laws aren't the problem OR the solution. And every time we, as voters, enact harsher punishments and more requirements for sex offenders, we are demonstrating a knee-jerk reaction that affects ALL persons in this category despite the fact that the ones we actually FEAR are a miniscule percentage of that whole.
What IS the problem, then? And what is the solution?
Again, more to come on this. Lots more.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
One and One-Half Miles...
... from my home, the lifeless body of Chelsea King (still pending official identification) was found five days after she was reported missing by her parents. San Diego County did a fantastic job of coordinating search efforts, and my wonderful little community - still so broken and sad from the still-mysterious loss of Amber Dubois a year ago - rallied with Chelsea's parents to ensure she would come home if there was any possible way that she COULD come home.
An arrest has been made and a formal complaint may be made at arraignment today. I hope so.
The County and our community was able to come together in efforts to find Chelsea so quickly because Chelsea was in the habit of doing something most kids her age (17) don't think about: checking in with her parents regularly and always advising them of where she was and with whom. Chelsea gave her parents a great gift: the knowledge that something was amiss LONG before other parents of teenagers might have suspected it.
Thank you, Chelsea. May you now rest in peace. I hope you will use your light to help those that are still lost find their way home.
An arrest has been made and a formal complaint may be made at arraignment today. I hope so.
The County and our community was able to come together in efforts to find Chelsea so quickly because Chelsea was in the habit of doing something most kids her age (17) don't think about: checking in with her parents regularly and always advising them of where she was and with whom. Chelsea gave her parents a great gift: the knowledge that something was amiss LONG before other parents of teenagers might have suspected it.
Thank you, Chelsea. May you now rest in peace. I hope you will use your light to help those that are still lost find their way home.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Stranger Danger: Cases and research
Cases in point:
Danielle Van Dam, 7 years old. Abducted by a neighbor without any signs of a fight. Sexually assaulted, murdered, and unceremoniously dumped by a roadside. Other neighborhood children reported that the perpetrator would let the neighborhood kids play in his RV, which coincidentally was the vehicle which linked the perpetrator, now on Death Row, with Danielle.
Samantha Runnion, 5 years old. Abducted by a man who asked her for help locating his chihuahua and then dragged her into his car. The man had been a visitor around the apartment complex in the past while dating one of the residents. Sasmantha's five-year-old playmate was able to provide a very good description of the perpetrator, which led to his arrest, but not before Samantha's sexually abused and asphyxiated body was found alongside a highway.
Internet Article by Mark Gado:
"In an effort to define the missing child problem, the National Incidence Studies of Missing, Abducted, Runaway and Throwaway Children, known as NISMART, initiated a massive research project in 1988. A more recent updated survey was conducted in 1999 and is known as NISMART 2. The data discussed in this article will focus on the NISMART 2 project. Sponsored by the Department of Justice and using facts collected in over 16,000 interviews across the United States, NISMART 2 is the most up to date reliable database on missing children available. In compiling the national data, NISMART expanded the collected information to reflect the population as a whole.
There are three major definitions used in the data to describe the varying circumstances of child abduction. The first is called a non-family abduction. NISMART 2 describes this event when a non-family perpetrator takes a child by the use of physical force or threat or detains a child for at least 1 hour in an isolated place without lawful authority. NISMART defines a stereotypical kidnapping when a stranger or slight acquaintance perpetrates a non-family abduction in which the child is detained overnight, transported at least 50 miles, held for ransom, abducted with the intent to keep the child permanently, or killed. A family abduction occurs when in violation of a custody order a member of the childs family takes or fails to return a child and the child is concealed or transported out of State with the intent to prevent contact.
Danielle Van Dam, 7 years old. Abducted by a neighbor without any signs of a fight. Sexually assaulted, murdered, and unceremoniously dumped by a roadside. Other neighborhood children reported that the perpetrator would let the neighborhood kids play in his RV, which coincidentally was the vehicle which linked the perpetrator, now on Death Row, with Danielle.
Samantha Runnion, 5 years old. Abducted by a man who asked her for help locating his chihuahua and then dragged her into his car. The man had been a visitor around the apartment complex in the past while dating one of the residents. Sasmantha's five-year-old playmate was able to provide a very good description of the perpetrator, which led to his arrest, but not before Samantha's sexually abused and asphyxiated body was found alongside a highway.
Internet Article by Mark Gado:
"In an effort to define the missing child problem, the National Incidence Studies of Missing, Abducted, Runaway and Throwaway Children, known as NISMART, initiated a massive research project in 1988. A more recent updated survey was conducted in 1999 and is known as NISMART 2. The data discussed in this article will focus on the NISMART 2 project. Sponsored by the Department of Justice and using facts collected in over 16,000 interviews across the United States, NISMART 2 is the most up to date reliable database on missing children available. In compiling the national data, NISMART expanded the collected information to reflect the population as a whole.
There are three major definitions used in the data to describe the varying circumstances of child abduction. The first is called a non-family abduction. NISMART 2 describes this event when a non-family perpetrator takes a child by the use of physical force or threat or detains a child for at least 1 hour in an isolated place without lawful authority. NISMART defines a stereotypical kidnapping when a stranger or slight acquaintance perpetrates a non-family abduction in which the child is detained overnight, transported at least 50 miles, held for ransom, abducted with the intent to keep the child permanently, or killed. A family abduction occurs when in violation of a custody order a member of the childs family takes or fails to return a child and the child is concealed or transported out of State with the intent to prevent contact.
According to the NISMART survey, more than 203,900 children are abducted by a family member in America each year. The majority of these are abducted by one of their parents during a custodial dispute. These types of incidents usually end with the child returned to the rightful parent and the offender charged with custodial-related offenses. About 46 percent were gone for less than a week. About 21 percent were gone for more than a month. Only 6 percent were not returned to the rightful parent. On occasion, the offender can be charged with kidnapping. Parents who abduct their own children are not usually motivated by violence nor do they have profit as a goal. These incidents are driven by hostility between parents with the innocent child caught in the middle.
During the time period studied in the survey, NISMART estimated that 58,200 children were victimized in non-family abductions. This figure is an estimate only and NISMART warns that this number could be exaggerated since it was based on a small sample. In these abductions, 53 percent were committed by persons known to the victim, such as a friend, neighbor or a babysitter. About 75 percent of the perpetrators of non-family abductions are male. The victim most often (81%) was between the ages of 12 and 17 and most often (65%) female. In a finding that conforms with public perception, NISMART found that 71 percent of these abductions occurred outdoors such as the street, park, a car or in a wooded area. Less than 5 percent took place in the victims own home or yard. The motivations for these abductions were a physical or sexual assault in 77 percent of the cases. The duration of the crime was less than 24 hours in 90 percent of the cases and the child was returned alive 99 percent of the time.
A kidnapping is the type of abduction that is most harmful to the child, both psychologically and physically. Many of these incidents also involve some type of sexual activity. An earlier study that was funded by the Justice Departments Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention (OJJDP) confirmed that figure and provided additional insight on the child abduction problem. This survey was conducted in 1997 and examined 600 abduction cases across the nation. Findings were very similar to the NISMART project, though not identical.
The OJJDP study concluded that the most typical victim in a child abduction murder was an eleven-year-old white female from a middle class neighborhood. This mirrors the NISMART finding that 69% of the victims were female and 80% were less than 14 years old. The suspect in the case had been arrested for prior offenses against children 53% of the time and the most common crime was sexual in nature. The abductor was usually a white male, single and about 27 years old. They were either unemployed or worked in unskilled jobs, lived alone or with parents. NISMART found that the suspect was less than 29 years old in 67% of the cases.
At the time of the abduction, the offender had a valid reason for being at the scene of the crime. These reasons included a residence near the site, some type of social activity or work related duties. Over 57% of these types of abductions were considered crimes of opportunity. The method of abduction in 65% of the incidents was a sighting, a sudden assault and a quick abduction. In 53% of the incidents, the first contact between victim and suspect took place near the childs home. In 33% of the cases, the contact took place less than 200 feet from the home. NISMART concluded that only 5% of stranger abductions took place in the victims home or yard.
Elizabeth Smart
Based on these OJJDP findings, parents would be well advised not to expose their children to danger by associating with people who have a history of deviant or criminal behavior. And if that history includes prior crimes against children, the risk of danger is magnified greatly. In 2002, 14-year-old Elizabeth Smart was abducted at gunpoint from her home in Salt Lake City. After an avalanche of publicity and a search conducted by tens of thousands of police and volunteers, investigators still had no solid leads. It wasnt until Elizabeths own younger sister recalled a workman who visited the Smart home in 2001 that a suspect was developed.
Brian David Mitchell
I think I know who he might be, the 10-year-old said to police. On March 12, 2003, almost nine moths after she was abducted, Brian David Mitchell, 49, was arrested and charged with kidnapping. Elizabeth was found in his custody and safely returned to her parents. During her captivity, she was allegedly sexually assaulted several times. Later, it was discovered that her mother, Lois Smart, had picked up Mitchell off the street in downtown Salt Lake City in 2001 and brought him home to do some minor chores. Mitchell had spent several hours raking leaves and repairing the roof. During that time, he also observed Elizabeth who was home at the time.
The Smart kidnapping emphasizes several characteristics that child abductors seem to have in common. First, they most often have a prior visual sighting of the victim and the initial contact is frequently made at or near the home. Secondly, the motivation for the crime is often sexual in nature. The victim is usually a female under 14 and the suspect is an unemployed white male with a criminal record. Though the alleged kidnapper, Brian Mitchell, was 20 years older than the NISMART average, he fit the profile reasonably well. Elizabeth Smart could be considered a very lucky victim. Thats because females her age, who are abducted under similar circumstances, stand a very good chance of being killed."
"The most reliable research available indicates that there are only 100-130 cases of stranger abductions a year in the United States. These events are most frequently committed by males (86%) who are between the ages of 20 and 39 (57%). Again, the child was taken from an outdoor area in 54% of the cases but in 16% of the cases, the victim was abducted from his own yard or home. In the wider category of non-family abduction, NISMART found that 71% of the victims were taken from an outdoor area. In stereotypical kidnappings, less than 7% were taken from a store or mall. Stranger abduction events are usually committed for sexual purposes (49%) and in over 40% of the cases, the victim was murdered. That is in addition to the 4%, like Etan Patz in New York City, that have never been found.
The F.B.I. handled 93 cases of stranger abductions cases in 2001. That figure is actually a decrease from years past, especially during the 1980s when the average per year hovered around 200 incidents a year. Though the victim in most of these cases did not know the suspect, there was previous contact between them prior to the crime. This contact was usually a brief visual observation that took place while the suspect had a legitimate reason for being where he was. Those reasons included work related activities, such as a home delivery, a store clerk, a drive-by, in a park or sporting event. In over 85% of the cases, the child was kept within 50 miles of the abduction location and most frequently (28%), the victim was held in the home of the suspect.
The duration of a kidnapping episode was usually less than 24 hours (90%). Only less than 10% lasted longer than one day. Non-family abductions showed the same patterns though 30% lasted less than even 3 hours. The most dramatic difference between non-family abductions and kidnappings was in the treatment of the victim. In 99% of non-family abductions, the child was returned alive. In kidnappings, a safe return occurred only 57% of the time. Ominously, the child suffered a sexual or physical assault in an astounding 86% of the stereotypical kidnappings. These findings powerfully emphasize the extreme danger of these events and the urgency of police interaction as soon as possible.
Stereotypical kidnapping, in which a child is abducted and either assaulted or held for ransom, is a crime that first appeared in the United States in the late 19th century. During the 1920s, it became entrenched in the public consciousness when a series of child abduction cases terrified parents across the country."
"For parents of the victim, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (http://www.missingkids.com/) and OJJDP (http://www.ojjdp.ncjrs.org/) have several recommendations. It is probably never a good idea to send a small child on an errand alone or walk to school unescorted. We have seen that most abductions take place near the child's home, some as close as 200 feet. Children are well advised never to approach an occupied car or accept a ride from anyone without a parent present. That includes a driver who asks for directions. Children should be told to retreat from such a request. It is also the responsibility of adults to take notice of anyone suspicious in their own neighborhoods. Attention should be paid to any strangers who may be lurking around schoolyards or playgrounds. Keep in mind that most offenders have prior contact with the victim. And that contact is usually a visual observation. If you have any doubt that someone is suspicious, call the police and let them decide. They will at least identify that person and determine his legitimacy for being where he is."Stranger Danger
Training young children to stay away from people they don't know isn't a very difficult task. Most young children will happily stay within the line of sight of the adults they know and trust, and will naturally be suspicious of adults they don't know. At about age five, when children begin to become accustomed to the "everyday" surroundings, they will also begin to feel more secure manifesting their natural curiosity (though usually within limits). The all-too-obvious but for some reason usually dismissed issue with this is that young children define "know" and "trust" differently than adults or even older children do.
For example, if you take your four-year-old daughter to the neighborhood park every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, chances are you regularly see other parents doing the same thing. You will eventually come to "know" these other adults by sight, perhaps offer a wave of greeting after several contacts. You may chat with these other parents as the children play. Do you "know" these people? Of course not. Does your child? Absolutely. "Knowing," f0r a young child means that something has been incorporated in their every day expectations. And now that your child "knows" these adults, there is no reason at all for your child to not trust them as well, because that's what young children are forced, by their own helplessness, to do.
With this new perspective, try to list how many people your young child "knows." The mail carrier. The UPS guy. The Landlord. The rowdy kids skateboarding in your apartment complex's courtyard every day. The older gentleman a few doors down. The grandma-looking lady on the corner with the rosebushes you so admire. The parents that come and go from the daycare center. The older siblings of the other kids at the daycare center. The baggers at the grocery store. The barista at Starbuck's. Your boss and co-workers. Your parents' quirky neighbors.
It's a long and intimidating list, especially given the fact that this list has already been incorporated into your child's memory as a "known" quantity. And how many more people does your child "know" that you don't know about?
So when you solemnly advise your child to "never talk to strangers," your child likely solemnly agrees. But none of the people on the aforementioned list are "strangers" to your child, even though in your mind they most definitely are. If one of the people on that list asked your child if he or she wanted to come see the lizard/rock/race car/flower/stash of candy they just found, your child would probably consider that person "known" and "trusted" (because you, the parent, "know" that person too, right???) and might even agree to go along with them without checking with you first. Or your child might say, "okay, let me tell Mommy/Daddy," only to have the "known" person say, "I already asked your Mommy and she said okay." Does your child have any reason at all not to believe this is true? A child over the age of five, who is already quite secure in his or her surroundings and "known" quantities, would be very likely to accept this invitation.
And thus, long-term sexual abuse of a child often begins. A sexual predator whose preference is young children knows very well how to use a child's curiosity to gain a child's trust, and quite often it happens right under a parent's nose.
Though I don't wish to focus on abductions (frightening and horrific yes, but not as common as ongoing sexual abuse), here are two cases in point of "known" perpetrators:
Danielle Van Dam, 7 years old. Abducted by a neighbor, though it is theoried that she may have gone to his house of her own volition after waking in the night to find her parents not at home. Sexually assaulted, murdered, and unceremoniously dumped by a roadside. Other neighborhood children reported that the perpetrator would let the neighborhood kids play in his RV, which coincidentally was the vehicle which linked the perpetrator, now on Death Row, with Danielle.
Samantha Runnion, 5 years old. Abducted by a man who asked her for help locating his chihuahua and then dragged her into his car. The man had been a visitor around the apartment complex in the past while dating one of the residents and the children approached him without fear. Sasmantha's five-year-old playmate was able to provide a very good description of the perpetrator, which led to his arrest, but not before Samantha's sexually abused and asphyxiated body was found alongside a highway.
For parents, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (www.missingkids.com) and OJJDP (www.ojjdp.ncjrs.org) have several recommendations. Sending a small child on an errand alone or allowing him/her to walk to school alone is never a good idea. Children are well advised never to approach an occupied car or accept a ride from anyone without a parent present. Children should be told to retreat from requests for directions, requests for help with finding something or someone lost, and persons in vehicles who ask the child to approach the car for ANY reason. Parents should pay attention to persons in the area, even if it appears that the person is there on legitimate business. Again, these recommendations focus on the notion of "stranger danger" rather than the clear and present danger of seemingly known quantities, and I would definitely modify these suggestions with regard to my own children.
Again, more to come.
For example, if you take your four-year-old daughter to the neighborhood park every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, chances are you regularly see other parents doing the same thing. You will eventually come to "know" these other adults by sight, perhaps offer a wave of greeting after several contacts. You may chat with these other parents as the children play. Do you "know" these people? Of course not. Does your child? Absolutely. "Knowing," f0r a young child means that something has been incorporated in their every day expectations. And now that your child "knows" these adults, there is no reason at all for your child to not trust them as well, because that's what young children are forced, by their own helplessness, to do.
With this new perspective, try to list how many people your young child "knows." The mail carrier. The UPS guy. The Landlord. The rowdy kids skateboarding in your apartment complex's courtyard every day. The older gentleman a few doors down. The grandma-looking lady on the corner with the rosebushes you so admire. The parents that come and go from the daycare center. The older siblings of the other kids at the daycare center. The baggers at the grocery store. The barista at Starbuck's. Your boss and co-workers. Your parents' quirky neighbors.
It's a long and intimidating list, especially given the fact that this list has already been incorporated into your child's memory as a "known" quantity. And how many more people does your child "know" that you don't know about?
So when you solemnly advise your child to "never talk to strangers," your child likely solemnly agrees. But none of the people on the aforementioned list are "strangers" to your child, even though in your mind they most definitely are. If one of the people on that list asked your child if he or she wanted to come see the lizard/rock/race car/flower/stash of candy they just found, your child would probably consider that person "known" and "trusted" (because you, the parent, "know" that person too, right???) and might even agree to go along with them without checking with you first. Or your child might say, "okay, let me tell Mommy/Daddy," only to have the "known" person say, "I already asked your Mommy and she said okay." Does your child have any reason at all not to believe this is true? A child over the age of five, who is already quite secure in his or her surroundings and "known" quantities, would be very likely to accept this invitation.
And thus, long-term sexual abuse of a child often begins. A sexual predator whose preference is young children knows very well how to use a child's curiosity to gain a child's trust, and quite often it happens right under a parent's nose.
Though I don't wish to focus on abductions (frightening and horrific yes, but not as common as ongoing sexual abuse), here are two cases in point of "known" perpetrators:
Danielle Van Dam, 7 years old. Abducted by a neighbor, though it is theoried that she may have gone to his house of her own volition after waking in the night to find her parents not at home. Sexually assaulted, murdered, and unceremoniously dumped by a roadside. Other neighborhood children reported that the perpetrator would let the neighborhood kids play in his RV, which coincidentally was the vehicle which linked the perpetrator, now on Death Row, with Danielle.
Samantha Runnion, 5 years old. Abducted by a man who asked her for help locating his chihuahua and then dragged her into his car. The man had been a visitor around the apartment complex in the past while dating one of the residents and the children approached him without fear. Sasmantha's five-year-old playmate was able to provide a very good description of the perpetrator, which led to his arrest, but not before Samantha's sexually abused and asphyxiated body was found alongside a highway.
For parents, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (www.missingkids.com) and OJJDP (www.ojjdp.ncjrs.org) have several recommendations. Sending a small child on an errand alone or allowing him/her to walk to school alone is never a good idea. Children are well advised never to approach an occupied car or accept a ride from anyone without a parent present. Children should be told to retreat from requests for directions, requests for help with finding something or someone lost, and persons in vehicles who ask the child to approach the car for ANY reason. Parents should pay attention to persons in the area, even if it appears that the person is there on legitimate business. Again, these recommendations focus on the notion of "stranger danger" rather than the clear and present danger of seemingly known quantities, and I would definitely modify these suggestions with regard to my own children.
Again, more to come.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Never Talk to Strangers - Introduction
When I was a little girl, I had a book called "Never Talk to Strangers." As I remember it, it was rather a whimsical thing, rhyme-y and trite, but with a single message: A stranger has absolutely no business striking up a conversation with you, Little One, and when one does you run away and tell a grown-up that you trust.
A most simplistic approach, true. But for young children, it sufficed for years. It sufficed because when I was a kid, most grownups were truly looking out for little kids, even those that didn't belong biologically to them. It sufficed because people knew the other people in their neighborhoods. It sufficed because anonymity was rare and odd. It sufficed because people were paying attention, real attention, to children. It sufficed because people then, like people now, were avoiding the truth and thus ignoring the true issue.
The problem is, and has been, that one in every three females will be sexually assaulted before the age of 18. One in every twelve boys will suffer the same fate (and most experts believe that this number is under-reported). By and large, it's not strangers that are perpetrating these assaults, it's acquaintances. Usually adults. Most kids understand the simple message of "stranger danger." It's "family-and-friend danger" that's more difficult to address - and that's because, like any predator, the sexual predator will use the things you love the most to entice you, control you, and use you.
Looking at the statistics - and those are current numbers - it is clear that the messages we've been sending out in the schools and at home are not sufficient to address the problem, likely because the problem isn't strangers (though anonymity itself has taken on a whole new meaning for today's children given the prolific use of social networking). The problem itself can't be broken down into one empowering, simple solution because the problem itself is multi-pronged. The sexual predator knows this and will use it to his/her advantage. Are you prepared? Are your children?
The core issue here, especially for young children, is trust. Young children have no choice but to trust adults. Their entire existence has been built on their trust in those around them. Children grow up with their bodies as public domain, being dressed, changed, bathed, and fed by an adult. As they grow older and enjoy more and more self-efficacy, they still rely on adults for help with dressing, using the potty, and bathing. In essence, an adult touching their "private parts" is not odd, it's not threatening, it's not taboo or even worth mentioning. Now that so many families incorporate two working parents, children (and parents!) have had to expand their circles of trust to include day-care workers. How do we, as parents, hammer home the edict of "my body belongs to only me and that is final" to children who have no other experience than having to trust adults with those same bodies?
More to the point, how do we, as good parents who are putting forth heroic efforts to raise socially functional and responsible children, make the distinction between the times to be polite (most times) and the times where being polite isn't appropriate? Because don't we all use the same model for our children in this regard? Don't our children grow up with the expectation - indeed, the utter surety - that if they respond politely and appropriately to adults they will, in turn, be treated politely and appropriately? Don't our children grow up with the expectation that they will respect their elders? That they will mind their elders? That they will not argue or "talk back" to their elders? That if directed to do something by their elders they are expected to comply or possibly be reprimanded?
These, quite simply, are the tools of the sexual predator: the child's forced position as one-who-trusts and the child's social expectations. And, as most sexual assaults on young children are perpetrated by someone the child knows, you can bet that perpetrator also has knowledge about how the child's family works, what punishments are used, and where Mommy and/or Daddy are on a daily basis. Given that the perpetrator is also generally a member of the child's family or circle of family friends, frankly the odds are truly stacked in the predator's favor. In older children, the "shame factor" is often used to intimidate the victim into silence and, of course, more abuse.
How, then, do we make the commitment to raising both polite and assertive children? How, then, do we empower our children with the concept of "my body belongs to only me and that is final" without breaking the trust and security that they must have to learn and grow? How, then, do we open up a meaningful dialogue with our children about a subject that we ourselves shudder at the thought of? How, then, do we learn to trust our children as much as we expect them to trust us?
More to come.
A most simplistic approach, true. But for young children, it sufficed for years. It sufficed because when I was a kid, most grownups were truly looking out for little kids, even those that didn't belong biologically to them. It sufficed because people knew the other people in their neighborhoods. It sufficed because anonymity was rare and odd. It sufficed because people were paying attention, real attention, to children. It sufficed because people then, like people now, were avoiding the truth and thus ignoring the true issue.
The problem is, and has been, that one in every three females will be sexually assaulted before the age of 18. One in every twelve boys will suffer the same fate (and most experts believe that this number is under-reported). By and large, it's not strangers that are perpetrating these assaults, it's acquaintances. Usually adults. Most kids understand the simple message of "stranger danger." It's "family-and-friend danger" that's more difficult to address - and that's because, like any predator, the sexual predator will use the things you love the most to entice you, control you, and use you.
Looking at the statistics - and those are current numbers - it is clear that the messages we've been sending out in the schools and at home are not sufficient to address the problem, likely because the problem isn't strangers (though anonymity itself has taken on a whole new meaning for today's children given the prolific use of social networking). The problem itself can't be broken down into one empowering, simple solution because the problem itself is multi-pronged. The sexual predator knows this and will use it to his/her advantage. Are you prepared? Are your children?
The core issue here, especially for young children, is trust. Young children have no choice but to trust adults. Their entire existence has been built on their trust in those around them. Children grow up with their bodies as public domain, being dressed, changed, bathed, and fed by an adult. As they grow older and enjoy more and more self-efficacy, they still rely on adults for help with dressing, using the potty, and bathing. In essence, an adult touching their "private parts" is not odd, it's not threatening, it's not taboo or even worth mentioning. Now that so many families incorporate two working parents, children (and parents!) have had to expand their circles of trust to include day-care workers. How do we, as parents, hammer home the edict of "my body belongs to only me and that is final" to children who have no other experience than having to trust adults with those same bodies?
More to the point, how do we, as good parents who are putting forth heroic efforts to raise socially functional and responsible children, make the distinction between the times to be polite (most times) and the times where being polite isn't appropriate? Because don't we all use the same model for our children in this regard? Don't our children grow up with the expectation - indeed, the utter surety - that if they respond politely and appropriately to adults they will, in turn, be treated politely and appropriately? Don't our children grow up with the expectation that they will respect their elders? That they will mind their elders? That they will not argue or "talk back" to their elders? That if directed to do something by their elders they are expected to comply or possibly be reprimanded?
These, quite simply, are the tools of the sexual predator: the child's forced position as one-who-trusts and the child's social expectations. And, as most sexual assaults on young children are perpetrated by someone the child knows, you can bet that perpetrator also has knowledge about how the child's family works, what punishments are used, and where Mommy and/or Daddy are on a daily basis. Given that the perpetrator is also generally a member of the child's family or circle of family friends, frankly the odds are truly stacked in the predator's favor. In older children, the "shame factor" is often used to intimidate the victim into silence and, of course, more abuse.
How, then, do we make the commitment to raising both polite and assertive children? How, then, do we empower our children with the concept of "my body belongs to only me and that is final" without breaking the trust and security that they must have to learn and grow? How, then, do we open up a meaningful dialogue with our children about a subject that we ourselves shudder at the thought of? How, then, do we learn to trust our children as much as we expect them to trust us?
More to come.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I Know
I knew the moment you were conceived. People later told me it was impossible, that I couldn't have possibly known. But I did.
Four weeks later, I visited the doctor, who told me that I wasn't pregnant. I laughed and said, "see you next month." And when I did, he finally confirmed that you were there (which was something that I had known all along). He said you'd be born sometime in mid-November. I laughed and said, "see you in October."
You were born at six in the morning, after 36 hours of labor. After 24 hours I was given a pit drip, because you had already made up your mind to stay in your warm little den, amnoitic fluid or no. They said you were two weeks early, but I knew you were really two weeks late... and when your life support system was finally ejected it was all too clear that you had waited until the last possible minute to emerge. Already you were imposing your will upon the world and expecting it to comply.
As your little body slid free from the fortress of mine, I felt a moment of stark terror followed by a moment of utter loneliness. And then you were placed in my arms and I knew Love for the first time in my life. You lifted your little head and looked right at me. They all said that was impossible, too... but I was there.
We struggled with nursing, you and I. Two weeks later the mid-wife took one look at my cracked and bleeding nipples and demanded that I take a break from nursing, which of course I would not consider even if you had allowed it. Two weeks after that, you were diagnosed with "nursing jaundice" and had to be bottle-fed with formula for 10 days. You refused the formula to the point that you had to be fed intravenously, and your shrieks of hungry loneliness shattered my heart and muddled my brain. When you looked less like a carrot and more like a baby, you were allowed to nurse again and suddenly, we were in sync. From that moment on, you were my Snuggle-Bunny.
Oh, my Faery baby, with your impish eyes, fly-away hair, and pixie nose. You were a tiny, delicate thing... until someone tried to lift you, only to realize you were as massive as Jupiter despite your miniscule size! Even then you were a star, waiting for the magical moment of fusion when you would change the Universe forever. You had a three-year-old's vocabulary before you were 9 months old, and you filled the house with silly singing and a wild cackling that never failed to make me howl with laughter. We had to practically force you to learn to walk, though. And despite your obvious genius with all things literary or vocalized, I was certain I'd be sending you to Kindergarten in diapers because using the potty just wasn't your bag, baby.
But you finally did it. And just like everything else, when you made up your mind to do it, it was DONE. Your binkies, which you had to have in your hand or in your sight even if one wasn't in your mouth else a mesoscale tantrum would erupt, went into the trash one day of your own accord and you never mentioned them again. You announced one morning, "No more diapers! PANTIES!" and panties it was ever after without a single accident. You were so terrified of the water that each bath was an exercise in heartbreak, but at age five you jumped in the pool with your cousin Jenna and swam like you'd been doing it all your life. You staunchly defied our edicts that you learn to ride a bicycle, crying uncontrollably every time we asked... but at age 7 you suddenly decided bicycles were the bomb and rode like you were headed for the X-Games from day one.
And from then on, whatever you decided to do, you did. With or without the means. With or without permission. With or without a clue of how it could be done. You wrote seven books by age 15, many of them fully illustrated. You learned to play guitar without a single lesson, wrote dozens of songs, and covered dozens more (always with your own little twists). You found a way to take extra classes in middle school so you could have enough room in your high school schedule for both music and theater. Scarily, you made such a foolproof plan to run away to New York with an online predator at age 13 that I was almost too late to save you, and would have been had you not offhandedly mentioned Comic-Con to your auntie only days prior. You've approached each dream and each goal with a plodding determination and confidence, refusing to believe even for a moment that it cannot be done. You've lived in the magical whirlwind of your incredible mind, always expecting reality to bend to your will and never paying much attention to the chaos you've often left in your wake. Your blithe attitude toward "real life" used to drive me crazy with worry and fear... mostly because I was terrified of the moment when the hammer would inevitably fall, exposing your dreams and aspirations to the physical reality that the rest of us seem to be slaves to and forcing your whimsical creations into the four winds.
You, my Dollie, could do anything and everything. You were an alchemist in the truest sense, forging tangible reality from the dust of dreams. And though the physical plane of applied force (athletics and other mechanical concepts) ever seemed to elude you, your fertile Mind of All Creation manifested concepts of light and darkness that most of us could only hope to grasp, let alone understand.
You DID, my senshei. And now you DON'T. And I don't know what changed or exactly when. But you DID and now you DON'T and I am AFRAID. I'm afraid in a way that has no words, no sense. I know there is a threat, but I don't know where it is, what it is, or even how it came to be. But something has happened to darken that magical world in your mind where anything was possible, and the part of you that is forever part of me is racing, panicked and white-eyed, around my heart. It scrabbles in the corners of my mind, trying desperately to claw its way to the surface. It shrieks at shadows and freezes in dumbstruck horror with the touch of any light. It tells me that you've already decided. You just haven't decided how.
Make a new choice, my baby girl. You have the power to bend the Universe to your whim, you've been doing it without thinking since the moment you were born. Let go of whatever blackness, whatever doubt, has wormed its way into your heart and let the brilliant light of your visionary soul spring forth once more, chasing it away from your Being forever.
Don't give up. Don't you dare.
Four weeks later, I visited the doctor, who told me that I wasn't pregnant. I laughed and said, "see you next month." And when I did, he finally confirmed that you were there (which was something that I had known all along). He said you'd be born sometime in mid-November. I laughed and said, "see you in October."
You were born at six in the morning, after 36 hours of labor. After 24 hours I was given a pit drip, because you had already made up your mind to stay in your warm little den, amnoitic fluid or no. They said you were two weeks early, but I knew you were really two weeks late... and when your life support system was finally ejected it was all too clear that you had waited until the last possible minute to emerge. Already you were imposing your will upon the world and expecting it to comply.
As your little body slid free from the fortress of mine, I felt a moment of stark terror followed by a moment of utter loneliness. And then you were placed in my arms and I knew Love for the first time in my life. You lifted your little head and looked right at me. They all said that was impossible, too... but I was there.
We struggled with nursing, you and I. Two weeks later the mid-wife took one look at my cracked and bleeding nipples and demanded that I take a break from nursing, which of course I would not consider even if you had allowed it. Two weeks after that, you were diagnosed with "nursing jaundice" and had to be bottle-fed with formula for 10 days. You refused the formula to the point that you had to be fed intravenously, and your shrieks of hungry loneliness shattered my heart and muddled my brain. When you looked less like a carrot and more like a baby, you were allowed to nurse again and suddenly, we were in sync. From that moment on, you were my Snuggle-Bunny.
Oh, my Faery baby, with your impish eyes, fly-away hair, and pixie nose. You were a tiny, delicate thing... until someone tried to lift you, only to realize you were as massive as Jupiter despite your miniscule size! Even then you were a star, waiting for the magical moment of fusion when you would change the Universe forever. You had a three-year-old's vocabulary before you were 9 months old, and you filled the house with silly singing and a wild cackling that never failed to make me howl with laughter. We had to practically force you to learn to walk, though. And despite your obvious genius with all things literary or vocalized, I was certain I'd be sending you to Kindergarten in diapers because using the potty just wasn't your bag, baby.
But you finally did it. And just like everything else, when you made up your mind to do it, it was DONE. Your binkies, which you had to have in your hand or in your sight even if one wasn't in your mouth else a mesoscale tantrum would erupt, went into the trash one day of your own accord and you never mentioned them again. You announced one morning, "No more diapers! PANTIES!" and panties it was ever after without a single accident. You were so terrified of the water that each bath was an exercise in heartbreak, but at age five you jumped in the pool with your cousin Jenna and swam like you'd been doing it all your life. You staunchly defied our edicts that you learn to ride a bicycle, crying uncontrollably every time we asked... but at age 7 you suddenly decided bicycles were the bomb and rode like you were headed for the X-Games from day one.
And from then on, whatever you decided to do, you did. With or without the means. With or without permission. With or without a clue of how it could be done. You wrote seven books by age 15, many of them fully illustrated. You learned to play guitar without a single lesson, wrote dozens of songs, and covered dozens more (always with your own little twists). You found a way to take extra classes in middle school so you could have enough room in your high school schedule for both music and theater. Scarily, you made such a foolproof plan to run away to New York with an online predator at age 13 that I was almost too late to save you, and would have been had you not offhandedly mentioned Comic-Con to your auntie only days prior. You've approached each dream and each goal with a plodding determination and confidence, refusing to believe even for a moment that it cannot be done. You've lived in the magical whirlwind of your incredible mind, always expecting reality to bend to your will and never paying much attention to the chaos you've often left in your wake. Your blithe attitude toward "real life" used to drive me crazy with worry and fear... mostly because I was terrified of the moment when the hammer would inevitably fall, exposing your dreams and aspirations to the physical reality that the rest of us seem to be slaves to and forcing your whimsical creations into the four winds.
You, my Dollie, could do anything and everything. You were an alchemist in the truest sense, forging tangible reality from the dust of dreams. And though the physical plane of applied force (athletics and other mechanical concepts) ever seemed to elude you, your fertile Mind of All Creation manifested concepts of light and darkness that most of us could only hope to grasp, let alone understand.
You DID, my senshei. And now you DON'T. And I don't know what changed or exactly when. But you DID and now you DON'T and I am AFRAID. I'm afraid in a way that has no words, no sense. I know there is a threat, but I don't know where it is, what it is, or even how it came to be. But something has happened to darken that magical world in your mind where anything was possible, and the part of you that is forever part of me is racing, panicked and white-eyed, around my heart. It scrabbles in the corners of my mind, trying desperately to claw its way to the surface. It shrieks at shadows and freezes in dumbstruck horror with the touch of any light. It tells me that you've already decided. You just haven't decided how.
Make a new choice, my baby girl. You have the power to bend the Universe to your whim, you've been doing it without thinking since the moment you were born. Let go of whatever blackness, whatever doubt, has wormed its way into your heart and let the brilliant light of your visionary soul spring forth once more, chasing it away from your Being forever.
Don't give up. Don't you dare.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Today's Confession
I don’t want to leave you, and I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t know if there is a solution to our current dilemma or not, but I do know that what happened last night is unacceptable. In many ways. I don’t have any ideas for ultimate solutions, but I do have some ideas regarding ways to avoid scenarios like last night’s.
I want to apologize again for striking you. You called me a “crazy cunt.” (The full quote is, “you can’t prove shit, you crazy cunt.”) My hand reached out to slap you before I was even fully aware of it. I’m sorry. Though I do think you should be held responsible for the things that you say, I know that is not the way to do it. I broke a promise I’ve been able to keep for 21 years last night. I am shamed.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Beating a Dead Horse. Or Horsing a Dead Beat. I Can't Decide.
I've said it a million times. Maybe more. I've said it in text, I've said it in tears, I've said it in sotto voce, I've said it in raging, wracking sobs. I've said it to children, to friends, to lovers, to strangers. And now I'm going to say it again.
If you love me, love me enough to be honest with me. If you know I love you, trust me to love you no matter what. Love me and love yourself enough to be true. And for the love of all that's Holy, don't tell me that you love me if you're not willing to TRUST ME with WHO YOU ARE.
Because if there is one thing I've learned in my life, it's that I can forgive all hurts - generally because I realize that I can't control anyone but myself and we are all human. I can forgive all actions except the ones that are DELIBERATE, CONSCIOUS choices to INFLICT SUFFERING. Like lying. Even worse is saying, "I love you, I would never lie to you, I would never put you in that position" while DOING JUST THAT. That's a CHOICE. That's not a reflex, or a biological demand, or even a rationalization. That's a conscious choice, a fully realized invocation of malice.
Not to mention, it assumes that the person on the receiving end of the deceit is a schmuck. It also assumes that the liar is so confident in his or her ability to deceive that he or she doesn't realize that there's no hiding the outward signs of a forked tongue: inappropriate pauses in conversation (while the liar tries to remember which lie was told to which schmuck), furtive glances, large chunks of time unaccounted for, the vague answers to specific questions, and the tell-tale but barely perceptible roll of the eyes while accessing information stored as "false" in the brain. I've met a LOT of liars in my time... but very, very few good ones. And even the good ones can't hide the physiological aspects of lying. The only ones who can are the absolute pathological ones - and they don't really "lie" in the traditional sense.
And I'll take full responsbility for being blind, deaf, and dumb when I love someone. I'm not poised for lies, I'm not looking for deceit, the last thing I EVER want to know about someone I love is that they respect me so little and have so little faith in my love that they will lie to me. Even I can't be in denial forever. Even I will pick up on the signs sooner or later. Even I, this poor, dutiful schmuck, will know where I stand at one point or another. And God help me, it usually doesn't take very long to know, without a doubt, that a person who purports to love me in one breath will prove in the next that he/she doesn't respect me, my love, or my abilities enough to just tell the fucking truth.
Or to tell me it's none of my business. Because in most cases, that's true. And at least it's an honest response.
And just once, I'd like to be at least as important as a loved one's sudden, human, perhaps shameful desire. Just once, I'd like to be valued enough, respected enough, loved enough to be trusted with the truth, no matter how shameful and no matter how hurtful. Just once, I'd like a loved one to remember that if a thing is important enough to do, it's important enough to take responsibility for. Not to mention take a moment to think, "If I'm about to do something I'm gonna feel the need to lie to Daughter about, maybe I shouldn't do it." Just once, I'd like a loved one to think,"Daughter's respect for me is more important that my penis/poor self esteem/pathological need for conquest/drinking habit/party pals/crazy ex-wife who hates me/need for validation from outside sources." Just once, I'd like to be more important than shame.
Because shame is transient, but I'll love my loved ones no matter what. But respect? I'm afraid that's hard-won and easy-lost.
If you love me, love me enough to be honest with me. If you know I love you, trust me to love you no matter what. Love me and love yourself enough to be true. And for the love of all that's Holy, don't tell me that you love me if you're not willing to TRUST ME with WHO YOU ARE.
Because if there is one thing I've learned in my life, it's that I can forgive all hurts - generally because I realize that I can't control anyone but myself and we are all human. I can forgive all actions except the ones that are DELIBERATE, CONSCIOUS choices to INFLICT SUFFERING. Like lying. Even worse is saying, "I love you, I would never lie to you, I would never put you in that position" while DOING JUST THAT. That's a CHOICE. That's not a reflex, or a biological demand, or even a rationalization. That's a conscious choice, a fully realized invocation of malice.
Not to mention, it assumes that the person on the receiving end of the deceit is a schmuck. It also assumes that the liar is so confident in his or her ability to deceive that he or she doesn't realize that there's no hiding the outward signs of a forked tongue: inappropriate pauses in conversation (while the liar tries to remember which lie was told to which schmuck), furtive glances, large chunks of time unaccounted for, the vague answers to specific questions, and the tell-tale but barely perceptible roll of the eyes while accessing information stored as "false" in the brain. I've met a LOT of liars in my time... but very, very few good ones. And even the good ones can't hide the physiological aspects of lying. The only ones who can are the absolute pathological ones - and they don't really "lie" in the traditional sense.
And I'll take full responsbility for being blind, deaf, and dumb when I love someone. I'm not poised for lies, I'm not looking for deceit, the last thing I EVER want to know about someone I love is that they respect me so little and have so little faith in my love that they will lie to me. Even I can't be in denial forever. Even I will pick up on the signs sooner or later. Even I, this poor, dutiful schmuck, will know where I stand at one point or another. And God help me, it usually doesn't take very long to know, without a doubt, that a person who purports to love me in one breath will prove in the next that he/she doesn't respect me, my love, or my abilities enough to just tell the fucking truth.
Or to tell me it's none of my business. Because in most cases, that's true. And at least it's an honest response.
And just once, I'd like to be at least as important as a loved one's sudden, human, perhaps shameful desire. Just once, I'd like to be valued enough, respected enough, loved enough to be trusted with the truth, no matter how shameful and no matter how hurtful. Just once, I'd like a loved one to remember that if a thing is important enough to do, it's important enough to take responsibility for. Not to mention take a moment to think, "If I'm about to do something I'm gonna feel the need to lie to Daughter about, maybe I shouldn't do it." Just once, I'd like a loved one to think,"Daughter's respect for me is more important that my penis/poor self esteem/pathological need for conquest/drinking habit/party pals/crazy ex-wife who hates me/need for validation from outside sources." Just once, I'd like to be more important than shame.
Because shame is transient, but I'll love my loved ones no matter what. But respect? I'm afraid that's hard-won and easy-lost.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
New Decade
It's sappy and rather unexplainable, but I enter every new year with a sort of blind and all-encompassing hope. It's really only symbolic - it's a new CALENDAR year and nothing else - but the first few days of January are always full of dreamy expectation for me.
This time, it's not just a new year, but a new decade! Talk about hope! Because in this decade:
*I will turn 50.
*I will be married for 30 years.
*All of my children will have reached majority.
*I will retire.
*I will certainly have grandchildren.
*I will be financially solvent, if not particularly wealthy.
*I will move out of California.
*I will finally quit smoking.
*I will have an "empty nest."
*I will continue to evolve.
I'm not starting fresh, but I'm sure as Hell starting anew. Do the day, my friends. Do the day and let the day do you.
This time, it's not just a new year, but a new decade! Talk about hope! Because in this decade:
*I will turn 50.
*I will be married for 30 years.
*All of my children will have reached majority.
*I will retire.
*I will certainly have grandchildren.
*I will be financially solvent, if not particularly wealthy.
*I will move out of California.
*I will finally quit smoking.
*I will have an "empty nest."
*I will continue to evolve.
I'm not starting fresh, but I'm sure as Hell starting anew. Do the day, my friends. Do the day and let the day do you.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Bottom Line
I think I've mentioned, with some regularity, how very ready I am to put 2009 behind me. Without doubt, this has been the most challenging year of my life. Of course I'm not so deluded to expect that the clock will move to 12:01 on January 1st and all will magically be well... but I am just deluded enough to hope that will be the case.
I think I've also mentioned - perhaps with some regularity! - that MSU scares me when he drives. Not always, but often enough to think of it as a constant. It may be the pilot training that allows him to take such a cavalier attitude toward maneuvering through traffic and navigating the roadways, but whatever it is, it doesn't approximate the defensive driving that was pounded into my brain as a new driver (that has stayed with me all this time, mostly because I am certain that everyone else on the road is out to get me). Since I've been injured, he's done most of the driving. I'm sort of a wreck when we get home.
Yesterday, as we zoomed through the ultra-skinny and constantly-in-construction-and-therefore-never-the-same carpool lane on the northbound I-15, MSU was cruising at his normal well-over-the-speed-limit velocity and had assumed his standard position of waaaaaay over to the left. There is no break down lane, there are just two skinny lanes protected on either side by retaining walls. MSU's standard cruising attitude positions the car about six inches from the left retaining wall (2 if the side mirror counts).
I think I've also mentioned that I LOVE my Nimble German Car. I love it beyond all logical reason. Needless to say (I hope), it seriously freaks me out when MSU drives it balls-to-the-wall and six inches from certain destruction.
Back to yesterday, I found myself not just tense, not just slightly ascairt, not just peeved, but downright terrified and sick to my stomach as MSU hung to the left and messed with the heater controls, the radio, his cigarettes, and his lighter. As he took his eyes off the road repeatedly and for several seconds at a time. As he took his hands off the wheel entirely to feel around in his jacket for his phone. I cringed in my seat, eyes dribbling helpless tears, waiting for my Nimble German Car to have its left side mirror ripped off by the retaining wall; or worse, for the front end to bump a slightly erractically placed bulkhead and send us spinning into the other lane, the other retaining wall, the other cars.
When we safely arrived home, I wracked my brain trying to figure out why my reaction had been so intense. The details of yesterday's commute aren't really different from any other day, but my reaction sure was. I allowed my little rodent brain to chew it over as we went to get haircuts for MSU and Z-bo, and continue mulling over dinner.
After a satisfying sushi dinner, complete with a surprise appearance by My Really Stupid Friend (who I am very angry with right now, but enjoyed the surprise anyway) and two large decanters of sake, it finally hit me: I can't take one more thing. Not even one. And I'm so afraid of that One More Thing that any proximity of possibility is enough to strike terror into my heart and soul.
As I pondered this bolt of lightning to the brain, I realized further that it isn't really the One More Thing that I fear... it's what is going to happen to ME should that One More Thing manifest. Because, hey... One More Thing. It is what it is, right? There have been SEVERAL One More Things over the course of this past year, and all of them have been dealt with (some more constructively than others). What's One More Thing on top of all those other Things?
The breaking point, that's what it is. The event horizon. The point of no return. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak. The surety that One More Thing would certainly compromise the thin veil of sanity I currently hide behind struck me like a speeding train. And though I don't really know what that means, I know it is real enough to be feared... because I suddenly felt, really FELT, how stretched and frayed that thin tether to reality in my consciousness is. How close I really am to the point where my body, my chemistry, my very cellular structure will orchestrate a hostile takeover for the no-confidence vote of my mind. And so many recent impulses suddenly made sense: reaching for the garish purple-black berries of the nightshade that grows where I take my cigarette breaks, to pluck a few and pop them into my mouth, actually touching one before I realized what I was doing... pausing at the top of the back staircase, marveling at the glittering and deadly cement perfection of it... upping my life insurance policy at open enrollment to three times my annual salary, because more is better. Right?
My consciousness didn't even take note of these events until well into their execution. Nor did my consciousness, until last night, take note of the significance. Which answers a question I've long wondered about: does a crazy person know they're crazy? Apparently not, friends. Good to know, eh?
So hurry up, 12:01 on January 1st 2010. Hurry, please. I need a little magic.
I think I've also mentioned - perhaps with some regularity! - that MSU scares me when he drives. Not always, but often enough to think of it as a constant. It may be the pilot training that allows him to take such a cavalier attitude toward maneuvering through traffic and navigating the roadways, but whatever it is, it doesn't approximate the defensive driving that was pounded into my brain as a new driver (that has stayed with me all this time, mostly because I am certain that everyone else on the road is out to get me). Since I've been injured, he's done most of the driving. I'm sort of a wreck when we get home.
Yesterday, as we zoomed through the ultra-skinny and constantly-in-construction-and-therefore-never-the-same carpool lane on the northbound I-15, MSU was cruising at his normal well-over-the-speed-limit velocity and had assumed his standard position of waaaaaay over to the left. There is no break down lane, there are just two skinny lanes protected on either side by retaining walls. MSU's standard cruising attitude positions the car about six inches from the left retaining wall (2 if the side mirror counts).
I think I've also mentioned that I LOVE my Nimble German Car. I love it beyond all logical reason. Needless to say (I hope), it seriously freaks me out when MSU drives it balls-to-the-wall and six inches from certain destruction.
Back to yesterday, I found myself not just tense, not just slightly ascairt, not just peeved, but downright terrified and sick to my stomach as MSU hung to the left and messed with the heater controls, the radio, his cigarettes, and his lighter. As he took his eyes off the road repeatedly and for several seconds at a time. As he took his hands off the wheel entirely to feel around in his jacket for his phone. I cringed in my seat, eyes dribbling helpless tears, waiting for my Nimble German Car to have its left side mirror ripped off by the retaining wall; or worse, for the front end to bump a slightly erractically placed bulkhead and send us spinning into the other lane, the other retaining wall, the other cars.
When we safely arrived home, I wracked my brain trying to figure out why my reaction had been so intense. The details of yesterday's commute aren't really different from any other day, but my reaction sure was. I allowed my little rodent brain to chew it over as we went to get haircuts for MSU and Z-bo, and continue mulling over dinner.
After a satisfying sushi dinner, complete with a surprise appearance by My Really Stupid Friend (who I am very angry with right now, but enjoyed the surprise anyway) and two large decanters of sake, it finally hit me: I can't take one more thing. Not even one. And I'm so afraid of that One More Thing that any proximity of possibility is enough to strike terror into my heart and soul.
As I pondered this bolt of lightning to the brain, I realized further that it isn't really the One More Thing that I fear... it's what is going to happen to ME should that One More Thing manifest. Because, hey... One More Thing. It is what it is, right? There have been SEVERAL One More Things over the course of this past year, and all of them have been dealt with (some more constructively than others). What's One More Thing on top of all those other Things?
The breaking point, that's what it is. The event horizon. The point of no return. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak. The surety that One More Thing would certainly compromise the thin veil of sanity I currently hide behind struck me like a speeding train. And though I don't really know what that means, I know it is real enough to be feared... because I suddenly felt, really FELT, how stretched and frayed that thin tether to reality in my consciousness is. How close I really am to the point where my body, my chemistry, my very cellular structure will orchestrate a hostile takeover for the no-confidence vote of my mind. And so many recent impulses suddenly made sense: reaching for the garish purple-black berries of the nightshade that grows where I take my cigarette breaks, to pluck a few and pop them into my mouth, actually touching one before I realized what I was doing... pausing at the top of the back staircase, marveling at the glittering and deadly cement perfection of it... upping my life insurance policy at open enrollment to three times my annual salary, because more is better. Right?
My consciousness didn't even take note of these events until well into their execution. Nor did my consciousness, until last night, take note of the significance. Which answers a question I've long wondered about: does a crazy person know they're crazy? Apparently not, friends. Good to know, eh?
So hurry up, 12:01 on January 1st 2010. Hurry, please. I need a little magic.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Excerpt From Actual Conversation Today
Last Saturday night, I injured my wrist trying to do something by myself that I had no business trying to do by myself. Last Sunday, I went to the Emergency Room, where ER staff promptly blew off the immobilize-everything protocol and sent me home with a velcro wrist splint on full duty. Wednesday, I followed up with my Primary Care Manager, who was LIVID at the botched-up ER procedures and referred me to Orthopedics, after completely taking me off duty and prohibiting any use of my left arm whatsoever.
When Orthopedics called me on Friday, they told me that my appointment was for January 21, 2010. I asked to speak to the Charge Nurse, and advised her that the injury is 1) acute, and 2) not immobilized. Magically, an appointment for this morning appeared in the schedule.
When I appeared at Ortho, a cursory clinical evaluation was done on the joint. However, NONE of the newly touted exam methods for diagnosing torn and ruptured ligaments were performed. When I performed one of these on myself to demonstrate, the clinical significance was ignored. One Physician's Assistant looked at the other Physician's Assistant and said, "sounds like a strained muscle." Please keep in mind that I am and have been complaining of ulnar-sided wrist pain, ulnar-sided pain upon any kind of forearm rotation, ulnar displacement, wrist and forearm bone "clicking," and limited range of motion (without pain) on the ulnar side. And in one week of partial immobilization, there has been no improvement.
The following brief-but-stupid conversation ensued:
Me: “So, you think it’s a muscle strain. Wouldn’t I be having less pain at this point if that were the case?”
Them: “No. Strains take a long time to heal. Have you ever strained a hamstring? They take forever.”
Me: “This isn’t a hamstring. It’s not even remotely comparable.”
Them: ::::exchanged looks as if to say ‘stupid civilian’::::
Me after awkward silence: “Okay, then, what next?”
Them: “Wear the splint you were given at the ER for about a week. Then back to normal.”
Me: “The splint hurts to wear. My arm aches at the end of the day. If I go without the splint, I still have pain, but nothing like the pain wearing the splint causes.”
Them: “Oh, that’s because it’s pulling your hand back slightly. We’ll just make you another one.”
Me: “Ok, but am I going to be able to see a surgeon any time soon?”
Them: “Why would you need to do that?”
Me: “Because with rotational movement, my bones are rubbing against each other. Because my symptoms indicate there may be a TFCC rupture/avulsion and/or a UT lateral tear. You can’t see any of this on x-rays and sometimes not even on MRI imaging. Because I’m telling you that my arm doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t work right.”
Them: “Well, what do YOU want to do?”
Me: “I want an MRI and an appointment with the surgeon.”
Them: “That’s not necessary.”
Me: “Then why did you ask me what I wanted?”
Them: :::::glaring:::::
Me after awkward silence: “Ok, so what about work?”
Them: “Just be careful.”
Me: “Careful? Right now I’m pulled off of full duty with a chit that says “NO LEFT ARM USE.” Are you modifying that to “Just be careful?”
Them: “Do you want a note for work?"
Me: “No, unless you are putting me back on full duty I already have a note. Are you putting me back on full duty?”
Them: “Sure.”
Me: “So it’s okay if I get in a fight or have to take someone down or have to lift heavy files?”
Them: “Well, no. So I guess light duty. Or whatever you call it.”
When I return next week, I will come fully armed and prepared for the battle which will inevitably ensue. Sigh.
When Orthopedics called me on Friday, they told me that my appointment was for January 21, 2010. I asked to speak to the Charge Nurse, and advised her that the injury is 1) acute, and 2) not immobilized. Magically, an appointment for this morning appeared in the schedule.
When I appeared at Ortho, a cursory clinical evaluation was done on the joint. However, NONE of the newly touted exam methods for diagnosing torn and ruptured ligaments were performed. When I performed one of these on myself to demonstrate, the clinical significance was ignored. One Physician's Assistant looked at the other Physician's Assistant and said, "sounds like a strained muscle." Please keep in mind that I am and have been complaining of ulnar-sided wrist pain, ulnar-sided pain upon any kind of forearm rotation, ulnar displacement, wrist and forearm bone "clicking," and limited range of motion (without pain) on the ulnar side. And in one week of partial immobilization, there has been no improvement.
The following brief-but-stupid conversation ensued:
Me: “So, you think it’s a muscle strain. Wouldn’t I be having less pain at this point if that were the case?”
Them: “No. Strains take a long time to heal. Have you ever strained a hamstring? They take forever.”
Me: “This isn’t a hamstring. It’s not even remotely comparable.”
Them: ::::exchanged looks as if to say ‘stupid civilian’::::
Me after awkward silence: “Okay, then, what next?”
Them: “Wear the splint you were given at the ER for about a week. Then back to normal.”
Me: “The splint hurts to wear. My arm aches at the end of the day. If I go without the splint, I still have pain, but nothing like the pain wearing the splint causes.”
Them: “Oh, that’s because it’s pulling your hand back slightly. We’ll just make you another one.”
Me: “Ok, but am I going to be able to see a surgeon any time soon?”
Them: “Why would you need to do that?”
Me: “Because with rotational movement, my bones are rubbing against each other. Because my symptoms indicate there may be a TFCC rupture/avulsion and/or a UT lateral tear. You can’t see any of this on x-rays and sometimes not even on MRI imaging. Because I’m telling you that my arm doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t work right.”
Them: “Well, what do YOU want to do?”
Me: “I want an MRI and an appointment with the surgeon.”
Them: “That’s not necessary.”
Me: “Then why did you ask me what I wanted?”
Them: :::::glaring:::::
Me after awkward silence: “Ok, so what about work?”
Them: “Just be careful.”
Me: “Careful? Right now I’m pulled off of full duty with a chit that says “NO LEFT ARM USE.” Are you modifying that to “Just be careful?”
Them: “Do you want a note for work?"
Me: “No, unless you are putting me back on full duty I already have a note. Are you putting me back on full duty?”
Them: “Sure.”
Me: “So it’s okay if I get in a fight or have to take someone down or have to lift heavy files?”
Them: “Well, no. So I guess light duty. Or whatever you call it.”
When I return next week, I will come fully armed and prepared for the battle which will inevitably ensue. Sigh.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Today's Letter to MSU - Futile or Fertile? We Shall See.
It’s been bugging me today, so I’m writing to get it off my chest.
Last night, you accused me of being mad at your request to help clean up because my game “was more important.” I said that wasn’t true. Instead of asking me what I WAS mad about, you just kept on in the same vein, each accusation more ludicrous than the last. In reality, it doesn’t really matter because what I was –am – mad about wouldn’t have been an appropriate topic for discussion at the time.
The fact is, you and I have very different priorities. And there are some situations which bring those differences to the forefront. Last night was one of those times.
You wanted me to help you clean up – NOW! – because it was “stressing you out” that Isabeau’s advisor was coming over to the house. The last time you yelled at me – yes, yelled at me – because you were ‘stressed out” was because Church was at our house and you wanted things picked up. You get “stressed out” over people coming into our house and seeing a mess. *I’m* not stressed out about it, but *you* are. In your mind (it appears), it’s an emergency and in your mind (it appears) I’m obligated to help you with it. I disagree with this concept in general, but if you’ll remember, every time you’ve “stressed out” about such a situation, I have helped you deal with it. NOW, just like you expected. You “stress out” about how our house appears to outsiders. You expect me to deal with the situation as well as deal with your stress. And I can’t think of a time when I haven’t, even when it wasn’t convenient or important to me.
In contrast, I was “stressing out” because the washing machine was broken. I was “stressing out” and asking you to call every day for a week. That’s how long it took you to respond to something that was “stressing” ME out.
More to the point, for 20 years – longer! – I’ve been telling you that drinking and driving/riding “stresses me out.” I’ve been telling you that every time you do that, you CONSCIOUSLY place our family in jeopardy. Every time you get fucked up and decide it’s okay for you to ride home, you are EXPLICITLY demonstrating that you don’t give a rat’s ass if you lose your job, if we lose our house, if you lose your marriage, if you lose your life or God forbid take someone else’s. Every time you fail to moderate your own behavior in this regard you tell me that YOU DON’T CARE about me, our family, or our well-being. Knowing this, knowing that you don’t care REALLY “stresses me out.” The worst part is that you KNOW how I feel about this but don’t think it’s important enough to respond to. And when you freak out over a stranger making some sort of arbitrary judgment about the state of our home, I have to suppress a choking fury because you’ve made it so obviously clear that you don’t really care about our home AT ALL. If you did, you wouldn’t consciously choose to put it in jeopardy every fucking weekend.
Strangely enough, you also know that your penchant for lying also “stresses me out,” but this is yet another thing that apparently isn’t a priority for you. You demand that I respond instantaneously to the things that ‘stress you out,” but when it comes to our own trust issues – the very foundation of our marriage! – you’re pretty cavalier about it. Not only have you abjectly refused to address this “stressor,” you actually had the gall to look surprised and even hurt when I noted that it’s easy to be suspicious of you because you haven’t been honest with me about certain things through the entirety of our relationship. Honestly, John… what did you THINK would happen? You didn’t honestly think that constant lying would encourage trust and faith in our relationship, did you? You couldn’t have… because I’ve been telling you differently for, again, over 20 years. So the obvious answer to why you haven’t given a second thought to something you KNOW “stresses me out” over the long term is that you just…don’t… care.
Enter the money situation… something that’s been “stressing me out” since we shifted the responsibility for the finances over to me and has most especially been “stressing me out” for the past year. Try to imagine, given our current circumstances, how “stressful” it must be to budget things so carefully – months in advance – and to be constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul just to get by. Now try to imagine how part of that careful budgeting is your Club dues and other such expenses. Now, imagine how stressful it is to hand these funds over to you – with the express intent that they will be used to pay for these Club expenses – only to be asked for the same amount of money a week later because SOMEHOW the money you were given SPECIFICALLY for that purpose wasn’t USED for that purpose. And finally, imagine how “stressful” it is to hear that you don’t even KNOW where the money went. Not only did you not apply it toward the purpose for which it was budgeted… not only do you now demand more money that has to be taken from something else… but you cannot even offer an accounting of what you did with those funds, hoarded oh-so-carefully, that were intended for an activity that ONLY YOU benefit from. For the coup-de-grace, imagine now how “stressful” it is to listen to you get angry at ME when you can’t account for the money you were given. Imagine how “stressful” it was to hear you state that being given a “budget” that you were responsible for and that all your expenses would come out of was somehow “emasculating” while I’m taking money from other obligations because you can’t seem to meet your responsibilities even when you’re given money EXPRESSLY for that purpose. You KNOW this “stresses me out.” Yet, you refuse to respond.
Perhaps the most tragic – and most telling – of all these “stressors” is your constant harping on me to change our sex life. For some reason, you aren’t able to put the pieces of the puzzle together: I KNOW that you don’t give any kind of priority to me, our family, or our home (as evidenced by your continued irresponsibility with regard to alcohol and money and also by your lackadaisical approach to household problems) and I KNOW that you won’t keep me safe (as evidenced both by the aforementioned irresponsibility and by your refusal to be honest with me), but I am still EXPECTED to give you the kind of intimacy you have in NO WAY earned. You want orgasms from me? Try trust first. You want intimacy from me? Try keeping me safe, try keeping your promises, try putting your FAMILY first instead of just giving us lip service.
You wonder why we have trust issues? This is why. If you’ve wondered why I get angry at being expected to hurry up and respond to your housecleaning emergencies, this is why. If you wonder if it’s fixable, yes it is – with conscious effort. If you wonder why I still stand by you when you refuse to keep me safe, it’s because I love you and know your potential even when you don’t.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Hardest Part - For Those Yet to Tell
The telling of it was always the hardest part. More terrifying, more humiliating, more horrific than the situation itself, the telling of it was hardest because some things just don't have words.
And the things that do have words, well... the words are so benign. So clinical. So devoid of any real meaning to anyone else but me.
Except for others who have been there. THEY know. They know the inadequacy of the words, they know the stark humiliation in the telling. That's why hardly anyone ever tells.
Telling. Telling Bill to take me to the hospital, please, I'm bleeding for Chrissake and I'm hurt so bad. Him, staring straight ahead at the road, not daring to SEE me just the same way he had refused to HEAR me and now shaking his head and flatly saying no. No, no. I can't, can't you see I can't? They'll kill me.
Telling. Waking my mother to take me to the hospital because that coward wouldn't. Her shriek of horror when she turned on the light. Her tears. Her utter strength when she asked me if I knew what going to the hospital would mean, face carefully arranged in neutrality because she feared the answer I would give. Yes, Mommy. I know. Telling, I have to tell.
Telling. The Emergency Room thankfully empty save for a few sick souls, who feverishly stared at the blood still seeping through my clothing and from my face and head. The triage nurse, who composed her face into a mask of compassion, but wasn't able to hide the contempt in her eyes. Back then, medical personnel didn't have the protocol that they do now, but they had a "rape kit," and as they further poked and prodded at my torn, bloodied, and battered body they asked the same questions over and over: "At what point did this happen (poke)? At what point did this happen (prod)? At what point did this happen (bright light, spread, inspect)?" And with very few exceptions, my answer was always the same: "I don't know." And the doctor, exasperated, "Well, young lady, what DO you remember??" Telling, telling, telling, because I remember biting part of his nose clean off and that's when he hit me in the head with the lamp. I'm sorry, Doctor, after that things are a little hazy.
Telling. I am washed and clothed in a hospital gown, the cuts are sewn and the bones are set, I am given IV antibiotics for the bites and for the torn flesh in my nether region that can't easily be kept clean. The police arrive, a man and a woman, and the telling begins anew. "So, you snuck out of your house to go to this party?" Yes. "Was it planned that you would be the only girl at the party?" No. "Why did you choose that outfit?" I was already dressed. "Where did you get the alcohol?" I don't know where they got it, it was there when I got there. "How well do you know these boys?" I grew up with them. "What did you think was going to happen?" I thought I'd get high, watch some movies, play some pool, and have fun. "You said you felt strange and asked your friend to take you home prior to the incident. When he refused, why didn't you leave anyway?" Sobbing, I don't know, I don't know, I don't fucking know. "Where was your 'friend' while this was happening?" Telling, in barely a whisper at the end, because my bruised throat had swelled so much that I could barely breathe. I don't know. I guess he couldn't hear. "Is your friend going to tell us that you consented to sex with those boys?" He is too afraid of them to even bring me here, so my guess is yes. "Does he have any reason to be afraid?" Yes. And no. But I'm still telling.
Telling. Months later, over and over again because they won't combine the case into one and I give my testimony and am cross-examined in three seperate trials because they all pled not guilty. Telling what I know about each photograph of my body, stark white, red, swollen and purple under the hospital lights. Telling the timeline of the "incident," as everyone called it, with the lone exception of my lawyer. Telling, specifically, as long as I could, because there was a point where there were no faces, only hands and bone and voices and teeth and penetration and pain. Telling, telling, in excruciating detail, in "proper nomenclature," in such formal terms that no rawness could bleed through. Telling, through the judging eyes staring at me. Telling, through the cross-exam. Telling, through my mother's sobbing and through the shouting of one of their fathers. Telling, at sentencing, what I had lost, what I had gained, what was unrecoverable and what was salvaged. Telling, through the look of triumph on one attorney's face when I said that I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want anyone to go to prison, I only want to know WHY.
Telling in counseling, because that was the sentence I asked for for all three of them. Waiting for them to tell, to give me something, ANYTHING, to make sense of it all, even though at this point it had been over a year. Telling, still so difficult, because there I was again: weak, alone, outnumbered, and hated for something that wasn't my doing at all. Telling, still so painful and still so pointless, because I was vulnerable again to their whim, to their solidarity, to their pack-strength, to their testosterone-filled reasoning.
Telling, with my head down and my voice weak, because the only thing I had really learned from "the incident" and all that came after was that the only shame in being gang-raped and beaten within an inch of my life by three boys I grew up with and had no reason not to trust was in the TELLING of it. Because back then it was still assumed that a woman had it coming by the way she dressed, or by the way she comported herself, or by the company she chose to keep. In my case, I had the fucking trifecta.
Telling my husband, knowing it would change our lives forever. He, oblivious to the brutal and carnal truth of it, insisted, and thus did the telling change our lives forever, not to mention his view of the world in general.
Telling, to our marriage counselor, after being prompted over and over to disclose all memories, big or small, that might be 'getting in the way of our intimacy" and my husband gesturing pointedly at me and stating, almost panicked, "she was gang-raped!" Alas, his hopes of being acquitted of all blame for our marital dysfunction due to my "frigidity and PTSD" were dashed when the counselor advised that I leave the marriage. Telling = shame, yet again.
Telling, again, because I was reminded by someone who was smart enough to keep it to herself until there was no other choice.
For those who have told, I salute your courage and know well the mud you crawled through to ensure justice was done. For those yet to tell, please know that rape investigations are no longer the journey into shame they once were and there are trained and compassionate professionals who can sincerely help you to heal yourself.
For the rest... I hope you never have to make the choice.
And the things that do have words, well... the words are so benign. So clinical. So devoid of any real meaning to anyone else but me.
Except for others who have been there. THEY know. They know the inadequacy of the words, they know the stark humiliation in the telling. That's why hardly anyone ever tells.
Telling. Telling Bill to take me to the hospital, please, I'm bleeding for Chrissake and I'm hurt so bad. Him, staring straight ahead at the road, not daring to SEE me just the same way he had refused to HEAR me and now shaking his head and flatly saying no. No, no. I can't, can't you see I can't? They'll kill me.
Telling. Waking my mother to take me to the hospital because that coward wouldn't. Her shriek of horror when she turned on the light. Her tears. Her utter strength when she asked me if I knew what going to the hospital would mean, face carefully arranged in neutrality because she feared the answer I would give. Yes, Mommy. I know. Telling, I have to tell.
Telling. The Emergency Room thankfully empty save for a few sick souls, who feverishly stared at the blood still seeping through my clothing and from my face and head. The triage nurse, who composed her face into a mask of compassion, but wasn't able to hide the contempt in her eyes. Back then, medical personnel didn't have the protocol that they do now, but they had a "rape kit," and as they further poked and prodded at my torn, bloodied, and battered body they asked the same questions over and over: "At what point did this happen (poke)? At what point did this happen (prod)? At what point did this happen (bright light, spread, inspect)?" And with very few exceptions, my answer was always the same: "I don't know." And the doctor, exasperated, "Well, young lady, what DO you remember??" Telling, telling, telling, because I remember biting part of his nose clean off and that's when he hit me in the head with the lamp. I'm sorry, Doctor, after that things are a little hazy.
Telling. I am washed and clothed in a hospital gown, the cuts are sewn and the bones are set, I am given IV antibiotics for the bites and for the torn flesh in my nether region that can't easily be kept clean. The police arrive, a man and a woman, and the telling begins anew. "So, you snuck out of your house to go to this party?" Yes. "Was it planned that you would be the only girl at the party?" No. "Why did you choose that outfit?" I was already dressed. "Where did you get the alcohol?" I don't know where they got it, it was there when I got there. "How well do you know these boys?" I grew up with them. "What did you think was going to happen?" I thought I'd get high, watch some movies, play some pool, and have fun. "You said you felt strange and asked your friend to take you home prior to the incident. When he refused, why didn't you leave anyway?" Sobbing, I don't know, I don't know, I don't fucking know. "Where was your 'friend' while this was happening?" Telling, in barely a whisper at the end, because my bruised throat had swelled so much that I could barely breathe. I don't know. I guess he couldn't hear. "Is your friend going to tell us that you consented to sex with those boys?" He is too afraid of them to even bring me here, so my guess is yes. "Does he have any reason to be afraid?" Yes. And no. But I'm still telling.
Telling. Months later, over and over again because they won't combine the case into one and I give my testimony and am cross-examined in three seperate trials because they all pled not guilty. Telling what I know about each photograph of my body, stark white, red, swollen and purple under the hospital lights. Telling the timeline of the "incident," as everyone called it, with the lone exception of my lawyer. Telling, specifically, as long as I could, because there was a point where there were no faces, only hands and bone and voices and teeth and penetration and pain. Telling, telling, in excruciating detail, in "proper nomenclature," in such formal terms that no rawness could bleed through. Telling, through the judging eyes staring at me. Telling, through the cross-exam. Telling, through my mother's sobbing and through the shouting of one of their fathers. Telling, at sentencing, what I had lost, what I had gained, what was unrecoverable and what was salvaged. Telling, through the look of triumph on one attorney's face when I said that I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want anyone to go to prison, I only want to know WHY.
Telling in counseling, because that was the sentence I asked for for all three of them. Waiting for them to tell, to give me something, ANYTHING, to make sense of it all, even though at this point it had been over a year. Telling, still so difficult, because there I was again: weak, alone, outnumbered, and hated for something that wasn't my doing at all. Telling, still so painful and still so pointless, because I was vulnerable again to their whim, to their solidarity, to their pack-strength, to their testosterone-filled reasoning.
Telling, with my head down and my voice weak, because the only thing I had really learned from "the incident" and all that came after was that the only shame in being gang-raped and beaten within an inch of my life by three boys I grew up with and had no reason not to trust was in the TELLING of it. Because back then it was still assumed that a woman had it coming by the way she dressed, or by the way she comported herself, or by the company she chose to keep. In my case, I had the fucking trifecta.
Telling my husband, knowing it would change our lives forever. He, oblivious to the brutal and carnal truth of it, insisted, and thus did the telling change our lives forever, not to mention his view of the world in general.
Telling, to our marriage counselor, after being prompted over and over to disclose all memories, big or small, that might be 'getting in the way of our intimacy" and my husband gesturing pointedly at me and stating, almost panicked, "she was gang-raped!" Alas, his hopes of being acquitted of all blame for our marital dysfunction due to my "frigidity and PTSD" were dashed when the counselor advised that I leave the marriage. Telling = shame, yet again.
Telling, again, because I was reminded by someone who was smart enough to keep it to herself until there was no other choice.
For those who have told, I salute your courage and know well the mud you crawled through to ensure justice was done. For those yet to tell, please know that rape investigations are no longer the journey into shame they once were and there are trained and compassionate professionals who can sincerely help you to heal yourself.
For the rest... I hope you never have to make the choice.
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