Damaged Lives (Trigger Warning)

After the end of this paragraph is an unedited account of my Death. This post contains a Trigger Warning even for those without PTSD. There are graphic descriptions of rape, violent abuse, and I am sharing the day that has yet to be topped (and hopefully never will be) as my worst day. Comments for this post are closed, due to the difficulty in even writing this out. I also am going to take a small break before posting again. This will likely just mean a single day, so check back on Tuesday.   One final note. This is the set of memories that when remembered caused my first experience with being devalued and victim blamed.

This last addendum belongs before the break in my opinion so, here it goes! The DA when the report was filed admitted to me and my guardians that due to the legal wording the Statute of limitations was in effect, and he could arrest and prosecute my father but because I had a history of PTSD he didn’t believe it was worth his time to try and that I was worthy of justice. The Worthy of Justice bit is his. It was my fault for being traumatized. I took this to mean I deserved the abuse. His choice to devalue me as a person and a victim nearly killed me. What was the point of living in this world if there was no justice? It had been hard enough to say something about this to a man, to admit that I was a dirty slut as I saw myself, then to be told my attempt to do what everyone says is the right thing, all the TV adds, all of the adults around me, and even  he himself pushing into my head that I had to tell when someone hurt me… to do their right thing and be told I was not worthy of the actual right thing damaged me just as much.

I have nightmares of that choice too. Even writing about it I feel the emptiness and pain of rejection. The only reason I did not give up? My roommate in the facility told me she would kill my father for me if she ever had the chance. We made a secret pact to kill our abusers.                                        Continue reading

Advocacy and Pain

Today, after finding out that the worst person I have ever known died I had to do some internal evaluation. You see, by advocating for the rights of the ill, the disabled, and the person in need I advocated for the rights of the worst person I have ever met. I questioned why I do it. It turns out, it doesn’t matter. When I say I will advocate for anyone, I really do mean everyone. After the initial shock of realizing I had helped him, I felt a mix of emotions and realized, I cannot let his actions endanger the person I am.

When you become better than what you were told you could  be, it feels good. Often you have to fight to retain awareness of why you are the way you are. Sometimes it looks easier to revert to basic training. This means you try and force yourself back into the role of victim. This means you try and become the abuser. Feeling the urge to hole up and let the world have it’s way with my Civil Rights, hurts.

When you choose to become an advocate, you might help someone you do not want to. Dealing with that awareness is also painful. I do not want to make the life of a child rapist better. You never know who might benefit from your actions beyond the faces you see daily. Dealing with the struggle means you must get past this.

No matter what your main cause is, I say main because I do not believe in discrimination from a single facet, you must accept that people who are not necessarily the people you want in your cause, may benefit. It is not wrong to help them. I felt like I did something wrong by helping my father. This is ludicrous and this is thinking that can poison the movement.

To advocate means to risk facing people who could hurt you. Many people run into this daily. The advocate is the person who takes an extra strain, so that the innocent people of this world can be uplifted. My father suffered in his final days, but his Widow, who loves him and is in emotional agony, did not suffer as much because he recieved proper care.

So, as you advocate for your self and others, be aware, sometimes you might help someone, and the benefit is not always just for the good or the bad.

The Rape of Innocence (Trigger Warning)

Literal. I lost my innocence, as defined as physical virginity to my father. It was rape. It was never consensual. Incest is bad. Typing these words is extremely difficult but my day has already been one full of tears, therefore, I am going to go with it. His excuse for rape, his reasoning that made it A-Okay to violate, subjugate, and to hurt me sexually was this. “You look just like my mother.” I was four years old. Today I was triggered. This isn’t an easy thing to admit, and I feel uneasy each time I come across things that remind me of him, and at times my PTSD is triggered by a harmful thing. Today I was already in a bad way due to pain, some of it is residual effects of my abusive childhood.

Some of it comes from feeling violated at having to see another doctor, since my service animal makes me unworthy of another. Some of it comes from this post on Feministing.com. I do not care that this game came from Japan originally. That does not make it better. I do not care that their society has a history of subjugating women, so surely all of their rape fetish bull is perfectly acceptable. Not to me. I want to reach out to the women of the world, for an uprising. It is in this moment that I state I am a feminist, in the definition that states I am pro women’s rights and equality, I am pro disabled equality, and I am pro mental health equality. I want to be healthy, I do not want to feel the edges of Victim burning at me again and again when I skim the internet, go outside, or even sometimes when I try and think of a happy moment. It is always there.

I am not the cause of my own rape. How can I be at fault for it? Yet games like this propagate the victim is at fault mentality. I remember when I turned my neighbor in. He was molesting me during the same period when my father decided to rape his mother allegory. I remember being asked by the prosecutor, at the age of five, if I wore short skirts to turn boys on. I didn’t even know what that meant. I remember, however, the after effects. I rejected my body, myself, and I tried to become a boy.

This attempt at maleness included trying to cut off my breasts when I was thirteen, shaving my head repeatedly (and discovering that my head is very lumpy) as well as rejecting my identity. I could not be Rebekah. I had to change my name. I did, as an adult. I found a name that fill sme with the sensation of security, health, and the desire to be happy. I do not cringe when I hear my name anymore. I never out grew the after effects of being raped. I was repeatedly assaulted through my life, and this was also used to overshadow real medical problems.

When I was eight years old my mother and father sent me away for hypochondria and Bulimia. It took adult hood to realize I never was bulimic. I also have a great deal wrong with me, and none of it is in my head, except what neglect and trauma put there.  All of my current illhealth cannot be attributed to the childhood neglect, but, a majority can. I am an advocate for anyone who needs it because there is so much to choose from. How do I choose between mothers and their need for proper nutrition, childhood health awareness, Celiac Awareness, Rape is Bad Mkay awareness, and the awareness that as a wheelchair user I need a door that is wide enough for me to not scrape through.

I am in tears today from pain, physical and emotional.  I am a woman. I am 24 years ago and it has been 11 years since my father last raped me. I have since seen him and he cowers with fear, he actually pissed himself when he saw me using a walker and fled in terror. I am not someone who causes fear but, I am a survivor. I was a victim and when I tried to say something, when I found out I should, I was denied that right. The district attorney felt that my case was not compelling enough because I was a mere child and had been sent away by my rapist for not being exactly what he wanted. I was denied justice, and I know my assailant is out there.

Knowing he is afraid of me doesn’t take away from being afraid of him. It does not take away from the sensation of the little hope I had being crushed because I wasn’t worthy of the time to take a bad guy off the streets. It doesn’t make it alright.

I hope whoever reads this finds either peace, awareness, and the understanding that if they themselves are a survivor of rape, abuse, or anything at all, that they are worthy. I understand as an adult why so few women report rape, when it is always the Victim’s fault. Eventually I will write more on my experiences with the mental health system as a child. I will write about my diagnosises, and the secrets that I am not sure my biological mother wants shared online. Someday she will google me and will discover that I am not the all accepting child she still perceives me as. I do not take the burdens she places upon me. I leave them behind.

I was about to submit this when I came across this in the comments on Feministing.com, another link. Amazon pulled the english version of the game, though it is still availible elsewhere. I am shaking with relief and rage. How do we protect our children when things like this pervade? What is to stop this from normalizing rape in our world? It might. It might not.

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