Voices of Survivors
Compiled by
Vanilla Heart Publishing
Vanilla Heart Publishing
USA
Voices of Survivors
Copyright 2009 Vanilla Heart Publishing
Authors retain all reprint rights and copyright to
their individual works.
Published by: Vanilla Heart Publishing
www.vanillaheartbooksandauthors.com
10121 Evergreen Way, 25-156
Everett, WA 98204 USA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to places, events, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-935407-35-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 First Edition
First Printing, February2009
Printed in the United States of America
Welcome
Vanilla Heart Publishing is pleased and honored to be a part of this terrific project honoring survivors of rape, incest, domestic violence and other horrors that have become all-too-common in our world—or, perhaps, not more common, but more openly talked about and publicly acknowledged.
This anthology is dedicated to all survivors— and to all those who did not survive.
In this anthology, you’ll find heartrending prose and poetry meant to give hope and sustenance, shared by survivors and loved ones of survivors.
Whether the writer has written in their given name, a pen name, or anonymously, doesn’t matter. What does matter is that their voices are heard, shared with the world.
Kimberlee Williams
Managing Editor
Vanilla Heart Publishing
http://www.vanillaheartbooksandauthors.com
Introduction
I was thrilled and honored when I first heard of this project. I knew instantly that it would be a tremendously powerful book, and it is.
Through this project, I have had the honor to meet and work with amazing survivors from around the world! This book has touched me in more ways than one.
The emotional impact of the outpouring we have received since starting this project has been phenomenal, to say the least. Each story is so poignant, so genuine. You will find that that our writers have been raped by spouses, and strangers. They have been raped in their own homes, and in alley ways. Each person’s story is different. Each person’s path is unique. But the one constant thread you will find in this book is that each and every one of these people is not a victim; they are survivors. I am so very proud of each and every one of them. I thank them for their courage. I thank them for their honesty. This is more than a book, more than an anthology. This is a treasure.
In this book you will find stories from men, women, mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, someone you may even know. Rape, sexual assault and sexual abuse touch more lives than we even realize. In this book, you will find people of both genders, of all races and nationalities, and from all walks of life. There are writings here from people all across the globe. Rape survivors come in all shapes and colors. Rape does not discriminate by race, gender, income, location, or any other factor. Rape affects people: ALL people.
I hope that this book touches your heart. I hope that you understand the pain that survivors must endure. I hope you find peace, comfort, and solace in words written by fellow survivors, I hope that you find hope, strength, and inspiration in the amazing lives these survivors live! This is a phenomenal collection of work. Enjoy!
Namid
December, 2008
I Am a Survivor
by Serene Wright
My name is Serene...and I will no longer dwell in silence.
I am a survivor…I am telling my story...Will you join me?
Rape. We all know someone who has been raped...many victims of rape never tell anyone...you may think no one close to you has been violated...but I can almost guarantee that you are wrong about that. I have been raped several times.
I want everyone to know that help is available; that life is still worth living; that healing can take place...
That healing takes work: it takes being honest with yourself about being raped, and it takes the courage to admit that you did nothing to deserve such treatment.
I am currently reading Namid's book To Dance Amongst the Stars. I thought it would be a painful read, thought it would bring back all kinds of dark memories. Much to my surprise and pleasure, this book is helping me to validate all the feelings I have processed over the years. It is helping me to realize how strong I am BECAUSE of the personal work and healing I have done...
I highly recommend that you get a copy of this book (no, I am not getting paid to say that). I truly feel that if everyone read this wonderful book healing would begin for many...and compassion and understanding would take the place of frustration for those who have loved ones who have been through rape...
No one has to go through this in silence. No one has to go through this alone. Reach out and accept the help that is available. You can heal your own life and might just help someone else who is feeling the same way you are…
I will continue to tell my story of survival, my story of personal discovery...without allowing the monitoring of family members and without being intimidated into silence because the truth may hurt others. Not once have the people involved in all of this reached out and asked me if I was okay. They are concerned more about silence to protect themselves - sad but true.
Where and how do I begin to tell of how I have survived? I went from a childhood laden with abuse into numerous relationships with men who attempted to dominate and control me. I have been told that so many see me as a strong, willful, and independent woman. I think that men see this in me and take me as a challenge, using charm to open my heart...and when I allow them in, the game begins. I think I have a tendency to attract men who feel insecure in their own selves...and to build up their self-esteem they end up trying to break mine down.
I have been "hitting brick walls" in my desire to write this...the Universe was surely telling me I needed to clear frustrations before proceeding...I am feeling better today, more relaxed, and ready to take on this journey of letting my story be told publicly...
I am finally energized enough to tell this story of being brutalized, surviving, and moving into thriving...it has been a long journey. There were several nights of interrupted sleep, and several days of feeling so scattered...remembering bits and pieces of what happened to me so long ago...the memories have lost their grip on me, and yet, the memories still linger. I am blessed to have found help along the way, telling my story to others over the years has certainly reduced the impact because in sharing I know I have helped others to release their burdens. The crime of rape is not just a crime of sexual violation...this act violates the self in so many ways: diminishing our perception of self-worth, our perception of self-respect, and if not dealt with...affects every intimate relationship we have. I am so blessed, for I have forgiven those who assaulted my body, and I have taken my self back.
I really feel the sexual abuse started long before I was ever raped. I grew up in a time when sex education was basically non-existent. I never had any communication or education from my mother regarding the changes of my body during puberty...no mention ever of what sex was...and so I was unwittingly kept ignorant. Sex was an abstraction to me. Imagining what sex was like trying to understand a foreign language with no knowledge of that language. I had a 5th grade teacher who gathered all the girls in a classroom and showed some ridiculous cartoon type movie about puberty. The teacher said little, but her words, her body language, and her obvious and complete embarrassment spoke volumes: sex was bad, our bodies were bad. We were told to not be alone with boys, with no explanation as to why.
When I started my menstrual cycles I thought something was terribly wrong with me. I went to the school nurse and she instructed me to talk to my mother. This was something that I felt I could not do...so I started sneaking her tampons and fumbling. After a few months my mother came to me (obviously angry) and asked me if I was taking her tampons. I said yes, that I had started menstruating. She slapped me because I had not told her earlier - a devastating moment...I was 13(?) and felt betrayed. I wanted to ask her why she had not told me about what my body was going to do!!! She was furious with me for using her tampons: screaming at me...and off we went to the store, with her hand gripping my arm and dragging me along to buy sanitary napkins and "belts" to hold them in place. She then told me to stay away from boys...still no explanation.
When I was just short of 16, there was an important dance at school. Friends/classmates had formed a band and were playing at this dance. I was so eager to go...my mother said I could go IF I completed a very long list of household chores. I set out to complete this list while she went to her room and closed the door. I got the chores done, and went to knock on her door (it was always closed) and let her know the chores were done and to ask her for a ride to the dance. She was in a black mood...and I think she was intoxicated. She told me she had changed her mind and I could not go. I was heartbroken - dressed, and ready to have an exciting evening in the school cafeteria with my friends who were waiting for me. One friend called and asked me when I was arriving. I told her what happened with my mom and she told me to just sneak out of the house...the dance was starting and it was not to be missed.
I gathered my courage, pretended to go to bed, and snuck out. The school was miles away and I was running as fast as I could to get there, when a car pulled up. I was so excited to see two school mates and another guy I did not know. They asked me where I was running to. I told them I had to get to the dance, and they said, "Jump in, we'll give you a ride." I was so excited thinking I would be at the dance in a matter of minutes. That is not where I ended up.
These guys decided that they wanted to go to the local beach to sneak some alcohol and smoke a joint before going to the dance. I just wanted to get to the school. They pulled the car into the beach parking lot, turned up the music, and started insisting that I drink from their bottle of liquor. I had tiny sips, and then Mike (I can say his name, he is dead now) started really pushing me to drink. I was resisting, putting the bottle to my mouth with my lips closed to make it look like I was drinking. This infuriated him. I was in the back seat with Mike, wearing my favorite white embroidered blouse and lavender corduroy hip-hugger bell-bottom pants. He began holding me down and pulling my clothes off; the two in the front seat watching...
I was freaking out. I did not have the strength or the mind set to fight him off. He raped me with two people watching. My shame overwhelmed me. The only thing I felt I could do was close my eyes and leave my body...literally leave my body so that I could escape what was happening...as I did this "leaving," the pain stopped. The act continued while I was elsewhere...I would return for moments hearing his voice...feeling him clenching me, forcing himself on me, but only for a moment and I would leave again. I don't know how long this went on....I know it stopped when I heard the two guys in the front seat announce that a police car had just pulled in. They asked, "How fast can you get your clothes on?" Oh, I was fast: I did not want to be caught with my pants down. They drove away from the parking lot. The next thing I remember is they pulled up to my driveway. I was numb, checked out. They pushed me out of the car into the dirt and raced off.
It seemed like an eternal walk down the driveway past the stone walls and the trees. With lead in my shoes, shame and guilt in my soul. All the lights were off in the house. I hoped I would be able to sneak in without being noticed. As soon as I entered the kitchen I was hit square in the face as the lights came on. My parents had been sitting there waiting for me.
When the lights came on they saw my disarray. My father flipped out, beating me and calling me a slut and a whore. I started leaving my body again, but his hands striking me brought me back. He smelled alcohol on me. He assumed that I had chosen to lay down with someone...I screamed that I had been raped. At this point my lips and nose were bleeding from the assault of my father. My pants were bloodied, my shirt torn. My father began demanding that I tell him who raped me. I did not tell, and so he thought I was lying and began beating me harder. "You are nothing but a dirty slut," he screamed. "You disgust me!"
I was dragged to the bathroom and ordered to clean up. I do not remember anything else of that Friday night.
I do not remember that weekend other than having to clean the bathroom, and the screaming sounds of silence. I know I felt that what happened was my fault: that if I had not snuck out of the house this thing would not have happened. I was awash in the deepest shame; disgusted with my self. Nothing that my parents did could make me feel any lower than I had already sunk. The world had just lost its light for me...
The day I returned to school people were looking at me, steering clear of me, whispering. At one point I went to the bathroom and a group of girls followed me, and beat me, calling me a whore and slut. One girl in particular who said I was a whore for having sex with her boyfriend. He told everyone that I gave myself to him, that I threw myself at him. He was laughing about his conquest, telling people I was begging him to have sex with me, how he had taken my virginity because I asked for this. I did not know the world could get darker...
I began to isolate myself, and began to realize that what had happened could cause me to be pregnant. So, I snuck one of my mother's birth control pills with the hopes that this would protect me...
My mother came at me realizing one of her pills was missing. She slapped me bloody, screamed at me telling me that I took her pill because I wanted her to get pregnant again because I knew how much she hated having children. She threatened to put me in foster care. She made me sit on the floor in the kitchen in full view of my siblings for dinner - she made me sit on the floor next to the family dog to eat my dinner. She told me I was an animal, and was unworthy of sitting with the family. She raged through the meal at me, on and on about how worthless and disgusting I was. She even said that if I wasn't there, life would be good for the rest of the family. The world got even darker...
The good news was I was not impregnated. I was shutting down though, creating a shell to live in.
My 16th birthday was approaching. I slowly healed as best I could, and when my birthday arrived I was allowed to go on my first date. This date was with a young man whose father owned a major car dealership (a powerful family within the town). He came to the door, introduced himself to my mother, and off we went. I don't recall what the plans were. I do remember this guy telling me he had a present for me at his house, and that it would only take a minute. I told him I would wait in the car. He told me to come in. He coaxed me to come in, again stating we would only be a minute, so I gave in. I was curious to see this house we had pulled up to. In my eyes it was a mansion: huge and stately, like nothing I had ever been in before. So, I let my guard down...
We went in and he saw my awe, so he began to give me a little tour. Marble floors, beautiful furniture, winding staircases. I was in a "wonderland" as we walked through the house he opened a door and said "check this room out," all the while appearing and acting like a gentleman. I walked through the door he opened and it was a massive bedroom. I was looking around in continued awe when he pushed me to the bed and began unzipping his pants. I jumped up and ran, he came after me. He was over 6 ft tall, he overpowered me, threw me on the bed and promised I was going to like my present. And, he raped me. I again left my body. I have no memory of the rape except the beginning and end. When he finished with me he told me to put my clothes back on. As I got up off his mother's bed, he saw blood. He slapped me so hard that my lip split. More blood - he was running for towels, and yelling at me to not move, to not get blood on anything else. He was yelling at me. He asked why had not told him I had my period. I was not menstruating, he had injured me! I think he did not see what he did as a rape. He was only concerned with getting the blood off his mother's bedspread. I do not remember leaving the house; I do not remember returning home...
I know at that point I reached the conclusion that sex was the only thing that the boys wanted - the only thing. I had no boyfriends. I had male friends, but I would not allow anyone to "touch" me. I was suspicious of any boy who wanted to BE with me.
I dated a boy after all this happened. He was busy trying to coax me into having sex with him. When I refused he broke up with me, and rumors flew at school that now I was nothing but a tease, and a prude.
Finally, the school year ended and summer arrived. I had a troubled summer of drugs, and sex. I learned to dissociate: leaving my body while a boyfriend did what he wanted. I had learned that I made things worse if I resisted; that sex was all I had of value. I lost all personal value in the process.
I somehow managed to put these things behind me, closed off in a dark chamber of my mind. Until I saw a hypnotherapist about 12 yrs ago. She brought me back to these moments in my history, in a safe environment. Something truly amazing happened. While in a hypnotic state I was guided to visualize the men who had abused me. They were right there...in the car I had been raped in...I was continually assured that they could no longer hurt me...and that I had full and complete permission to do whatever I wanted to them.
At that moment the car was full, and each of these men exited the car and lined up. I was continually reassured they could no longer harm me, and that I could release my hurt and anger. Suddenly I saw my feelings; I felt my feelings being transferred to them. My self did not wish them harm. I only wanted them to understand what their actions had done to me. They began to morph: losing their hands, losing their feet so they could not run, eyes being sealed shut so they could not see, mouths being sealed over so their screams were stifled within. Their bodies losing human form; becoming nothing more than cocoons writhing in pain. I said no words to them verbally - all communication was of a telepathic form. I felt no anger. I felt forgiveness, and the strongest sense of letting go, of freedom. Then, I released them from the bondage I had the power to put on them.
They were on their knees crying out, apologizing, begging for forgiveness, telling me they had no idea that their actions had caused me so much pain. Then I let them go, and freed myself. I actually felt their pain at this point, and knew beyond knowing that I was finally free of all this.
The therapist brought me back up and out of hypnosis. I saw her crying. She told me she had worked with many women with similar experiences. Never had she seen anyone heal the way I did. She told me so many women committed murder, violent murder in these sessions. She told me she had never experienced a woman show this type of healing process, embracing forgiveness. We hugged and cried together. As I left this therapist, I felt free: I felt as if I were walking on air and water, and breathing like I had never breathed before. Free a last, truly free...at last. I am a survivor, and I am proud of who I am, who I have become!
Today I have moved from homeless high-school dropout to home owner. I have put myself through college, receiving an Associate's Degree in Applied Sciences, Graphic Technology, with emphasis on photography and psychology. I graduated with high honors and went on to the local University to earn qualification as a substitute elementary teacher. I have a beautiful daughter that I raised alone since she was eight years old. I am the woman I always dreamed I would become.
I am no longer silent. I have survived child abuse, rapes, and domestic violence. I am telling my story of moving from survival to thriving. It has been a long journey. Telling is lifting the burden. I hope that in telling, others will join me and set foot in freedom from the secrecy of our pasts.
Continued silence is not an option for me. I choose to set myself free. Please join me!
Dedication
by Serene Wright
A dedication (rough as it
may be) to BC Beneke for challenging me to continue this battle, to
LIVE more fully, to be the Warrior Goddess that continues to smile
through what has been dealt to me...my deepest thanks for your
words...that stirred the fire that has always burned in me!! Much
love and gratitude for your loving shove!!! Just what I needed to get
back on the white horse and ride!!!!
My
fire burns bright...
From your comments last night.
I dare to
tell all,
to keep up this fight.
I call out the liars
and
thieves of my life.
I take it ALL back...
My power, my
rights.
I march on through this storm.
A mirror to
guide
The winds at my side...
Casting stones at the thieves.
I
won't break my stride!!
They say I am broken,
and too deeply
wounded.
More lies they have spoken.
I stand tall in the
ashes,
The flames lick at me.
Cauterized are the wounds
That
others can't see.
The embers you stoked
With strokes of
your pen.
Walking tall from the ashes
Wounds healing
within.
Your words my heart felt
Gratitude from within.
Now
the war is on,
I, determined, will win.
Becoming a Butterfly
by Christine Sandor
If I have learned anything at all, I have learned that healing is a process. One must stand in it and trust that process in order to emerge from the dark cocoon of a traumatic existence.
When the memories started spilling forth from the dank blank spaces of my memory, I was horrified. Where had those pictures come from? How could I make such a horrible story up? I was convinced I was a either a pathological liar, though I was not telling very many people what I was remembering, or I had been the victim of a crazy world. The good news is: the process of healing brings us from victim to survivor to thriver, if we trust.
I struggled with the feeling of being “normal” with a very abnormal history. I, like many others, discovered while probing the “darkened years” of a childhood I had forgotten, that I had been sexually abused. I knew so many who had experiences of abuse in their childhood, but my perpetrator was not your “normal” child sexual abuser. My perpetrator was my mother.
When the memories started, and I revealed a few of them to a counselor, I was completely thrown off when he labeled the actions of my mother: sexual abuse. I told him that could simply not be the case. Mothers did not sexually abuse their daughters. Fathers did. Uncles did. Grandfathers perhaps, even perhaps brothers, but not mothers! I knew how I felt about the memories. I had been a terrified little girl. I had hidden for hours at a time in a closet off our dining room, praying she would not find me. I remembered her eyes. I was terrified when I saw those eyes. They were, in fact, not my mother’s eyes: they were the eyes of a monster.
The internet was in its infancy then, but I recall sitting down and searching the World Wide Web for some kind of information on the subject. A book. Anything. What I got (and still get today if you search “Mother-Daughter Incest”) were porn sites. I was outraged. Where was the information? Where was the book or article that would tell me I was not crazy? Where was the story that I could compare to mine and see for sure if in fact what she had done to me was called sexual abuse? I knew it in my heart, but there was no way I was going to accept it. Not only was I a weird person anyway, but now, I was that much more bazaar having been sexually abused by my own mother.
I made a commitment to myself and to others like me, that when I was in a better place, when my healing process was nearing its end, I would document my story. My intention was for no one to ever be in the place I had been, searching frantically for information, for validation that I was not crazy, and for the confirmation that I was in fact not alone. My book, Warming the Stone Children, was born some 20 years after those first few memories came to light. I wrote in stages and incorporated much of the writing I had done throughout my healing process. A mixture of journaling, poetry and the process of writing my way through the horrific memories became my book.
You see, my mother took a great deal from me when I was child. She took hopes, dreams, my dignity and my belief that I am a good and worthy person. But I would not leave them with her. Over many years of psychotherapy and later process therapy, I was able to find the child that she had tried so hard to destroy; and bring her back to life, as it were. That child had been shoved into the darkness of a cocoon; a cocoon made of the words, power and hatred of a woman who could not love herself. She had taken her fears and anger about herself and her life out on the little girl. In the midst of process work, I was thrust into the deepest corners of the darkness, and found that child, seemingly as dead as the caterpillar. The image of that little child, lying motionless is forever embedded in my mind. Her own mother had tried to kill her and that aspect of who the child was, had died. She was a part of me. So many parts of me had simply shut down, just like this little one. They held the scenes of a childhood, I had long ago forgotten. And as each memory found its way into my consciousness, I understood why I had blocked that world.
My mother had held me down, forcing me to lie still on her bed as she filled my bowels with ice cold water telling me she had to “clean me out” because I was so very dirty. Not once, not twice, but innumerable times. Over and over, the scene played out from the time I was very small, until I was at least ten years old.
My mother had forced me lie still while she inserted items into my vagina, telling me to never be with a man, as it would hurt just as much.
My mother, in a fit of rage, had held a pillow over my face, perhaps releasing me only due to fear, or a moment of being thrust back to reality. A moment when she saw her hands holding the pillow down and recognized that I was her child.
My mother made me her confidant; she told me everything that was wrong with her marriage to my father, how much she hated him, and how much she hated having sex with him. My mother told me the only “reason” she had “done it” was to have her “girls.” My mother bathed me until I was far too old, always making sure to scrub the area between my legs; after all, I was so dirty there.
My mother knew the man across the street had sexually abused me. She knew he had orally raped me. She had accepted money from him to be with me. She knew he was a convicted pedophile. My mother did all this and more.
And yet, from that terrible darkness, I emerged. Stiff at first, from years in captivity. As I left the nest of victim-hood, I still crawled, unaware that I might be capable of anything else. I called out to the Universe, to the God I had rejected for having not been there to help me. I recognized that God had always been there. That the Creator of All had been the reason I had lived.
Somewhere in the healing process, it was suggested that I find the Blessing in all that had happened to me. Blessing? How could there possibly be a blessing?! I demanded that the Universe show me this so called Blessing, if in fact one existed. I was guided to write and to keep writing. When I wanted to stop, I heard the still small voice within me whisper that I would not be alone in this process, and I wrote on. They day I held the first copy of Warming the Stone Children in my hand, I knew, my book was the blessing. I could write and tell my story, and maybe, just maybe one other person would be helped.
I crossed another impasse in the healing process the day I “forgave” my abusers. No, I did not absolve them from their acts. The acts against me were what they were. Instead, I chose to see them in my minds eye and to remember, that even they are beloved children of God. That we are one in the Spirit. From that place in me, I connected with that place in them, and gave another meaning to what had occurred. I recognized that had these incidents not happened to me, I would not be who I am today. I would not have crawled from the darkness and in the end discovered. Not only had a metamorphosis of Grace occurred, it had left me now with wings, and I can fly!
He Didn’t Win
by Anonymous
He didn’t win.
I wouldn’t let him.
He stole pieces of my childhood. I took them back.
He spewed lies. I vomited truth.
He taught me to fear. I learned to live.
He didn’t win.
I wouldn’t let him.
Making a Difference
by Kimberly
The year is 2009 is it not? There are days when I feel as if I’ve traveled back through time in some sort of “time machine” to the 1920’s; where the cases of childhood sexual assault are “swept under the rug and hidden in that old family closet of skeletons”. Yes, today in 2008 when sexual images and innuendoes are plastered all over the internet, on TV, in the movies and in magazines, we are still unable to talk about and deal with the issues of child sexual assault. Our law books are miles thick with laws against abusing children – some of the most heinous crimes – and our political leaders use catch phrases at election time saying things such as “I’ve fought to protect our children against sexual assault” yet we still don’t prosecute those responsible for attacking a young child’s innocence and soul. When we reach out to our prosecuting attorneys and other elected officials, no one wants to “handle these cases.” They are difficult, emotional, hard to comprehend, and hard to prosecute, so everyone turns a “blind eye”. How can we allow this to happen in this day and age and not be outraged?!
Sure, we make it big news if a bus driver, teacher, or priest touches a child. We educate our children on “stranger danger,” but do you realize that is only 10% of all child sexual assault cases? Do you know the horrifying statistics and how many homes and families are affected by this “silent epidemic”? Did you know that as many as 1 in 4 women and 1 in 7 boys will be affected by sexual assault by the time they are 18? Did you know that sexual assault affects 1 in 10 homes in the U.S.? Did you know that our children are not being abused by strangers, but 90% of them are being hurt by the same adults who promised to love and care for these precious gifts? Uncles, dads, boyfriends, coaches, neighbors, grandfathers….young, old, rich, poor, white, black … there are no stereotypical abusers and there isn’t any discrimination when it comes to child sexual assault.
How do I know? I am the mother of a child who has been through 3 years of abuse at the hands of a loving, upstanding, influential, rich, popular, fun man that I loved with all of my heart. A man I have always proudly called Uncle. The last person on earth that I would have suspected of hurting my child? You bet!
In hind sight, we’ve uncovered over 50 years of sexual abuse by this man – if we had only known “those family secrets in our closet”. Too bad they came out to haunt us all because no one wanted to “believe,” no one wanted to “tell,” no one wanted to “tear the family apart.” Besides my daughter, 6 other family members have had to live in a private hell because of this one man’s abuse, lies and threats.
Today, my daughter and I want to make a difference (She has a web site at: www.animewithattitude.com to raise money for educational services). Our story is all too hauntingly familiar for too many and that needs to be changed. These predators need to be stopped. They aren’t strangers; we’ve loved them but they’ve chosen to hurt us – many don’t even see that what they are doing is wrong, that’s the sad part of this sickness. These people need help. We need to change our beliefs and actions so victims are no longer abused by BOTH their perpetrators and the legal system that is supposed to be protecting them.
Walk With Me
by Rikki Christensen
Walk with me
Come take my hand and let's walk a while,
Be brave, wear my shoes, walk a mile.
We'll start when I remember; we'll end where there is hope,
I'll hold you tight, together I'm sure we'll cope
Back in time, turn back the years,
Come chase the memories, face my fears.
Take a glimpse at what I learned to live with
Throughout my formative years.
Innocent as fresh blown snow,
Pure in thought, heart and body.
Trusting him with all my heart,
As he defiled my child's soul with acts ungodly.
Adoration in my eyes,
Love within my heart,
The monster in the closet,
That didn't need the dark.
Fear not, you are but riding on my memories,
He can't hurt you, no need for your pleas.
I'll hold your hand, so walk some more,
Let's open up another door.
Hiding there, under the bed,
Shh, don't breathe too loudly, count 10 in your head.
The door is closing, the light growing dim,
Breathe now, you're safe from him.
At least for tonight, he's turned out the light,
Maybe he realizes you are big enough to fight.
Make it stop, speak out loud,
Voice lost like a whisper in the braying crowd.
Adoration gone from my eyes,
Betrayal within my heart,
The monster in the closet
That didn't need the dark...
Hold my hand, don't worry, I won't let you go.
You are just a visitor to this nightmare show.
When it's over, you can walk away,
It's not your memories, they don't have to stay.
From innocent child to fucked up teen,
Taken from me, all that I should have been
Gone was the laughter, the smiles and the joy,
Because you wanted a plaything, for your lust, a toy.
My heart filled with pain, head full of hurt,
You left me your legacy, you left me your worst.
But somehow, my best was better, better than you,
And my spirit, although damaged, was wanting to survive.
He did it, I pointed, the finger of blame.
The anger, the hurt, the guilt, the shame
All of it mine, I give back to you
You took my life; I'm taking it back, Fuck you!
I apologize for my bluntness, but not for my words,
Visitor, I promise, we are past the worst.
We started when I remember, together we have coped
Let's move on now, to tomorrow, and, hope.
Determination in my eyes,
Fire within my heart,
Chasing the monster out of the closet,
Finding light in the dark.
Something inside, stronger than he,
Something inside, refused to be
A victim, a statistic, a pitiful mess,
What? You thought that what you did would make me less?
I'm stronger than you, always was, and will always be
Nothing you did will take that from me
I'll laugh the longest, loudest,
Hold my head high, A survivor, the proudest!
Every dog has it's day, I'll have mine you said…
Well go on, when? You can't, you're dead.
I get the last word, I get last laugh, last say.
Took back my life in every way!
Overcame the hurdles left to trip me,
Opened my eyes to the strength inside me.
Found a friend willing to care,
Found kindred spirits wanting to share.
Surprised dear visitor? Thought I was but one?
Well come see the place where the abused have gone
We are still here, we still exist, still live,
And to those trapped by silence, our voices we give.
Determination in our eyes,
Fire in our hearts,
Chasing the monsters from closets,
Lighting the path out of the dark.
My voice has been found, I use it often, I use it loud,
I'm no longer alone, but one of the crowd,
Shouting for justice, for innocence,
Please join with me, End the Silence.
It All Began
by Reverend Crazy Dougie
It all began after the sight of seeing my hero and one and only sister get killed before my very eyes: My sister was hit by a speeding car that killed her right in front of our home.
Not long after her death, my uncle donated a field in her memories to make a play-ground for children. Well, we formed a baseball team, and the coach formed his own private rape crew too.
All my life I lived with the nightmare of being raped over and over again, but was unable to recall most of it because I went straight into heavy drug use from that point on until four years ago when I went clean.
Even when I got older, and was well into my adult years I was raped again. This time I was able to get on with my life and live again. The pain has cost me a life lived mostly alone.
Sure, I have a family with two wonderful children, but my childhood was so over-run with horror that they never stood the chance of seeing the love I have so far down deep inside my dark soul. Trapped within rape, abuse and being raise by a mom and dad who where really not to far from children themselves I had no real examples of family, or life for that matter.
Today I try to extend and help whoever crosses my path and to reach out and share that yes, men even men get raped, smashed around and left for dead, but we do survive. Praise God we do.
Betrayal
by Anonymous
I started seeing H when I was just 16; we first made love when I was 17. He was 24, and I was no longer "jail bait". It was definitely consensual and to this day I still remember him as a wonderful patient first lover. I really thought I cared for him, maybe even loved him. He said he loved me and wanted to marry me one day. We saw each other for a year and some; he changed, he became more possessive and more demanding, and then he started cheating on me (I walked in on him on a date with someone else one day). We argued and patched things up over and over again.
Then my dad got real sick and he was far from supportive of my needs and he became very critical of everything I did. My mom had asked me, as a favor to her, to please continue on “as if everything were okay” so she could believe it. And I did, to the best of my ability (school, work, etc.). But H felt that I was being two-faced when I cried about my dad’s condition and yelled at me in front of (his) friends and demanded that if I was okay with school, etc, then I was okay with anything he wanted as well. I was really stressed with worry about my parents, and H was brutally impatient with me. We argued a lot. He was verbally abusive to me. So I broke it off with him. Eventually my dad did get better and things calmed down at home.
After a few days, H started calling me and begging me to come back to him. He kept saying he needed me and gave me BS, saying that he was just trying to be strong for me. I kept saying no. He actually cried a few times. Finally, H wore through my defenses and I agreed to meet him "just to talk". He convinced me that I owed him that much. He lived in his mother & step-father's apartment; they were often traveling so he usually had the place to himself. He asked me to meet him there. It certainly wasn't the first time we were alone in that apartment and I didn't think there was any danger.
We spoke, didn't really argue, but our conversation was certainly tense. I again told him that it was over, and there was no going back. Then I got up to leave. He caught up with me in the foyer of the apartment and begged me not to leave. He held me and started kissing me. I tried to push away from him. He held me tighter and without warning pushed me down onto the linoleum and laid on top of me to hold me down. I begged him to get off, and just let me leave.
At first I didn't fight because I thought he would let me go. I thought he was just trying to keep me there to talk more, so when I finally started kicking and fighting, he already had the upper hand. His hands were all over me. I complained that he was hurting me. I begged him to stop. He had my blouse up and my bra open. He unzipped my jeans and pulled them partway down, my panties too. He opened his pants and held himself as he forced himself into me. I can't remember if he wore a condom or not. We had made love many times before and it NEVER hurt (not even the first time), but this time it hurt, it hurt badly. When he came he kept kissing me and telling me he loved me and wanted me. I was crying and finally pushed him off. Then he saw I was crying and got mad, "Why are you crying? You know you wanted that".
"No I didn't," I sniffled in reply.
"Yes you did," he stated angrily.
I got dressed and ran out and left him there.
It was a spring afternoon and I couldn't go home right away because I needed to calm myself. I didn’t want to have to explain my disheveled appearance to my parents. I took the long way home and met up with someone I thought was a friend on the way. We sat on the stoop of her building and I finally cried and told her what H had done to me. Her response was "Well, what did you expect? You never said no to him before." And she scoffed. Combined with the fact that I had already told myself I should have fought harder and sooner and what she said to me; I felt dirty, as if I had brought this on myself. I did not tell anyone else for a long time after, I really felt ashamed. I really believed it was my fault.
It wasn’t long before I took other lovers to #1 reaffirm that sex could be really nice and #2 to feel I was deciding that this was what I wanted and not be forced. I told myself this was my way of calling the shots. I know that there were at least 2 guys I probably would not have been with if this hadn't happened because I had no real feeling for them. Then I started seeing B, also 7 years older than me. He treated me really nice. B and I became lovers, I was crazy about him. I didn’t tell him what H had done. B proposed and I was tempted, but I knew I would not be happy making a life with him because of our different lifestyle priorities. I did love him though. He showed me I could enjoy sex again. Although he was upset that I turned him down, he kept seeing me.
Around this time, H started stalking me - literally. I was walking through a park early one evening to a class; it was dusk, and he followed me. I ran to my destination. I was terrified that he would catch me and force me to have sex with him again; I still couldn’t call it rape in my mind. Rape didn’t happen to normal girls. Rape wasn’t by someone you knew and had previously been intimate with; rape meant strangers and weapons and hospitals and police. B was there at the class and he saw that I was upset and out of breath. I said a stranger had followed me through the isolated park. B took me home that night, and lo and behold, H was waiting across the street. That's when I told B that the guy who followed me was H. B took off running after him. I don't know what happened, only that except for a romantic song dedication on the radio, I never heard from H again. B and I finally parted.
About a year later I met M and fell totally in love. Really, totally in love. We shared many ideals, we shared many dreams. M and I became lovers almost immediately. We married a year and a half after our first date. I never told him about the rape although he knew that I had been with more than one guy before him. He wasn't threatened or turned-off. Everything about our relationship was terrific. We moved to the suburbs after we married.
Several years later I met a woman at work who had gone through an ugly divorce and had been raped by her ex. We talked; she was a member of a group called WAR (women against rape). I finally confided what had happened to me and the guilt and shame I still felt. She helped me see that I had done nothing wrong and the guilt was all on H's shoulders. That night I went home and told my husband. He was and continues to be magnificent and supportive.
I have had a wonderful marriage, we have raised a family together, and I work and volunteer in my community. I haven't told many people about the rape because I still am not comfortable with being so open. I can tell my story here because I am anonymous. My husband and my two best female friends know. In the past year and change I found out that B died a few years ago and H is married and lives upstate about an hour from where I live. Neither of us live where we grew up. I really wish I could feel comfortable going public because I would love to help other victims, but not yet, maybe never.
While most days are good,
once in a while, a TV show, a news article, a conversation, will
trigger me and I will feel consumed by memories. Sometimes, rarely, I
dream about it. I wonder if H ever put the word “rape” to what he
had done to me; I wonder if he even remembers. I don’t ever want to
see him again, but when I think that he might not even remember, it
makes me angry. I get angry because what he did to me changed me
forever.
Letter to H
by Anonymous
H,
Well here it is more than thirty years since you raped me. And yes, I never did forget – I never forgot the pain you caused physically and more importantly, emotionally. It did take several years before I allowed myself to trust a man in that way again.
But like I said, it’s been thirty-plus years and while you did leave me with a horrible memory, that’s all you did. You really don’t count anymore – you are UN-important. My anger, hate and tears have turned into disappointment in who I thought you were; you are not worth anymore emotion than that.
I do wonder if you ever put the word rape to what you did to me. Face facts, that is what it was. I trusted you when you said you just wanted to talk, you sounded so devastated that we had broken up. I thought I could trust you, after all, I had trusted you enough to become lovers at one time. But just like the reasons I walked away from you the first time, you were whiney, demanding, immature and selfish – so I went to leave. That’s when you grabbed me and pushed me to the floor and even though I pleaded with you to stop and to let me go, you forced yourself on and into me. That is rape; you are a rapist!
Now let me tell you a little bit about my life. I met a wonderful man and I married him. We raised a family together. He is a wonderful lover and my best friend. He knows about you, you disgust him. Professionally I am doing very well. Romantically, well that’s the stuff that sells romance novels. Our kids love and respect both my husband and me, we have a terrific family life.
When the day comes that I meet my maker, I will look back on a rich and wonderful life, a loving husband, beautiful kids, and exceptional friends.
When the day comes for you to meet your maker, you will be nothing more than a piece of garbage – a rapist.
With all of the sincerity in the world,
A survivor.
As One Voice
by Time Dancer
The night falls like lead upon your soul…
Uncertainty clouds your judgment,
only empty shadows to console.
One lonely hand reaches out for sanity,
while silent screams echo in endless wells.
Reality is twisted by pain and fear,
can you hear my frightened yell?
Words dancing like angry raindrops in your
head, but nobody to tell.
Black and blue, your only friend.
When will this pain end?
There is an answer!
Together as one voice,
we will find the light my dear friend…
Oh, Yes, We Remember
by Time Dancer
Withered in strength, pushed to the brink…
Hiding your pain in shame,
what would the world think?
Shattered soul in a lonely tomb sleeps
Men must not cry, they never weep.
Whispered secret, told only to the wall,