Keep Walking, I Like the View

A few days ago I was walking my dog along one of our regular routes. Half way through this particular route there is a giant fairly steep hill we have to climb. Ahead of us was a man on a bike who steadied his feet on the ground and told us to pass him. As we walked up the hill I could feel the guy staring at me. When I turned around he smiled and told me to keep going, he was enjoying the view. I was kind of shocked at the comment but suggested he ride ahead, we didn’t want to slow him down, and we crossed the street to go up the other side. But then so did the man on the bike. I picked up my pace a little and made my way to the DPW entrance at the top of the hill. Right behind me the whole way was this jerk who kept making comments about my ass and my legs. I turned around and said “thanks” very plainly, and he sped down the hill screaming a word I chose not to repeat, and disappeared out of sight. My heart was racing and I was pretty angry. But what was I going to do? Call the cops and report it? What would be the point? I didn’t know the guy. I was more focussed on getting away from him than anything so I wouldn’t have been able to give a description, and my honest thought was that I’d be wasting their time and they would tell me to just ignore it. And that’s what probably happens a good majority of the time when these things happen. It gets brushed aside as just something that happens occasionally. So for anyone who thinks rape culture doesn’t exist you’re just lying to yourself. The fact that I can’t even walk my dog in a quiet suburban town without being harassed is ridiculous. It’s actually a real problem in this society that, in my opinion, has only been amplified by pop culture, the government, and everyone’s immense effort to cover up incidents of sexual harassment and sexual assault across the spectrum from college campuses to celebrities.

Take the Stanford Rape case that took the country by storm last year. It just seemed absolutely unfathomable to me that even with all that PROOF. And even after the UNANIMOUS CONVICTION, there could be such a small sentence issued. And in the judge’s ruling he cited his reasoning for such a small sentence as the emotional trauma jail time would cause the young offender. NOTHING about the emotional trauma his victim will face for the rest of her life. NOTHING. And what about recordings of our president degrading women, multiple times! OUR PRESIDENT! What about our society at all encourages victims of sexual assault to come forward? Very little. Today actually is the anniversary of my own sexual assault. And it took me years before I was able to come forward. And sometimes I still struggle with it. I’ll be completely honest with you. The past few weeks I’ve been waking up sweating from nightmares about it. And it’s been years now since it’s happened. But those nightmares make it feel like I’m reliving it. Over. And over. It’s exhausting. It even makes me feel defeated. Because I bet the man who raped me never gave me a  second thought. And here I am, 10 years later, fully knowing he can never hurt me again, and still letting him get inside my head from time to time.

But how do we change rape culture when it’s embedded so deep? We can’t just throw our hands up and say, “oh well,” and shrug it off. It can’t be ok to just pay people to be silent about incidents of sexual harassment and assault. It can’t be ok for college campuses to sweep things under the rug to save face and not lose potential or current students or donors. How do we teach people to be decent human beings when the issues go all the way to the top? This country voted in a man who was caught on tape being vulgar towards women. We have pro athletes who literally get away with murder and who can pay a fine to get back in the game after beating their significant other. We have federal judges who make taking a rapist to court seem like a joke. And it’s not like these are a few isolated incidents. This is happening every day whether we choose to see it or not. It’s happening. And until it happens to you or someone you care about, we are blind to it. I always thought, “it could never happen to me,” but it did. And it can happen to anyone. So what are we going to do about it?

Thoughts On the Stanford Rape Case

Like many of you, I’ve been following the Stanford Rape case very closely. To say that as a human being I am disgusted by the end result would be an understatement.

Brock Turner, after unanimously being convicted of rape, has been sentenced to 6 months in jail and expected to be out in as little as 3 months for good behavior and positive character references. Because, in the words of the judge, a longer sentence would have a severe impact on him. Why Why WHY are we concerned with the impact punishment will have on the RAPIST???? What about the severe impact that young woman has endured and will continue to endure? Trust me, no matter how hard you try, you can never make the pain, humiliation, and traumatic feeling of being raped disappear. You can’t bury it. It will always be with you. Over time you learn to cope with it. You learn to accept it as part of you and move forward. But it never goes away.

Even in today’s article on theguardian.com regarding Turner’s father’s statement that his son should not go to jail for “20 minutes of action,” introduces Brock Turner as “a former swimmer at Stanford University.” The media is still painting Turner in a soft light when the only description that should be attached to his name is rapist. It doesn’t matter if he was a collegiate swimmer, a ballerina, or an expert mathematician. His swim times do not matter. His character before that night does not matter. How long he raped that woman does not matter. What matters is he did it. What matters is he was unanimously convicted. What matters is this young woman was continuously revictimized and had to relive that trauma over and over in court while being picked apart for being intoxicated and making poor decisions. But she didn’t decide to be raped behind a dumpster. Brock Turner decided that.

And instead of the judge and the probation officer looking at the facts and the evidence and the witness statements. They look at Brock Turner. And the promising future he once had. And the swimming scholarship that got taken away. And how his life will never be the same labeled as a sex offender. His father stating to the court that his son “will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile. His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear, and depression.” He went on to defend his statement saying college students needed to be educated about the dangers of alcohol and binge drinking and its “unfortunate results.”

Unfortunate results? Is that what we’re calling this? Brock Turner raped that woman. Alcohol didn’t rape that woman. Brock Turner did. There are millions of college aged students binge drinking on any given night that don’t rape women. This is not an issue of alcohol awareness. This is an issue of sexual assault. This is an issue of a privileged young man who isn’t used to ever having to take responsibility for his actions. This is a societal issue of rape culture. This is a huge flaw in the system that does not hold everyone accountable to the same standards. This is an issue that spreads far beyond this one case plastered all over the media.

Unfortunately, this young woman isn’t alone. She just happens to be at the center of this widely publicized case. And I think it’s noteworthy that we continue to praise her for her bravery and the eloquent way in which she addressed the court in her victim impact letter. It was so incredibly brave of her to do. She could have gone about it a million different ways but she chose to make herself vulnerable yet again, and courageously talk through everything she felt and experienced from her rape all the way through the trial. And she did it with poise. She could have been vulgar. She could have been disrespectful. She could have stooped to his level. But she did not. To go through that trial day after day and relive that trauma must have been excruciating. To see her attacker every day. To face him in court. To share all those private details. To have her character degraded and slandered unnecessarily. To hear the ridiculous sentence be handed out and still have the courage to stand up and address him and the court is awe inspiring. That is true bravery.

As a rape survivor, I’m boiling with rage, sadness, and an overwhelming disappointment in the justice system. Will a case like this deter others from coming forward after they’re assaulted? Will more people look to play the victim as the attacker? What is going on in our society that we are making excuses for those who commit crimes? Why does the victim in this case seem to matter less than the attacker, who over and over again is portrayed as this upper white class citizen with a promising future. What about the young woman’s future? Hasn’t anyone in the media stopped to think about her promising future before she was so terribly traumatized that she couldn’t even get out of bed to go to work anymore? I’m enraged. I’m saddened. And I feel for this young woman. I really do. Because unless you have been a victim of rape, you cannot fully understand the impact it has. You can read about it in text books. You can listen to survivor stories. You can make educational assumptions based on basic psychology. But you can never truly know. But I know. I know all too well about the nightmares. The panic attacks. The anxiety that suffocates you when you’re alone. Or in crowds. Or smell the same smells. Or see the same sights. It doesn’t just last 20 minutes. I can’t decide that I’ve been haunted enough by it for it to all go away now. It’s there. Always. Somewhere in the back of my mind. But I’ve been fortunate enough to learn to take control of it. To twist the pain and hardship it has caused and use it. To empower me, and to empower others. I admire this young woman because she found that courage a lot sooner than I ever did. I admire her strength and the way she took back her dignity. I admire her for being the voice many girls needed to hear. To the young woman at the center of all this, I hope you know that you are a hero to many.

Invincible ’till We Aren’t

 

I lost one of my closest friends last week to a drug overdose, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Mikey was one of my best friends, but also one of my biggest enemies. He was my partner in crime. Someone I could count on to be there at 2am if I couldn’t sleep. The friend who encouraged my silliness and could quote the entire Monsters Inc. film right alongside me. His best and his worst quality was that he saw no boundaries. Fearless to a fault with no regard for consequences. But that was his appeal. He was the mad hatter leading me down a blackhole but never stood in my way of getting out. He was the devil on my shoulder, but never fought the angel too hard. He represented everything wrong in my life, but still knew how to be right. He lacked the judgement others had against him which made him truly unique.

Our motto was, “Invincible till we aren’t.” Sounds stupid right about now, but that was our outlook on life. I’ve dealt with a lot of loss in my life. None of it fun, none of it easy. Addiction is a powerful and messy road. Trust me, I know. But it doesn’t make the loss any less painful. It doesn’t make it any easier. And it definitely doesn’t make it any more deserving. 2am won’t be the same. Neither will swamp walks or midnight monkey bars. But as always, I’ll keep trekking on. Invincible, till I’m not.

 

Time is passing, why won’t my grief?

It’s been 1 year, 6 months, and 7 days since Renee died.

That’s…

79 weeks…

553 days…

13,272 hours…

796,200 minutes…

47,779,200 seconds…

…without her.

To say I miss her. would be a severe understatement. Not a day goes by I don’t wish she was still here. Night after night I find myself re-living the weeks leading up to her death in a nightmare. It always ends the same…I struggle to wake myself up as the vision of her begging me to kill her fills the backs of my eyelids. She’s pleading with me, telling me I’m not listening. That nobody is listening. Why won’t I help her die…

Cancer is an ugly demon. It takes the strongest people and beats them senseless, over and over. It teases and manipulates them until they think they’ve finally gotten the upper hand. But then it lashes back with even more force than before. And after it destroys every bit of dignity a person has, it offers no mercy in the final hours, as it steals every last breath away.

Here I am. A year and a half later, still trembling in my sleep as the memories wade in and out of my dreams. When traumas from my past would haunt me, it used to be Renee who knew how to shake me loose from their traps, even when I thought I’d fallen in too far to be saved. Now that she’s gone I find myself struggling to avoid my vices. Clinging to the only non destructive coping mechanism I’ve ever mastered. Distraction. Work as many hours out of the day as possible. Play with the kids and chase their busy schedules in all the remaining hours. And get home before I fall asleep as to not awaken others when jolted out of bed by my own screams.

When my Dad died, everyone always told me that as time passed it would get easier. Almost 11 years later, I struggle to remember the sound of his voice or the way that he laughed, but I definitely can’t say it’s ever seemed easy to move on without him. Every place I’ve ever lived since he died, I’ve slept with his baseball glove under my bed, as if one day he’ll be back for just one more game of catch. My forearm engraved with a sentiment that more descriptively represents my feelings on life without him than the phrase “THIS SUCKS,” that my 13 year old self so angrily proclaimed. And here I am at 24, after losing Renee, the woman who showed me more motherly love than I could have possibly deserved, and all I want to do is stomp around and scream “THIS SUCKS!” just as I did when I was a teenager. But I’m an adult now. And Renee is gone, no longer here to catch me from falling down my black hole. And although I have plenty of people in my corner looking out, there’s still a huge hole in my heart. A void that will never be filled. Time is passing, why won’t me grief?

Can’t change the past, but we must change the future.

“The U.S. Military’s Sexual Assault problem is so bad the United Nations is getting involved.”

That is an actual headline from the news today. Several countries in fact recommended that the U.S. military remove the responsibility of deciding to prosecute sexual assault cases from chain of command to an outside civilian with experience in the field. Last year over six thousand cases of sexual assault were reported across all military branches. Of the over six thousand cases reports, only 317 perpetrators were convicted. I’m no mathematician but that looks like less than 5% of reported sexual assaults in the military last year actually resulted in punishment. There is a higher percentage of military personal opting not to prosecute out of fear of retaliation. Last year alone the number of reports withdrawn from investigation totaled 10.7% of all reports. The biggest reason being fear of retaliation. That’s sickening. So sickening, the UNITED NATIONS is stepping in. That is down right embarrassing and appalling. The most powerful military in the world that we even fear each other.

Fear. The most powerful weapon of all. You know, it will have been eight years Sunday since I was raped, and every so often I’m still rattled with fear. A side effect of being violated with such malice and disregard. It’s extremely difficult after experiencing something so traumatic not to base entire life decisions off that fear. Feeling like you’re broken. Afraid to be alone but afraid to be too close to anyone at the same time. Settling. Because what you know seems safer than what you don’t know. Everything seems complicated. Every noise you don’t recognize makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It becomes a habit to always have a knife or some sort of protection. Always park under a light at night. Fear. It lasts longer than the bruises. Less visible than scars, but a million times more painful. In the eight years since that night it feels like I’ve been through hell and then some. Emphasis on the word through. Because eight years ago I never would have believed I’d make it through to the other side. But here we are. Here I am. Eight years later it finally feels like I’m putting the pieces back together. Fear might always be there. It might always drive me. But as long as it pushes me forward I’ve come to accept that I can’t change the past. I can’t bring back the people I’ve lost. I can’t take back that night. I can’t change the destruction I turned to in the aftermath. I can just keep pushing forward in hopes that one day in the future I’ll learn embrace the fear of the unknown to come, rather than dwell on the fear known in my past.

Beneath the Mask

This past week I accomplished a goal that has been years in the making. I finally became certified as a personal trainer. I sat for weeks and poured over the information, picked my trainer’s brain for tips and extra knowledge and immersed myself in the routine to get a better understanding of what I needed to know to not only pass the exam but to be able to successfully take the material and apply it to actual training. Everyone is extremely happy for me, as I am for myself, but I found that instead of wanting to celebrate, I just want to crawl under my covers and cry.

The first person I wanted to tell was Renee. Renee would have been so incredibly proud of me I don’t think I can put into words exactly how excited she would be. When I first met Renee, I hadn’t yet come out of my shell. I was probably at my heaviest, and I still hadn’t come forward about being sexually assaulted. Renee was my shoulder of support as I began my whole journey. She was there for the tears, the yelling, the set backs, the step forwards, and everything in between. I was sleeping in a cot beside her bed in the hospital night after night and doing push ups in medical gloves at her side every morning. I wanted to be there for her in every sense possible as she had been for me, and she had voiced to me that I better never stop taking care of myself. She was always the voice inside my head telling me never to give up on my goals even when she wanted to give up herself.

We’re coming up on the one year anniversary of her death and I just can’t come to terms with that reality. I can’t believe that I have survived this long without her. Even now as I type this I am overcome with grief and struggling to keep myself together. I try not to dwell on what could have been, or what if, or why did this have to happen. But sometimes I can’t stop myself from wanting to scream from the top of the mountain how unfair life is. Lately everyone has mentioned to me how happy I seem and how my life seems to be falling into place nicely. As I stand and smile in response every inch of my insides is itching to scream out that it’s all an act! I feel lost and confused. I’m working myself into exhaustion because it’s the only way to keep my mind from dwelling on how much I miss Renee. But then I become so tired from working constantly I have to take a day off, but I’m so afraid to let myself relax that I pack that day off with so many activities that I never actually get any down time. And I go back to work without having rested at all and I’m faced with the same circle of exhaustion.

I miss Renee. A lot. That’s never going to change. I feel the same pain from losing my dad. It’s a hurt so deep that no matter how much time has passed, sometimes just thinking about it makes me so anxious my heart beats out of my chest. We’re all going to die eventually. I know that. It’s life. But why is it that the people we connect with the most are always the ones taken from us way too soon. I wasn’t ready. I promised her I’d be ok, but truthfully, I’m not so sure I will be. I still have so much I needed to learn from her. So, so much. I look at Madison and can’t help but feel like I can’t give her anywhere close to what her mother could have given her. I feel like I’m failing her because I don’t have the answers she wants to hear. Or the solutions. I have thoughts and ideas that I feel are just going in one ear and out the other. Sometimes I feel like all I’ve succeeded in teaching her is how to be an actress. How to make the world think you’re doing just fine when there is a world of hurt and confusion and sadness hiding beneath the mask.

A Testimonial of Gratitude to my “Family”

Every person has their own story to tell. Whether we share that story with others or not is entirely up to the individual. I am choosing to share. Not because I believe my story is more important than anybody else’s, but because maybe in sharing my story I can inspire someone else to share theirs.

Contrary to popular belief I haven’t always been the strong, confident young woman most of you know today. The journey to be the best me I can be has been a long road of ups and downs and twists and turns and I’m not even at the end. I won’t bore you all with the details of my childhood but I do want to share an excerpt of my life that has helped me become the person I am today.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” I can personally attest that that is one of the truest statements ever made. I was once a big proponent of silence. Not too long ago in fact I made it a goal of mine to maintain a level of invisibility to achieve going it alone with greater ease. I didn’t want anyone to know my business, my past, my feelings, my thoughts. Nothing. I wanted nothing more than to get up, go to work, keep my head down, and hope that no one made eye contact with me so I wouldn’t have to make conversation. Why? Because I was afraid people would judge me. But in reality the only one judging me was myself.

When I was sixteen years old I was sexually assaulted at a party. Instead of reaching out for help I internalized the issue. I was convinced it was my own fault and I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I turned to food not only to cope but also as a mechanism to make myself fat so I would become so unattractive and gross no guy would ever want to touch me again. I was drowning in self disgust, self loathing, and was teetering on the edge of suicide. One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to take back control of my life before it was too late. Finally coming forward about being sexually assaulted was not easy, and I was not met with the support that I was desperately in need of. But as I stood in front of the mirror one day and didn’t recognize the person staring back at me, hollow eyed, pushing 200 pounds, I knew I had to do something. So I joined a gym. Where I met the most obnoxious, loud, cocky, abrasive, Jillian Michaels wannabe personal trainer named Christina, who called me every time I missed a session, texted me to make sure I ate breakfast, and never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself. With hard work, and lots of failure before my successes I began to make strides in the right direction. It was an ugly process filled with sweat, tears, set backs, and endless frustrating gym sessions. But I’ve continued to push forward and plug away at my goals as I slowly learned and re-learned, and re-learned again, the meaning and value of self-respect and the importance of surrounding myself with people who are going to support me and not tear me down. In learning to love myself, and put in the work for myself, I have overcome many obstacles to transform into the person I am today. I followed Christina from gym to gym and have settled in nicely with my new “family” at Get In Shape for Women Danvers. With the never ending support of Linda, the manager, and the incredible mentoring from Michael, another trainer, and of course the tough love from Christina, I have a new found love for working out, absorbing physiological knowledge, and working towards helping others achieve their own personal fitness goals. With their love and support I have gained confidence in myself that has enabled me to be proud to share my story, and the courage to volunteer to share that story.

I walk into that gym no matter what kind of day I’ve been having, or what kind of mood I am in, and I can’t help but smile. I walk in and I just light up. Whether it’s hearing Linda shout my name at the top of her lungs, attempting to perfect but never quite getting the secret handshake right with Michael, or walking into a workout from hell (that I love) with Christina, I am eternally grateful to have them in my life. Not to mention all the women stopping to shout, “hi Kate!” or to tell me how great they feel after last workout, or just to tease me about one thing or another, I can’t help but feel like I have become apart of something special. I have a team of people behind me 100% and I have never been happier.

A Decade Later…

A decade has passed since my Dad died. A whole decade. I’ve grown out of my angsty teenage years and have settled into my still kind of angsty twenties. I often think about what it would be like if my Dad were still around. Having just attended my older sister’s wedding, I can only imagine she was feeling the same way too. In fact, all three of us have accomplished so much in the last ten years sometimes you can’t help but think about what he has missed. Chrissy is turning into Marie Curie, Paula is wrangling autism and settling into married life, and I’m grooming a team of former market basket minions and blasting sales off the charts. (Thank you greedy Greeks.)

It’s just hard to believe that he’s been gone ten years. Ten years. A lot has happened in ten years. Some days I feel like it was a lifetime ago, and other days I can’t imagine I’ve been living so much of my life without him. I remember every detail of that day. Where I was. Who I was with. What I said when we pulled up to the house. It felt so unreal. It still feels so unreal. He wasn’t a famous celebrity. The world didn’t stop to mourn his passing like we did. But every time someone close to us dies we are faced with our own mortality and the realization that nothing, and no one is forever, not even our Super Dad.

#yesallwomen

I thought twice about writing this. Then I thought three times before posting this. But in the end I decided I’m prepared to deal with the consequences…

Once again I find myself a woman in a man’s world. Back at a job where typically men have us outnumbered but us women are catching up. Working at the bakery surrounded by mostly females, I had forgotten what it was like to hear the shop talk that often circulates between the boys. And I call them boys, not men, because real men respect women and don’t shout degrading comments to each other about female customers. Haven’t we all seen the twitter campaigns and the celebrities endorsing women’s rights? And after that horrific incident in California the hashtag #yesallwomen that took the internet by storm? I have a few to add. #yesallwomen are people too. #yesallwomen have feelings. #yesallwomen feel uncomfortable because of idiots like you.

The incident in question happened a week ago, possibly even more than a week ago but it has really stuck with me. And I’ve stewed over it. And the more it pops back into my head the angrier I get. You better believe I stood up and said something when it happened. But the response I was met with was not at all any form of apology or shame. It was anger. Defiance. Not a sliver of understanding about hurt, feelings, or right or wrong. The bad effect it could have on business. The ill reputation that could follow this person through this small community where the store is like walking into an episode of cheers where everyone knows your name. It was all about how they do this all the time. Why is it different now? Why am I getting yelled at? I just didn’t understand how this was rocket science. Women are human beings. They possess feelings. They aren’t objects to be rated then given a number on a fuckable scale. I get boys will be boys. And to do it quietly is one thing, even though I still don’t agree with it. But to shout across the store with other customers, other WOMEN customers, was embarrassing, appalling, and incredibly wrong on so many levels I still can’t wrap my head around it.

It concerns me how boys are growing up these days. My cousin jokes that his wife hugs their two little boys too much. That they need to toughen up. But incidents like this make me want to hug them ten times more. And teach them from a young age about love and respect and treating everyone the same. I want to trap them in this bubble where they give spontaneous hugs and tell you that they love you for no reason other than you opened their yogurt in the morning or you colored in the right ice cream truck on the Friendly’s placemat. I want them stuck in this phase where they think I’m a superhero and the coolest person to take them to school because I’m “not an adult.” I don’t want them to know the evil in the world. And I know that’s impossible. That they’re going to grow up, and one day I’ll just be a boring cousin to them, but I can’t help but try to calculate in my head how much time I have to teach them all the things I want to teach them and I’m not even their parent. And they have great parents! I just don’t want to leave anything to chance. Because somewhere there is a gap in our society and culture where men learn to dominate, demean, and hurt women for no other reason than they feel like it.

My staff knows nothing of my past. They don’t know that I am a sexual assault survivor. They don’t know that every time they joke about rape in any context my blood boils. And I don’t really think it’s their business. And I didn’t think I needed a reason to call someone out for being disrespectful. I guess that makes me naive to assume that most men are reasonable, mature and respectful human beings. But it still shouldn’t matter. I didn’t, and shouldn’t have to, tell them what they say makes me uncomfortable and angry because of my past. It should be enough to take someone aside and tell them that as a female I feel disrespected by their actions and comments. And it still doesn’t sit well with me that to avoid further escalation it had to end in an “agree to disagree” screaming match to avoid causing any more of a scene. But I really don’t know who I’m more mad at, the boys…or myself. Did I handle it correctly? Should I be holding a staff meeting on sexual harassment and mutual respect? Do I need to print off booklets on how to treat women? Should I just be chalking this up to being a woman in a man’s world? I don’t know. What I do know is, #yesallwomen deserve to feel safe and respected no matter what.

April Awareness brings May Memories

April, as you may or may not know, is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. A whole month dedicated to educating people about the many forms of sexual assault with a focus on prevention. Prevention. I cringe at the word. Because April’s awareness initiative thrusts us into May, where my mind seems to continuously want to flash back to the memory of my assault on that summer like May night. And with the education lingering I often start to think about what I could have done to prevent my assault. The internal debate is brutal. And every year I tell myself I’m not going to go there. But I always find myself circling back. Welcome to victim blaming; where victims (survivors) are the biggest culprits for blaming themselves for their assaults. And who’s to blame them?

Ask a high schooler what they think someone should do to avoid sexual assault and one of the first answers you’ll get is “girls shouldn’t dress provocatively.” Interestingly enough, ask a group of adults and after “don’t walk alone at night,” “choice of clothing” is quick to come up. Advice and suggestions I’m not going to just write off completely, but what about the attacker? You never hear people respond by saying “men should respect women.” We don’t hear people say “men should control themselves.” It’s always about what women should do to prevent or lessen their chances of being assaulted. It’s infuriating! I’m proud of my body. I spend hours at the gym every day to sculpt the muscles that I have. If I want to show that off, I shouldn’t have to worry about being objectified because of my outfit choice. I should be able to show off that I have muscles. For example, last week at work I was waiting on a customer. He reached over the counter and without asking permission gripped my arm to feel my bicep while telling me what great arms I had. It took all self control not to lay him out flat. What made him think that it was ok to touch me? Just because my sleeves fit tightly over my arms isn’t an invitation to feel the muscles underneath. Nothing is an invitation to touch me other than me flat out saying directly, “hey it’s ok to touch me.” I wore long sleeve shirts to work for the rest of the week and sweat my ass off. This week I’m back to short sleeves and a hardened attitude with heightened awareness. I flinch. I dodge. I squirm. Whatever it takes to get out of the way from even an involuntary bump. I shouldn’t be going through my day afraid that everyone is going to hurt me. But I do. Because some asshole 7 years ago thought it was fun to do so. 

I’m told over and over that it wasn’t my fault I was raped. And as much as I understand that it wasn’t, I still analyze that night and what I could have done differently. But the bottom line is I said no. Over and over. I did what was in my power to attempt to prevent my assault. But the pressure and the expectations shouldn’t be on the victims and what we could have or should have done or could do and should do in the future to prevent sexual assault. Perhaps we can all focus on being decent respectful human beings and we won’t have to have entire months dedicated to educating people on sexual violence. Until then the vicious cycle continues. In April we become aware. And in May it’s all a memory…