Hello friends, as yet another public figure has been accused of sexual assault, I’ve been seeing a lot of posts and comments asking the same questions that always follow these allegations:
“Why didn’t she report the assault when it happened?” “How come women always wait for someone else to come forward first?” “How can we believe people who waited so long to report?” It’s puzzling to see these questions being asked time and time again, particularly when asked by other women. There have been countless articles written on why victims choose not to report sexual assault when it happens; they follow these allegations like clockwork. People fail to realize how isolating these comments can be. I’ve been wracking my brain to try and understand the mentality behind these questions, and all I’ve come up with is that the people asking are too detached from the victims to recognize and sympathize with the thought process that goes into choosing whether to report. I’ve chosen to share with you my reasons for not reporting in hopes that it will leave the people in my life who ask these questions something to think about before they start criticizing the next victim they read about. Most of you know that in December of my freshman year at college I was assaulted in the dorms and made the decision not to report the man who did it. This always seems to surprise people and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I grew up with police officers being to majority of my male role models and they assume of all people, I should be comfortable contacting the police if I need them. Maybe it’s because they remember how I used to brag about being able to throw a punch because my dad made sure I knew how to defend myself. Or maybe its just because they cannot think of any downside to reporting that makes sense to them. There are several reasons I decided to not report my assault. First, I was in denial that an assault had even occurred. There was a part of my brain telling me that if I didn’t report, then maybe I hadn’t actually been assaulted. Maybe if I just buried it and refused to acknowledge it, I would be able to continue with life as it should be and forget anything traumatic even happened. I desperately wanted to ignore it and move on. Another reason I never reported him was because several of my “friends” at the time made me feel like I was overreacting. One told me that going over to his dorm was a universal sign that I wanted it. Another said that as long as I wasn’t “fully raped,” it wasn’t worth my time because no one would believe me. Now I did have other friends urging me to say something but hearing what those friends had to say made me feel like I was just going to waste peoples’ time, and I hate being an inconvenience to others. Speaking of being an inconvenience to others, here comes my worst reason (but still a valid one) for not reporting. I didn’t want to ruin that man’s life. I knew if I reported him, he would be kicked out of school, possibly arrested, and maybe even serve jail time. I wanted to believe that I didn’t have the worst character judgement in the world, and maybe he had made a mistake, or maybe I unknowingly said yes to something he hadn’t even asked. At that point in time, I didn’t value myself enough as a person to see how backwards this thought process was. I no longer care about what would happen to him if I ever decide to report, because I recognize now that he made a decision that may have consequences; I did not choose to be assaulted People often don’t realize the financial cost that can come along with reporting sexual assault. Depending on the outcome of the report and whether the accused pleads guilty, you may have to pay for lawyers, take time off of work/school to attend court dates, not to mention any medical bills that may turn up, depending on how sever the attack was. While rape kits are free, other health care may not be. I didn’t have a job at the time of my assault and my parents were helping put both me and my sister through college. I was worried that if my case made it to trial, it would be too large of a financial burden for me to handle, and while I know my parents would have found a way to make it work, I didn’t think it was worth it. The last two reasons I didn’t report were shame and doubt. I was ashamed that I allowed myself to get into a situation that my parents, counselors, and high school guest speakers had all warned me about. I felt stupid and that the assault was my fault because of the choices I had made. I was ashamed that I wasn’t strong enough to tell anyone, and ashamed that I wasn’t able to tell that the first guy I trusted enough to go on a date with was actually pretty scummy. I was filled with doubt that anything would be done to help me. I was sure there was little physical evidence that he had touched me, but there was plenty to show that I had touched him. Between the cuts on my hands and his jaw, I figured if he spun the story to say that I hit him unprovoked, people would believe him. There are stories of women reporting crimes all the time only to have those taking their statements challenge their memory of the event. I doubted that anyone would really believe me. These are the reasons I chose not to report and whether they seem like valid reasons to you doesn't really matter. You don't have to agree with my choices but you should respect that they were my choices to make. Other people have other reasons to not report; they don’t want to deal with invasive questioning and medical procedures to collect evidence, their attacker is someone close to them, or they are just too scared at that point in time. Whether a victim chooses to report their assault is a completely personal choice and isn’t anyone else’s business. Circumstances change, which is why some victims come forward months, or even years later. I know I have no intentions of ever reporting my attacker because at this point it would be too mentally draining for me, however things change; maybe one day I will be ready to do that. Until then, please don’t judge me or anyone else for how they choose to handle being assaulted. People cope with trauma in different ways and reporting isn’t always the healthiest or safest option. The next time a celebrity or politician is accused of sexual assault, instead of questioning why it took their victims so long to speak up, show some empathy. I’m not saying you have to believe someone is guilty before they proven to be so, but maybe showing their potential victims the same courtesy you would want them to show you isn’t such a bad idea.
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Okie dokie, so we're just going to jump straight into this one. Last night I received this lovely message from an anonymous account that was promptly deleted upon me opening the text. And I just have a few things I would like to say:
First of all, I’m glad you have the confidence to send this to me anonymously. I mean, how brave of you to not attach your name or face to such a spiteful message; it really is inspirational. The only thing that could’ve made it better would be the use of an anime character as your profile picture. People say not to react to trolls, but I believe no action leads to people like you gaining even more confidence to wreak havoc in the lives of the people you target. Now, you claim that I “play the victim” of sexual assault and expect people to believe me because I’m a feminist. Well, congratulations, you got one thing right; I am indeed a feminist. I believe in the crazy notion that men and women should be on equal playing fields without men having to lower their standards, but that’s where your message stops being valid. I do not play the victim, I am the victim. Just because I haven’t given you and the internet a full rundown of an incredibly personal experience, does not make that experience any less real or valid. The general populous is not owed an explanation of every detail, and honestly, I don’t really care if you believe me or not. The people in my life I need to believe me know what happened and they have stood beside me for the last 2 years. The only time a victim should have to reveal what happened to them is when or if they choose to file a police report. Without accurate information, there would be too little for investigators to go on, but this process can be uncomfortable and draining for all those involved. There’s a reason you haven’t heard about police involvement in my case, and it’s because I chose to not file a report in hope that I would be able to move on and forget. In fact, I didn’t even tell my parents about the incident until recently because I was worried they may have wanted me to do something officially about it. Looking back, I wish I would have filed a report, but I made the choice that was best for me at the time, and now I am in a place where I don’t need to pursue this further. You say that as a victim of sexual assault, I should not be dressed as a “slut.” Well when I was assaulted I was wearing a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and my favorite blue flannel. That’s pretty much as conservative as I can dress without throwing on a turtle neck and a chastity belt. I had to throw away my flannel because it reminded me of him. The way a person dresses in no way represents what they are or are not willing to consent to. I should be able to dress in as little clothing I want and feel confident that my body will not be violated in any way. I was looking for a good night out with friends I trust, and that's all I was looking for. It has been two years since I went on a date that changed my life. The mental roller-coaster that was a result of the incident ended in me losing friends, transferring schools, and completely changing the way I look at almost all aspects of life. I’m not confident, I don’t laugh or smile very much, I have to tell people I don’t enjoy hugs because being touched (even in the most innocent of ways) triggers flashbacks. I have been diagnosed with three different mental illnesses because of one night, and people who send cowardly anonymous messages just to get a rise out of others have no place in my life. I hope you see this post and do a little reflecting. While I’m unsure of your motives, I need you to know your message did nothing but make me talk to the friends I always lean on. Am I angry? Yes. Am I hurt? You bet. Will I keep posting resources and messages of encouragement for other victims? Yup. Are you winning in any way? Not that I can tell. Am I going to keep on living my life despite assholes like you trying to ruin my day? I sure as hell am. And now a poem from a week after that night: Thanks So Much I opened myself up to you And the one thing I received Is a bloodied fist and anger At the way that I believed That you were a special person With whom I could put my trust I can’t believe I let you ruin me And fill me with disgust They tell me not to blame myself But what else am I to do When I put myself in this place Being alone with you I mean I guess I’m pretty lucky It could have been much worse But now whenever I close my eyes I see you. It’s a curse. It’s easy for them to tell me That this was not my fault But whenever I hear those words It’s like filling wounds with salt Because it was based on my judgment Me going to your place Hell I even feel kind of guilty For punching your stupid face How fucked up is that Me feeling sorry for you I guess that’s how I process The shit you put me through So thank you for destroying All the faith that I had I won’t be able to trust another For fear it’ll go bad I haven’t posted in a while, and I’m probably only doing so now because it’s three in the morning and I can’t sleep because I’ve been thinking a lot about events that happened yesterday, so please read with knowledge that a lack of sleep played a role in this post. Also, this is my obligatory language warning…
Today was a day full of surprises. I decided to go for a run (something that I avoid doing at all costs); my ankles didn’t break after two steps; and, despite my fears, I didn’t die from hacking up a lung. Overall, it was a pretty good time. That is until I got a pretty nasty surprise on my walk home… “Hey fat ass! What are you doing outside?” “Yeah. Giant whores like you should stay inside where no one has to look at you!” The words were hurled at me from inside the apartment I was passing. I didn’t look up, but judging by the voices, the kids yelling were no older than fifteen. As I hurried past, the insults kept flying, hitting me hard. While I made it into my apartment without reacting, knowing that anything I said or did would only fuel them, as I climbed the stairs the thick skin I was forced to develop in middle school fell away. By the time I got to my room that all too familiar feeling of self-loathing was beginning to show itself again. As I changed out of what I thought were cute and flattering workout clothes my fingers traced over the white letters of words etched into my thigh. “Fat ass.” As I stared at the words that seem inescapable, I realized something: I was mad, a whole new surprise. I was mad that I let these kids make me feel less than human. Angry that words could break me down and tempt me to pick up old, dangerous habits. Furious that until I heard those words, I had been having a good day; something that anyone who lives with depression, anxiety, or any other mental illness can tell you is quite rare. The reason it’s important that I got angry is that I was able to look at the scenario from a different light than usual. It reminded me that I’m not the only person that these words effect, and with that reminder comes the point of this post. We all need to be more careful with our words. I know this is something we hear all the time; it’s too the point that suggestions of being kinder go in one ear and out the other. However, today more than ever, we as people need to come together to make the world more inclusive. To do this I have just one suggestion; if a problem can’t be fixed in less than one minute, don’t point it out. I know some people think they are being helpful by pointing out flaws (not that that’s what the kids in my apartment building were doing, but I digress), however, this can do more harm than good. Go ahead and say something about a piece of lettuce in someone’s teeth or that maybe they just said something mean, but more permanent traits aren’t for you to point out. Chances are people know they are overweight or that have a slight stutter. There is no reason to draw attention to such issues, other than self-satisfaction, which has no place in a conversation in which you are supposedly trying to help someone. We need to start treating people like they are actual living people and not just actors in our individual lives. With that I’ll leave you with a poem I wrote a while back. Ignore the fact the meter changes halfway through Sticks and Stones Sticks and stones may break my bones But words can never hurt me. To tell this lie to children Is to fail them most completely. From experience I can say The wounds that heal the least Aren’t the bones I’ve fractured But the thoughts that are released When a person I hold close Decides to cut me with their tongue. It’s such a shame we lie To children when they’re young. Because I can support bones With a cast made of plaster. But the emotional damage, That’s a different disaster. Because unlike a bone That heals after a break Emotional blows pile up Like fall leaves you would rake Into a heap to keep at bay But just the slightest gust Can blow those leaves away Causing them to scatter Across the yard they go. All the hard work that was done Wasted making you feel low. Never knowing when the wind Will strike your mind again Means being on constant guard Hoping you’ll be ready when The next great attack comes From a person you hold dear. Unable to focus on life Because you’re living in fear. That’s what words can do To a person unaware So let’s cut the bullshit And teach our kids to care. Hear that? Listen real hard,
That my friends, is the sound of a well-meaning human telling someone else that in order to feel better or be loved by others, they must first learn to love themselves. For many this phrase is the go-to advice to be given whenever they have a friend who is suffering from depression. And in theory, this advice makes sense and should be followed. However, life is not a theory. Learning to love yourself is no simple task, and I, for one, am sick of hearing this phrase thrown about like a cure all for people's problems. Telling someone who hates themselves that their life will be better if they learn self-love is about as helpful as telling a penguin it can fly if it just flaps its wings. Sure it sounds good, but no matter how hard a penguin flaps, its feet will never leave the ground. Just as there are birds that can't fly, there are people who can't love themselves. But, if you told that penguin to jump in the water and flap its wings, that little guy would be swimming circles around you. I'm not saying that self-love isn't important, only that it is not the only way to feel whole as a person. Drawing from my own experience, I need the love of others to feel good about myself. When I'm told that no one will love me if I don't love myself, it does a lot more harm than good. That is telling me that I will be alone until I have learned self-love, but when I am alone, there is no one to point out the good things. When I'm depressed I am not in a rational state of mind. When I am depressed, I am incapable of doing even the simplest things correctly. I need someone who loves me enough to remind me that I am not a stain on the underwear of society. It's almost the opposite of the saying in fact. For me, I need others' love to love (or at least not hate) myself. Some people may think that this is an unhealthy state of mind, needing the love of others to feel whole. In reality, it is just an alternative way of surviving. I know that I love a lot of people who think poorly of themselves. It would break my heart if they were to think that I would suddenly stop caring about them because of their perceptions. People with depression/anxiety disorders feel alone enough as it is, without being told no one loves them. That's what it feels like when people use that phrase. It feels like you're saying no one loves them and it is their fault. All of that being said, I would like to reitterate the fact that self-love is important on the road to fighting depression and anxiety. Just don't forget about all the other paths out there. And if this saying is your go-to advice, please don't stop trying to help others. Maybe just add a few more things to your advice bank. Below is a link to a list of things to say when are you trying to help someone who is depressed. http://psychcentral.com/lib/best-things-to-say-to-someone-whos-depressed/ Just to get this blog a-rolling, I'm going to share some "interesting" facts. That way we can get to know each other a little better.
1. I love making lists. It's a great way to get yourself organized, or at least convince yourself of that. 2.I cannot participate in trust falls. It's not that I don't trust people, I just really have a fear of hurting myself stemming from a long history of broken bones. 3.I get carsick watching video games. Mario Kart is not my friend. 4. If I could meet anyone... It'd be Agent 355 of the Culper Spy Ring. She was a spy during the Revolutionary War, possibly responsible for showing Benedict Arnold's true colors. No one knows if she really existed. 5.I believe in ghosts. My grandma's cupboards open without help. Enough said. 6.My fingers are double jointed. It's fun tell people it's broken and see how they react. 7. My favorite smell is Deer Season. Nothing smells better than fallen leaves, mud, apples, and crisp Autumn air. 8.I snort when I laugh. My friends often keep track of how many snorts can occur on a given day. I even gained the nickname "Dumblesnort," awarding snorts to funny people based on the Hogwarts House. It was usually a tie between Gryffindor and Slytherin. 9.I despise tater-tots. I know, I know. I'm dreadfully mistaken. But I really truly feel that a tater-tot is a waste of a starch and is a disgrace to all other potatoes. 10.My camp name is Apollo. I work at a summer camp where the counselors have nicknames. I chose Apollo because I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little, Apolo Anton Ohno is the bomb.com, and I love Greek mythology. 11.I love (gulp) Nickleback. I'm not even going to defend it. I know it's wrong. I just can't help it. |
AuthorI'm a Yooper who misses the stars. I make a pretty solid pasty and I think words are pretty spiffy. Archives
February 2019
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