As I begin this post, It’s been less than 24 hours since I published #whyIdidntreport. I’ve had a lot to think about. This evening as I did the dishes, it occurred to me that I missed one.
3. I was 18 and a cocktail waitress. My drink was spiked while I was working. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and received medical attention before my attacker could get to me.
I posted the first #whyIdidntreport to Facebook and Instagram. I made the Facebook post public knowing there would be negative comments. I made it public because I am in a place and time where I can speak and write about the assaults in my life. Not every survivor is. So I speak for myself, and I speak for those that cannot. I speak because we should be heard. We should be believed.
The first comment to the Facebook post was “#WHYIDONTHAVESEXWITHPEOPLEIMNOTMARRIEDTO.”
You read that correctly. I was victim blamed.
This is another reason I’m speaking up about the assaults I’ve experienced. Because there are still people (in this case, a white male, evangelical Christian who happened to marry my cousin) that conflate sex with consent. Several people commented on the post, to point out his errors, to back me up, and to be rightfully angry. I am still enraged. But I am also empowered.
Here is a list of all of the things pointed out to my cousin’s husband that should be repeated:
- The victim is never at fault
- A survivors prior or current sexual activity does not have ANY bearing on their assault
- Marriage does not protect from assault
- Husbands rape, beat, assault and harass their wives at an alarming rate
- Sex is not the same as consent
- Consent can be withdrawn at any time
- Sexual activity before marriage does not have anything to do with assault, harassment or rape
- The victim is never at fault
- This is about consent
- We are never at fault
I am exhausted. But I’m still here and I won’t stop.
#metoo #ibelieveher #believesurvivors #whyIdidntreport
- I was 15 and invited a boy home when my parents were gone for the first time. We started kissing on my bed. He wanted to have sex. I didn’t. He got pushy and I pushed back, sliding out from under him. He left, I called a friend. She didn’t believe me. I called another friend. She wanted to know why he’d do that. They didn’t believe me, why would anyone else?
- I was in college and “dating” an older coworker. We worked at a restaurant. We were having sex when he flipped me onto my stomach. I said no, but he penetrated anally anyway. Who would believe me when we were already having sex?
#metoo #Ibelieveher #believesurvivors #whyIdidn’treport
It’s 6:52 a.m. Sunday morning and I’ve been awake since 2:30 a.m. I got back from my first international business trip just before midnight on Friday, which happened to take me to Hong Kong. It is 13 hours ahead in Hong Kong and I can’t begin to describe how tired and awake I am right now. They say time travel doesn’t exist – but I wholeheartedly disagree. When I left Hong on Friday, it was 4:30 p.m. When I landed in Boston, it was 11 p.m. The flights were 17 hours total. See? Time travel. It exists.
But, oh, what a trip. It was so worth the weird semi conscious state I’m in. The work was good, but the time I had to explore the city was phenomenal. Hong Kong truly is where East meets West. The blend of culture, cuisine, architecture and history is like no where else. I feel so lucky to have had this opportunity. I worked hard to get where I am, but there is no denying the existence in our lives of happenstance, fate, luck, or whatever you call it.
I took a walking tour of Central Hong Kong, ate life changing dim sum, visited a temple, explored Cat Alley, went to the Night Market, took the tram to the top of Victoria Peak and walked down what must have been the least direct way possible, and took the Star Ferry to Kowloon to meander and explore. I’d love to be able to go back some day and spend more time exploring. Maybe with more hard work a little bit of luck, that’ll happen.
2017 was a year. It was hard, frightening, sad, and anxiety inducing, with an undercurrent of love, hope, success and kindness. And here we are, the first day of 2018. Will it be more of the same? Probably. But I’m going to try so very, very hard to bring more attention to the love, hope, success, kindness and even joy in my life. I’ll be trying to do some of that here.
I spent a quiet morning drinking coffee in bed with the whole family – three cats, the dog and my partner. It was just what I needed. I’m heading into a few months of travel for work, and I’m savoring the time I have at home.
I hope you have the time and space to reset for the new year. Here’s to a very Happy New Year, from my strange little family to you and yours.
How do you carry your pain
All of the slights, jabs, cuts, bruises, broken tissue and bones?
Is it the weight on your shoulders that pulls you forward
Or the drop of your head?
A hesitance to make eye contact.
A resistance to any kindness, a suspicion of all?
Or do you wear it proudly
Bearing it all to show the world you cannot be stopped, cannot be shamed.
I slide my pain into an extra pocket on my heart
Keeping it close so I can pull it out and examine it like the frogs we dissected in school.
Are you there
Do you still hurt?
Is it less or more now that time has passed?
It’s probably the same.
Your edges have begun to fray, an old wound I cannot bury or let fly.
So back you go, nestled close and safe until the next time.
This past weekend was bitterly cold. Like below zero before the windchill could be factored in, and while we had power and a full tank of oil, the house got cold. By Sunday I decided the only thing to do was turn on the oven and bake.
I found a recipe from Food52 for Cinnamon Scone Bread, pulled out my pastry cutter and the marble rolling board that had been sitting in the cabinet for over a year. And it felt so good to read the recipe, find the ingredients, and break out some pastry skills. I hadn’t cut butter into flour in ages and finding the delicate line where flour and egg and milk just turn to dough, and then working it gently on the board was exactly what I needed.
It felt a little like coming home. And in a sense, it was a homecoming. The marble board was a gift from my Mom, and the Thanksgiving pies were rolled out on it for as long as I can remember, until it came to live with me. She and my sister were almost there with me, laughing and joking and reading the recipe wrong. When I was done, the house was warmer, the scent was heavenly, and it also happened to be Valentine’s Day. It turned out to be “one of the best things you’ve ever baked,” according to my Valentine.
Warm bread, warm home, warm heart.