Five on Friday: What I'd Like You to be Aware of in Sexual Assault Awareness Month

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month.

Are you aware of sexual assault? Cool, I guess we can assign some obscure cancer to April’s awareness goals now.

That was fresh. I know they don’t mean “do you know sexual assault exists?” I think it means “Did you know about these aspects of/resources for/nuances about/prevention tips for/little-known facts about/myths surrounding the cause of the month?”

And the truth is, I made a pact with myself long ago to never be silent about my status as a survivor of sexual assault . . . so I should really be glad for the opportunity to talk about it, particularly now when I haven’t had the chance to write, speak or perform on the topic much in the past year or two.

So, what does this survivor  want you to be “aware” of about sexual assault?

1. I personally always have and always will use humor as a coping mechanism. Sometimes it falls flat (see opening sentences, above). Sometimes it makes other people really uncomfortable, which is something I’m always okay with. #sorrynotsorry

2. To every single person who ever told me any variation of “It will be the first thing you think about in the morning and the last thing you think about at night for the rest of your life” . . . this has never been true for me. I hope in the past twenty-five plus years, you’ve realized this is not a good thing to say.

3. I look fine. I act fine. I am fine. But sometimes I still get really scared in ways that I was never scared before I was raped.

4. When my fear is done scaring me, it usually makes me angry (see last line above). The anger aftershocks do seem to be subsiding a little as I approach my third decade (!) of this affecting me for the rest of my life. (That's something else I was warned about.)

5. Now for the most important one: You. Know. Survivors. You have met, live next door to, work with, casually know, intimately know and even love survivors of all manners of sexual assault. You might not know this about them, because there is stigma and pain and suppression and secrecy that survivors of other violent crimes do not experience. 

Oh. Right. I guess that's why we need this month, as a free pass for opening up conversation. For permission to normalize talking about sexual assault. Because nearly every time I put myself out there, publicly, as a survivor, I get stealthy requests to talk to another survivor who hasn't told anyone. Who wants to talk, who wants support, who is afraid to ask for it. Who wants to know how to one day move on, to love and enjoy life again. 

Silent survivors: I see you, I believe you, I know you exist in droves. I'm always going to be one of the vocal ones until the day things feel safer for you, even if that means continuing to live in silence of your own choosing.

 

Five on Friday: An Art-full Holiday

I had so much fun being crafty and making gifts for friends and family this holiday season. I was also surprised and delighted to be the recipient of so many lovely pieces of art. From the silly to the sublime, I adore them all:

1. This is just one sample of the many wonderful drawings my youngest daughter has been creating lately. Many of them were given away to make other people happy but I got to keep this one all to myself:

2. The very best thing about this card from my BFF is that she laughed all through giving it to me. I am sure she is actually *still* laughing about it and that is something I really love about her. Also, this is super relatable and I am going to incorporate "downcycling" into my vernacular:

3. The next two are gifts from friends from work and were not made by the gift givers . . . but I do know the artists and each one is poignant in its own way. 

First up, a joint gift from two women I didn't even know last year at this time who I've met and grown to love through my new job as the Curator at our small local Museum. They gave me a print of a painting that I had admired.

Our last exhibit was a watercolor show that included many book illustrations by a local artist and delightful human, Doris Ettlinger. She painted this for a book called T is for Teacher and had used our former school house Museum as inspiration. If you wondered what the inside of my Museum looks like, it's this: (coal stove, clock, chalkboard and all!)

4. Something I was very proud of creating at the Museum last year was the Plein Airing of the Quilts . . . an event that invited artists to sit in our yard and paint (known as a "plein air" event") while we hung our historic quilts on the line to air them out.

The quilts looked so beautiful and attracted so many visitors. They got much-needed fresh air and sunshine and were easier to enjoy. My assistant (who is also now a good friend) and I extended the original one-day event to last for the entire month and have agreed that it will now be a twice-yearly occurrence. 

As a very special "Merry-Christmas-Happy-New-Year-Happy-Work-Anniversary-Congratulations-On-Your-Success" gift, she purchased me an oil painting created at our Plein Airing of the Quilts. The local man who made it is a supporter of the Museum and a talented artist. (I don't think he has a website but you can read about him here.)

I adore this painting and all that it symbolizes.

5. You might think it'd be hard to top that in poignancy but there's a reason I saved this one for last . . . my amazingly talented and intuitive oldest daughter has become extremely prolific in linocut printmaking. Basically, she carves an image and/or words (in reverse) into a block of soft linoleum and then makes prints with these stamps.

For my gift this year, she combined my wounded, flying heart rape survival imagery with the lyrics that I found so much comfort in after my rapist's prison term was up.

This kid! She outdoes herself with creative gifts every year. The thought, love, care and detail she put into this one is going to be really hard to top . . .  isn't it amazing?

Five on Friday: Here We Go Again

Didn't I just have to do a little survivor self care last week for Five on Friday? Another week under this Administration means, unsurprisingly, another week of new lows.

Plenty of other things the past two years have upset me, but the mimicking of Dr. Ford by our supposed leader struck a different sort of nerve. I didn't even turn the volume up, the headline and comments were enough to make me feel completely nauseated and defeated. I knew I'd bounce back, I'm resilient, but sometimes I need a minute.

The next morning inspiration popped up on the Motherwell Magazine Instagram page:

This, apparently, was just what I needed

I remembered who the fuck I am. I am a fighter and an activist that refuses to let the bad guys win. I'm the woman that people ask to speak at last-minute vigils for sexual assault survivors and I'm the woman who fucking slays it. I had several people approach me afterwards to tell me how inspiring I was but I don't think any of them realize how inspiring it is for ME to have done it.

Here are five ways how:

1. Being asked to speak inspired me to write, and I know that writing is cathartic for me. In just over 24 hours I was able to write something I felt really good about and then didn't even need my cheat sheet when I had the mike.

2.  A little girl whom I've met a few times was there; I know her parents. She was unsure about holding a votive candle of her own. Ultimately she declined but when other candles were lit she looked like she may have had some regrets. When it was almost my turn to speak, I asked her if she'd like to hold my candle for me. She said yes so I handed it to her and then walked up to the microphone. I was surprised when I realized she had followed me. She stood next to me the entire time. Mini-activists inspire me.

3. Last week I realized that soon it would be the 20th anniversary of Matthew Shephard's death. I wanted to try to organize something but . . . just hadn't. This experience reminded me how easy it is to organize a vigil and connected me to a fellow activist that was willing to collaborate with me. Within 24 hours we secured a location, arranged for speakers, created flyers and an event page. Within 4 hours of the event being made public, the school librarian let me know that an 8th grade girl is doing a National History Day project on Matthew Shepard and would like to be involved. Interestingly, her first name is the same one that my little candle holding friend has. Young activists inspire me.

4. My parents, who have inspired and supported me my entire life, were there.



5. Most of the crowd, though, were strangers whose reactions, comments, and willingness to repeat my refrain at the end of my speech inspired me. 

    

We can become the person that others feel safe to confide in 

by practicing saying this simple phrase: I believe you.

 Say it with me: I believe you.

If we’ve never met before: I believe you.

If I’ve known you for my whole life but never knew this: I believe you.

If I’ve love and trusted and never been harmed by your abuser: I believe you.

If it was one time or multiple times, if you were a child or an adult: I believe you.

If you were sober or dry or drunk or high: I believe you.

If you were walking alone or wearing revealing clothing: I believe you.

If you said yes but then changed your mind: I believe you.

If you’ve never told anyone else before: I believe you.

If you’ve told other people and they said you were lying: I believe you.

If it happened days or decades ago: I believe you. 

Everyone here, I want you to know that I believe you.

And I’ll see you at the polls on November 6^th

Ultimately, I feel like the Supreme Court nomination we're all fighting against, honestly, is going to happen anyway. We can't expect change over (2018 - 1776 x 365 = ) 88,3330 nights, right? (*sarcasm)

But I've seen so many videos of individuals and crowds protesting since Wednesday, so much vocal resistance. I'm completely re-energized by it. Change is happening and we're living through it. It's difficult and at times certainly feels demoralizing, debilitating, defeating . . . but we just need to collectively take a deep breath and remember who the fuck we are.

We're fighters.

Five on Friday: Survivor Self-Care this Week

Hey survivors, I feel you this week. I feel your trauma and rage and depression. I feel your readiness to mobilize to action with me.

I feel the need for community and for self care. For me, this means that I am going to do my best to:

1. Get good food, exercise, sleep.

2. Not engage with hateful strangers on the Internet.

3. Take media breaks.

4. Look for ways to laugh.

5. Remember that I can't fix the overwhelming problems of the world and count the work I can do, whether it be a conversation about patriarchy/white supremacy, a performance with Meta Theatre Company or educating myself as much as possible. I can do these things and remember that they make a difference and I can feel proud for my own small impact on my corner of the world.


What are you doing for you?

Five On Friday: How I Spent My Spring Break

Hiking El Yunque rainforest in Puerto Rico . . . APRIL FOOLS! These are just some of the pictures that Facebook's On This Day has been taunting me with this week, from a trip four years ago.

This Spring Break has featured:
1. Only Friday and Monday off for the teenagers as the recent storms/extended power outages closed school unexpectedly last month.
2. Crappy weather.
3. No fun plans

Wait, wait, that's not my list. I'm going to stop right there and tell you what we DID do that's worth noting:

1.  Really enjoyed having Easter fall on April Fools' Day. The, uh, Bunny hid the kids' baskets this year. It extended the morning's festivities and created a lot of fun memories like all 7 of us standing in our small bathroom trying to find one of the baskets (should have been easy, right? Oh but that Bunny is GOOD!) Also, this:

We could probably do this other days, too, right?

2.  Cleaned out the board games and the non-used toys in the boys' room. FEELS SO GOOD.

3. Spent some time on Easter Day looking through my parents' High School yearbooks. I am really into Charm Club and also these two ladies' captions:

4. Got some much-needed kid shoe shopping done and it turned into a super-fun outing, partly because a department store was closing and selling their mannequins. We might have to go back and get one when they're marked down further, the possibilities are endless . . .

5. Got the  Meta Theatre Company's "What Were You Wearing: Survivor Art Exhibit" set up last night and then ran through our show. It's made up of a scene we've only performed once, one that we've performed a few times, two new poems and a brand new open letter to Patriarchy at the end. It all came together beautifully and I can't wait for tonight's Opening Reception!

Five on Friday: In Defense of No

I feel like there's a lot of pressure to say YES. Say yes to your kids more, they're only young once! Say yes to helping with the bakesale-protest-schooldance-candlelightvigil-cleanupday! Yes yes yes!

I'd been starting to feel overwhelmed by scheduling and realized I was just spacing out on too many things. I was already trying to scale back when the nor'easter hit and we had 5+ days of no power, school or work (for me).  It was slow, and it was nice.

I combined my desire to scale back with lessons learned from the power outage to realize there were plenty of good reasons to stand in defense of NO.

1. Power outage lesson: No screen time. I don't think we have a ton of screen time to start with but over the winter we certainly rely on it more. Without power the kids were finding all sorts of fun ways to stay occupied and there was even, somehow, less bickering. So I'm saying no to screen time with more frequency, but not as a punishment, as an encouragement for other creative play. (I'm also following up with, "Do you want to play a game with me?" more frequently.)

2. Power outage lesson: I know I already touched on this in last week's list but it bears repeating: there are no excuses for not getting together with local family more often. We had so much fun visiting, eating dinner with and playing games with family when the power was out. We need cut back the scheduling craziness and do that more.

3. Ah, the scheduling craziness: start saying no to more commitments. Birthday parties for classmates that we don't ever hang with, performances with my theatre troupe (hard for me to do so I'm focusing my energy on a bigger show and exhibit we're doing next month).

4. Not attending every argument I'm invited to--online version. No more arguing with strangers. Oh, there's been so much infuriating ignorance lately. I'm refusing to engage with people who clearly aren't willing to have an actual conversation--so much so that I'm not even going to give examples! (Go me!)

5. Balancing the last two with saying no to what is completely unacceptable and responding accordingly.  This has really been driven home by that big project I mentioned in #3--we at The Meta Theatre Company are assembling a Survivor Art installation for Sexual Assault Awareness Month. We've gathered stories from survivors of power-based personal violence about what they were wearing at the time of their assaults. When they said "no," they were ignored. So I am saying no to inaction. I am saying no to accepting or ignoring this. I am saying yes to cutting back in other areas in my life so I can create, assemble, advertise for, set up and perform in this show.

Five on Friday: This One's for the Fellas

Hi Guys.

There's been a lot of talk this week of high-profile case of a powerful man sexually harassing and assaulting multiple women. Of course then there's all the expected spinoff conversation on everything the women had done wrong. Then there are the questions to the other men, asking why they never said or did anything about it. Hey Men: people don't believe us when we say we've been assaulted--we need your help.  Even if we're not your Moms or Sisters or Girlfriends or Friends . . . for fuck's sake, man, we're human, aren't we? Do the right thing.

Maybe you've never witnessed anything like this, so maybe you think it's just . . . I don't know, something that only happens in the news. Rarely. Far away. Wouldn't ever happen to one of your loved ones, anyway. I used to think that about rape, and I'm a woman! But after I was raped and then was very vocal about it, countless other women began confiding in me about their own experiences. I've given up counting how many survivors I know.

Sure, I survived that one pretty extreme circumstance (a stranger breaking into my apartment and raping me at knife point), but I grew up safe, secure, cared-for and loved. I consider myself lucky to not have been molested as a child, harassed in the workplace, a victim of domestic or dating violence. As a matter of fact, when I look back upon my life, I initially think that I haven't really had to deal with much in this regard . . . but then I remember that one time. And another. And another. And so many more.

Why don't these moments come to mind immediately for me? Why don't they stand out? Is it because they weren't physically violent? Or is it because these incidents are so common for girls and women, we actually come to accept them as a normal part of life?

I think it's that. And that? That is infuriating.  Here are five memories from my lifetime in which men tried to touch, harm or intimidate me. And if you don't understand why, for example, numbers two or three are problematic, I'm going to ask you to try to set your male privilege aside momentarily and imagine what the realistic threats against women are on a daily basis.

But then I want you to assume your male privilege again; and I want you to use it when you  see another man abusing his.

1. The time I was squeezing past a family friend who was seated at a table. He grabbed my ass. I was eleven, maybe twelve years old. (I slapped his face. He laughed at me.)

I was around this age.

2. The time my toddler and I were walking out of the hospital--nobody was hurt, I think I may have been just dropping something off. It was drizzling. A man in a suit walked out at the same time as me. He offered to drive me and my baby to my car. I said no thank you. He offered again. I said no thank you. He asked again. I asked him if he had a car seat (thinking that would shut him up). He said that he was the President of the hospital. I said I didn't care. He kept insisting.  I walked away. (I later looked on the Hospital's website. He really was the President. I sent him an email. I got no response.)

3. The time my friends and I were driving to the beach on a sunny summer Sunday. Two men in a work van kept ending up next to us in traffic. The one in the passenger seat opened up the centerfold in a pornographic magazine and held it up to the window every time we were next to their van. (I copied the business' phone number down and called the main line first thing Monday morning. The Owner was rather unhappy with this news.)

4. The time a stranger began following me in broad daylight. I zig-zagged across streets to confirm that I wasn't imagining things. (When I made a quick move into a building without him noticing, I watched him look around for me and then give up.)

5. The time I was visiting my friend when she was tending bar. It was the end of the night and nobody else was there so we got to chat while she waited for closing time. A man came in and sat next to me; struck up conversation with us both. He revealed in conversation that he was an off-duty cop. When I mentioned something about my husband, the banter took a quick and serious downturn. My ring was on the wrong finger. (True. And I don't need to explain that to anyone.) He was pissed. Also, he made sure I knew that if he were my husband, I'd have a huge rock on my finger (I'm quite fond of my Las Vegas hotel gift shop $12 silver band, thank you very much). He left, very angry. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little worried about going out to my car after that.

Remember: these moments didn't stand out for me when I tried to think of instances of men trying to exert their power over me--this just felt like a normal part of life for a woman. Ask one that you love if she can think of some moments like this from her own lifetime. You might be surprised. 

(My own symbol of survival)

Five on Friday: Luckiest Survivor I Know

Last week in my post for Sexual Assault Awareness month, I told you that I consider myself to be the luckiest survivor I know.

I didn't realize it at first. I remember when one of my sisters told me that I was one of the luckiest people she knew. I thought to myself, "Um, does she forget that I was raped?"

The next day, a person I knew for years confided in me that she was also raped in college. A date rape that she didn't report and didn't tell her family about. She struggled for years.

Since that time I've only become more vocal as an activist and I've had so many people confide their stories to me and I realized: maybe my sister is right.

1. Though my attacker had a weapon, I was not physically injured or killed.

2. Nobody ever told me that they didn't believe me.

3. Two months after I was raped, some old friends from my Freshman year had heard what had happened and invited me out. I said yes even though they wanted to go to these awful bars that I generally avoided. While we were at one of them, I saw my attacker. 

4. Though he also saw me and took off, he was apprehended later that night. He also eventually plead guilty and was imprisoned.

5. My support system was and is amazing. I couldn't feel as strong, safe and confident as I do now without them. I couldn't have such a happy life filled with love and I don't think I could help other people the way I do if I didn't have the loving family and friends that I do.

Each individual thing that I've listed here is probably only true for a very small percentage. So how did I get to experience all five of them?? I'll never know how I got to be the luckiest survivor I know but I will continue to show my gratitude for it by helping as many others as I can.

Five On Friday: Sexual Assault Awareness Month

My survivor symbol: a wounded but soaring heart

I don't feel like I can legitimately call myself an activist if I don't acknowledge the "awareness month" for an issue that has profoundly affected my life. But can I still refer to myself as one if the word "awareness" in this context makes me cringe a little?

I mean, the word is overused, probably misused and frankly, it sounds dumb. Who's not aware of sexual assault?

But then . . . maybe that's not what a month like this is about. Maybe it's not for providing the definition of the cause du jour, but maybe it's a platform for sharing statistics, techniques for avoidance, organizations that are doing the best work (and perhaps could use a donation). 

Maybe this month, being sexual assault awareness month, is the perfect time for me, as a survivor, to let you know what I would like you to be aware of:

1. The first one is about the statistics: the number of people affected sounds exaggerated. I know, I didn't believe them either. But once I began speaking out, countless people began confiding in me. Now sometimes I wonder if the statistics are actually high enough. Either way, one thing I can say with confidence is that every one of us is surrounded by survivors of sexual assault even if we don't realize it.

2. The next three are about language. Seeing as how survivors are everywhere and language is powerful, please don't tolerate any sort of joke that normalizes or promotes rape culture. This should be obvious. It's not.

3. Perhaps less obvious? I, personally, don't like being referred to as a victim. I prefer survivor. This won't be true for everyone but it's something to be cognizant of, just in case.

4. I loathe the casual use of the word rape. (However, I will use it as a Scrabble word while my primary opponent, my husband, refuses to.)

5. Many of you read along with me as I dealt with my rapist's release from prison last year but many of you may not realize this: I will never know when he is actually free. 

Let's just take a minute on that one: the man who had a previous assault on a child, who raped me at knife point and repeatedly threatened to come back and kill me, who was arrested and imprisoned may or may not be on the streets. When the sentence was up, he was sent to the facility for sex offenders for a mental health evaluation. They may have decided to release him or they may have decided to treat him. The required residential treatment may have been for weeks, months . . . or the rest of his life. Because this is not a criminal sentence but a mental health issue, I am not privy to this information.

In spite of that, I still consider myself the luckiest survivor I know . . . but the reasons why are a Five on Friday list for next week.

One Billion Rising 2017

Do we happen to have any nasty women here today? 

Hello nasty women! Hello sister-resistors and persistors! Hello warriors and supporters and hello men! I am so happy to see you all here today. Don’t be afraid to make noise while I’m speaking, I don’t want to just see you, I also want to hear you!*

My name is Gina Sampaio and I am a survivor, a feminist, a performer, a writer and an activist. I want to tell you more about the One Billion Rising movement and this year’s theme. But first I’m going to ask you to do a little activity with me. I’d like to ask you to attempt to have every third woman or girl raise her hand.

Now I want you to take a moment to look around. Don’t just look at the hands, look down at the faces. Because when we hear “one in three girls and women will be beaten or raped during her lifetime” it can be hard to remember that there are real humans behind that number.  Worldwide that adds up to be one billion women and girls. That is why every year we rise, in cities and countries all over the planet. We rise to show our community and the whole wide world what one billion looks like. We rise through dance to express joy, to strengthen our ties to one another and to celebrate the fact that we have not—and we will not—be defeated by this violence.** We won’t be silenced by this violence.

This year the international theme of the movement is “Rising Solidarity.” The first thing that I thought when I heard that was the fact that I personally know many women who have been severely emotionally triggered by the recent Presidential election. And I also personally know many other women that can’t understand why this has been such a difficult time for some of us. So I’d like to try to help shed some light by putting it this way:

A man grabbed me by the pussy once. You know what happened to him? He was sent to prison for twenty years. 

He was part of the less than three percent of rapists that actually serve any jail time.

  

And now a man that has boasted about doing that very same thing holds the most powerful office in our nation and directly influences not only law and policy but attitudes and behaviors. We have already witnessed a dramatic increase in hate crimes against certain religious communities. Is it a far reach to think that a spike in crimes against women might be next? I don't think so either.

This is NOT the time for polarization among us. Now more than ever it is imperative that we stand in solidarity with ALL women: Women who are triggered and women who struggle to understand why. Women that choose to wear string bikinis or choose to wear hijabs. Women who love women or men or both or neither. Women who are or who have been incarcerated.

Women who are afraid to use the restroom because there are those in positions of power that preach that these women’s chromosomal make up means they must be sexual predators when actually, as the rest of us know, they just really have to pee. Women whose ancestors were born here and women whose ancestors were brought here by force.

Women we see at school events who are secretly scanning the crowd to gauge which family they might be able to ask to adopt their American-born children because they live in constant fear of being separated by deportation . . . and their love for their children is so fierce that the idea of living without them is more acceptable than the thought of those children growing up in the place they fought so bravely to escape.

Standing in solidarity with all of these women does not just mean dancing today. It means believing women when they tell us they have been victimized or marginalized. It means trusting women to make the decisions that are best for their own bodies and families. It means teaching our children about consent by not forcing them to hug or kiss or be hugged or kissed when they aren't in the mood. It means calling others out—strangers and harder and maybe even more importantly, our friends--when they don’t realize they are speaking from a position of privilege. It means being opening to listening when someone calls us out on doing that very same thing ourselves. It means being humble enough to ask forgiveness and it means educating ourselves so we don’t make that same mistake twice.

Today we rise together in song and dance. Tomorrow and every day after tomorrow, we will think back on today and vow to stand in solidarity with all women.

. . . and then we danced.

* Our crowd was a little smaller than last year but what they lacked in size they made up for in energy, I didn't even have to say that part

** The previous four sentences describing the movement are paraphrased from the One Billion Rising website 

Under Pressure

This essay originally appeared on Witty Bitches

For two decades I said, “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

And when I got to it, I wailed to myself, “How did I do this last time?”

I don’t know! I was much younger and had the resiliency and naivety of youth. I didn’t have children.

But still I lived six weeks without knowing where he was. Not terribly long in the grand scheme of things but somehow I survived that time. What did I do, day to day, to get by?

Well, I guess leaned on my well-loved friends for comfort and security. I let myself cry and double check my doors even though it made me feel weak. I bought myself flowers. I considered the man who had hurt me and what the childhood perhaps looked like of a person that would grow up to do such things. I forgave him, even though he didn’t ask for forgiveness. I did that for me and I did that for him.

So it kept coming back to love: for my friends, myself, my attacker.

Pfft.

That’s nice.

That’s nice for an optimistic 21-year-old. But I’m a Mom now. I’ve got kids to worry about. Fuck that piece of shit for making me worry about my kids’ and their parents’ safety, not to mention their mother’s mental state. I happened to like feeling comfortable with our doors frequently unlocked.  I liked feeling strong. Fuck him for changing these things for me. Love wasn’t going to work this time. I needed to be practical.

So I tried practicality. I began locking the doors more even though it felt like a silly Band-Aid (I, of all people, raped at knifepoint by a stranger while my front door remained firmly shut and locked, should understand the futility of door locking). I made calls. I went to the local Police Department. I considered a restraining order.

But none of it really made me feel any better.

What was I going to do? Searching for the answer consumed me. And then one day while I was driving alone in my car, the song “Under Pressure” came on. I’d always liked it but never considered it a favorite. It certainly never reduced to me to tears before, but that day it did.

Keep coming up with love

 But it's so slashed and torn . . .

Why can't we give love that one more chance?

Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love?

Cue crying: because love didn’t work. Love didn’t keep the bad guys out. But neither did locked doors and my heart was still hurting.

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word

Yes! Both the word and the idea that “love is the answer” were hopelessly outdated. 

And love dares you to care for

The people on the edge of the night

Commence sobbing:  Maybe love dares me to forgive my attacker, again.

And love dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves

This is ourselves 
Under pressure

And maybe loves dares me to change how I care about myself, now that I am older, a mother and a person feeling the need to introduce some practicality into my life. Maybe at this stage, at this bridge now that I was here, meant I did have to talk to Police and lock doors but that I still had to find the way for love to be the answer. Not just in finding peace in my heart about my rapist again but in allowing myself to feel fear and to cry to my friends and to feel weak and strong simultaneously; to love myself enough to be okay with all of that.

Perhaps this is myself under pressure.

For about six weeks (there’s that time span again . . .) I played it again and again: in the car, at home, on my jogs through the park. I didn’t always cry but if I tried to sing along I was guaranteed to break down. What was it about music, about the common human experience shared artistically? How could someone else’s pain and revelations relate so dearly to me and suddenly mean so much? For six weeks I listened without tiring, I relived my pain, I wept and I found solace. This was myself under pressure.

I dared to give love that one more chance.

And now I sing along without crying.

You Can't Scare Me Anymore

 *This essay also appears in an anthology of twenty-six essays entitled My Brush With Death*

 It used to be I didn’t know what fear was. I grew up here in the country, occasionally scaring myself out of bed with a boogieman nightmare but otherwise perfectly comfortable with sporadically locked doors and windows left wide open all night.

It was a nice way to grow up.

So when I feel afraid now, it really bothers me. It’s not frequent, and usually only if I’m alone at night, laying in bed and making the dreadful mistake of letting my imagination turn the normalcy of an old house creaking into the certainty of an intruder sneaking his way up the stairs.

When I tell my husband how scared I sometimes feel, he tells me that there are times that he’s frightened as well.  “Yeah, but I never felt like this before,” I tell him. Friends of mine that are mothers confide that they also feel scared; it seems that becoming a parent brings out fatalistic visions in all of us.  Yet still I think, “but I was never scared before.  He did this to me.”

A few weeks after a stranger broke into my college apartment and stayed two hours raping and threatening me, I watched a scary movie for some reason. In it, a male attacker surprised his female victim in a public restroom. It resulted in me being terrified of public bathrooms. I went from knowing no fear to knowing absolute terror. I would find myself alone in a public bathroom and would hear a noise outside of the stall and then become instantly paralyzed in horror. More than once I had to muster up my dwindling courage just to leave the stall, more than once I cried near the sinks when I realized I was alone and safe.

I didn’t really tell any of my friends about that public bathroom fear, which is weird since I talked with them about every other aspect of my healing process. During it all I wondered how would I know when I was completely healed? Initially I thought it’d be when I could sleep alone without any drugs to knock me out. Once I mastered that I modified it to be, “it’ll be when I can be alone at night and not be terrified.” Finally I thought it’d be when I could make it through the day without thinking about it at all, which seemed thoroughly impossible, especially since people kept telling me it’d be the first thing I’d think about in the morning and the last thing I’d think about at night for the rest of my life.

Pshaw.

Now I find myself on a monthly basis standing before the Shop Rite pharmacist who waits patiently while I try desperately to remember what year one of my children was born in so I can get their vitamin refill.

I have five children now. It takes me a minute, okay? Sometimes there’s some math involved. It’s never been my forte.

These kids. These, did I mention—five?--kids. They keep me inspired, entertained, engaged and . . . exhausted. They keep my brain too tired, too filled with birthdates, play dates and school project due dates to have room in there to spend time regularly thinking about something rather unpleasant that happened to me twenty years ago.

That fear I had of being in the bathroom alone? These kids guarantee that I never actually get to go to the bathroom by myself.  Thanks, guys. And these days if I am alone with them at night and hear our old house creak; now I focus on them. I know that if there is an intruder, I won’t let him hurt my kids. My concerns for myself fly out the window as I find my courage (and the wooden baseball bat my husband keeps near the bed). Thinking of protecting them completely emboldens me and I know I would gladly put my life on the line to save theirs.

Because when the lives of my kids are even potentially put in danger, that adrenaline-fueled courage evicts any fear that might be sneaking in. It used to be that the single most terrifying moment in my existence was when my bedroom door slowly opened and a face I had never seen before peeked through. But fifteen years later I stood on my deck and watched my two-year-old and eight-year-old sons slide into our pond on an icy February day. Frantically I ran to the pond and willingly jumped in, never feeling an ounce of cold or fear. That moment of seeing them slide into the icy water definitively took over as the most frightening moment of my life.

Up until now I’ve tried hard to avoid those corny “Mom” expressions that are plastered on mugs and bumper stickers. But after writing this, I’m thinking of appropriating one for my own purposes: You can’t scare me. I have kids.

Letter to The Editor

I had such frustrating experiences lately trying to get some answers to some simple questions about staying safe after my rapist was released from prison that I just had to do something about it. First step: letter to the Editor of our local paper. I got a response almost immediately letting me know they might want to write an article about it. Here's what I sent (with a few small identifying place names changed):

As a lifelong feminist and ardent support of both Women’s and Victims’ Rights organizations, I assumed that when the time came that I needed assistance it would come easily to me. 

I was terribly wrong.

After an idyllic childhood here in our county, I attended Rutgers University. Unfortunately in my first off-campus apartment I suffered a break-in and sexual assault by a stranger. My case differs from most survivors’ in that I later saw my attacker in public, called the Police, positively identified the rapist and then spoke at his sentencing.

For years it seemed like that would be where the story ended.  And while the story may have stagnated for my imprisoned attacker, my own story continued to advance in beautiful ways. I’m blissfully married, raising five children in the county in which my husband and I both were raised, writing and performing (quite frequently about my survival experience.) The unstoppable march of time made it all possible and of course brought about the day I didn’t think would ever come: the inevitable phone call letting my know my attacker was released.

Immediately I became concerned for the safety of my family and myself. My attacker, though a stranger, was given access to my full name, which I did not change when I was married. Anyone with access to the Internet (as, conceivably, many Americans out of prison have) can find me. I had some questions about staying safe. The recorded phone call had suggested reaching out to my county’s Victim Witness Coordinator at the Prosecutor’s Office so that seemed like a good place to start.

The  VWC in my home county was responsive but told me that most of the answers I needed would have to come from the VWC in the county where the crime occurred and she supplied me with that number. When I called it, I got a recording that said, “Do not leave a message. This voicemail is not monitored. For assistance, please press 0.” I complied and got the main operator at the  Prosecutor’s Office. I asked her for the Victim-Witness Coordinator and was connected back to the unmonitored voicemail.

I tried my own county again. This time she gave me the direct line for the Department Head whom I called and left a message for. One of her subordinates returned my call, did not have the answers I needed and promised to call back. Days passed and an intern returned my call, did not have the answers I needed and promised to call back.

Neither ever did.

At this point I reached out to acquaintances that were lawyers but none had much experience in the area I needed. It occurred to me that the local Women's Crisis Center, an organization that I have admired for years and have donated both my money and services to, has a legal department.

I emailed the Legal Department to see if they might be able to help me. There was no response. After a few days I tried calling the main line instead. In a few days’ time, they established that the best help they could offer me was to attend a “free” legal clinic for $20.

Quite frankly, I could pay the $20 but refuse to for something that is supposed to and should be free. I knew the questions I had were not really that hard; I just needed someone with a little expertise in this field to help me out. At this point I was becoming extremely frustrated with the inadequacy of the resources at my disposal.

 As a last resort, I decided to reach out to a friendly acquaintance that works in the Violence Prevention and Victims Assistance Office at Rutgers. I did not want to have to ask her for help. First of all, I wanted the help to have been easier to access on my own and secondly, as a person who graduated from Rutgers twenty years ago, I am no longer her responsibility. Begrudgingly I reached out to her and she said she’d try the VWC on my behalf.

Within a day I got a call. Within two days I had all of my answers.

A month after sending the email to the Crisis Center's Legal Department, I got an email with a partial answer and a suggestion that I contact someone at another organization with no contact information whatsoever, just that I could probably “find him online.”

I am frequently asked why I am so vocal about my experience. This is just one reason why. Many other survivors are too afraid, too shamed, too inexperienced to speak up and out—and then when they try to access the resources that are provided them, they reach one dead end after another.

Not every survivor has lawyer friends to ask or $20 to spend on free clinics.

Not every survivor has a friend at the Rutgers Violence Prevention and Victims Assistance Office.

Nor should s/he need one.

I am so disappointed and disheartened.