A Myth of a Misfit Rape Survivor

I have never really found my niche. It feels hard for me to fit in to whatever the mainstream deems as "normal", which I learned is a relative term after a stats class for psychology. As a young child, I was as content to play with my imaginary friend Kowalina as I was the kids in my preschool, plus I was a head taller than the other kids and about twice their overall size (I come from sturdy stock). As I grew older, I was never picked first for teams in PE, I never sat with the popular kids at the lunch table, my clothes were a little different because my taste was a little different. I became a chubby kid, and then around the 5th grade, puberty started prematurely (another thing to set me apart), and I slimmed into a curvaceous young woman. By junior high, I tried to fit in, but I didn't really. I played the games; I hated the girl who was out that month/day/week/hour, but I was curvy, they boys treated me differently, and I wore a jacket year round to cover my body, to hide. By high school, the grunge/alternative explosion had even hit my small East Texas area, and I didn't give a damn anymore. My goals were to get good grades in high school and be involved in as many extracurriculars as possible to look good on future college applications to get my butt out of town. I had long hair the first couple of years, which I occasionally flipped. I was criticized for flipping my hair. Early in my junior year, I had my hair cut in a pixie, which was popular everywhere except G-Town (my hometown). I was accused of lesbianism by alleged friends, non-friends, and even relatives. And, to top it all off, another girl had begun flipping her hair and she received nothing but praise for how cute and trendy she looked. The lesbian rumors were aided by the fact that I did not date in school. I did not have time to waste on boys. I had priorities and goals. I had to get out, find myself, find where I belong. That's okay; I had my orange plaid flannel babydoll dress with boots and a pixie, a promising future, and I was getting the hell out of G-Town!

I started college in a small town in Louisiana. Specifically, I started Louisiana's premier school for Liberal Arts housed within another university. My freshman class was full of other kids like me. We were all a little different,but in our own ways, and we were all intelligent. We quickly bonded and respected each other for our differences and our likenesses. I found a place where I belonged. I wasn't the smartest, I wasn't the dumbest. I wasn't the quirkiest, and I wasn't the most normal. I wasn't the token nerd or geek, and nobody thought it weird that I didn't immediately get a boyfriend or have short hair. I quickly befriended a trio of other girls, and I thought life was grand. We planned to live in a suite the second semester of our freshman year because we were all best friends. We were inseparable. One was a local girl, and she introduced us to a bunch of locals, too. So, I was meeting all these great people in college, plus all these really great local people, too. I was so happy with life.

Then it happened. One of these so-called really great locals raped me on the last night of my freshman year. I spent the summer crying. I hid it really well. I returned to my parents home for the summer and got a part-time job with an answering service. No one had a clue. Nobody suspected anything was wrong. I continued to travel back to my college town over the summer, mostly so I could self medicate on drink, which I knew I could get there. Five hours there and back just to get drunk, to self-medicate. I cried all the way there and all the way back. I was so mixed up, I heard HIS words reverberate through my head. HE told me HE cared about me, that HE thought we could have something special, how much HE cared for me. I told HIM the whole time I knew HIM that I was only interested in being friends. HE reminded me of my friends older brother who had been killed in an automobile accident when I was in high school, so I thought of HIM as a replacement for my friend's dead brother, who was genuinely a nice man from a nice family. I was confused because I didn't know what happened. I did not understand what happened.

In August, my sophomore year started. I am ashamed to say I do not remember much about it. I drank myself through my sophomore year of college. I also alienated myself from most of my college friends. The trio of friends I had made, the self-proclaimed BFF's, had backfired and we had been at each others' throats, so we didn't all get along that well. It did not matter much because I was up late drinking most nights, going to bars, sneaking vodka into my dorm room and drinking it straight, hiding in my dorm room. I remember my friend moved out of the dorm; she and I had maintained (and still do) a close friendship throughout the fighting. I was supposed to move in with another girl down the hall. We went to the administration and filed the appropriate paperwork, but I didn't move. I stayed right in my room all by myself. I preferred the solitude. I slept when I wanted, which was a lot. I scheduled all my classes for 11:00 AM or later, and I missed most of my morning classes anyway. I began gaining weight because I ate and then closed myself up in my room unless I was out at the bar. I even found a bartender who would serve me even though I was under age. I was losing my grip with reality. I was also losing those friendships I made my first year of college. There was a holiday weekend, where we were all supposed to vacate the dorms. I stayed silently and just laid in bed. I went out one time to go get food. I'd been eating junk food I had in my dorm room and soft drinks. I found a bunch of other kids in the dorm, just down the hall. They invited me to hang out. I lied; I told them I would be back to hang out when I got back from getting food. I never went back. I isolated from the one group where I had finally found a sense of belonging because I had been raped.

I was at my most desperate when I began dating my husband. I was ready to give up on my education and return to G-Town and my parents' house defeated, beaten down by the atrocity of rape. He was also going through a rough time in his life. I stayed because I wanted to see where our relationship would go. I began getting more involved in having a social life, but it was full of drama because this social life involved quite a few of these locals who enjoyed the drama. After we decided to get married, I spent most of my weekends returning to my parents' house to plan the wedding. I missed a lot of weekends. One weekend, an alleged friend raped a high school girl visiting her college friend at an after-party at a friend's house. My now husband was a witness. The local group quickly split into two factions: one, the "oh, so-and-so couldn't possibly do that" faction, and two, the "that asshole raped a little girl" faction. The circumstances were similar to my rape; she was drunk and passed out, he took what he wanted. That was the point I finally understood I had been raped. I had a name for what happened. I could name it, say it, but I still felt dirty and ashamed. I finally told a couple of close friends and my husband (before we married). We don't have much to do with the first faction...

So now, I've come to terms with being a square peg and a rape survivor. I know I don't fit in. Additionally, I have a secret I keep from most people. I don't wear a t-shirt announcing "HEY! I WAS RAPED!" I tell people I feel comfortable telling, and the rest don't need to know. It's almost like I have my natural tendency to not fit in with the norm plus an additional reason not to fit in, if that makes sense. I can remember sitting in groups of 4 women, praying let the 1 in 4 be me, not even aware of the conversation. I still do it occasionally, send up a prayer, let me be the token rape survivor in this group... I survived. There isn't much I can do about being a misfit, except find people who love me for my quirky sense of humor, my wit, my sarcasm, my sense of style, my morals and ethics... I have clear lines drawn where women's rights and safety are concerned, and I don't play with that. There is no room for play when it comes to women's rights and safety issues are concerned. One more rape is one too many. One battered woman is one too many. Sometimes, in retrospect, I feel ashamed that I allowed the rape trauma to isolate myself from an ideal situation for someone like me. Now that I'm in a work environment that I rather enjoy, I am so far removed from the normal that I'm an outlier, to go back to my stats terms. I cannot go into further detail, but I am definitely an outlier! However, I have learned, after long struggles with self-esteem, rape trauma, a verbally, emotionally abusive alcoholic father, to love myself, including what sets me apart, what makes me different, what makes me stand out from the crowd. If  you have any reason to feel different, whether it is your natural personality, or if you have experienced trauma, learn to love what sets you apart from the crowd too.

Medusa's Mad Musings: Feminism and the Future

I had a recent conversation with an almost-adult girl. We were discussing the Golden Age of American Cinema, and I was listing off some of my favorite actresses: Katharine Hepburn, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn, Deborah Kerr, Maureen O'Hara... I was trying to help her identify Katharine Hepburn, and I commented that she was gifted with talent and a feminist. The girl said, "Oh, I hate feminists." I told her she must hate me, too. "Oh, well, everyone should be equal. I just don't like the man-haters."

At first I was taken aback by seemingly blatant disrespect for all the female pioneers who have fought and struggled so hard, sacrificed so much, and given of themselves so much by this girl. Then I realized: Maybe she doesn't need to identify with feminism because she hasn't personally experienced sexism. Huh...

I see sexism everywhere. Is it a result of experiencing sexism from childhood? My mom, who never really allied with "feminism" properly, raised me to be independent, rely on myself, and not feel the need to be dependent on a man. She was trapped in a marriage to my father, so I clearly understand why she raised me like that. I had an informal feminist ethic from my mother. Then, around the 8th grade, when my breasts had grown and my hips began their spread, I experienced significant sexual harassment. A kid repeatedly made inappropriate comments, culminating in grab-ass, at which point I decided enough was enough. I reported it to the principal of my junior high. It was bad enough that the kid was harassing me, but I did not expect to be told that there was nothing that could be done but to change my locker (the location of the harassment) since it is a he said/she said situation. Funny, the principal, spineless pig he was, never even talked to the boy. With a new locker, I learned a valuable lesson about how to deal with misogyny and stand up for myself... Be mean as hell but silent because no one will listen!
So, I'm talking to this girl who says she "hates man-haters" and we should all be equal. Equality; the first sentence of our Declaration of Independence says "All men are created equal", but we know the founding-fathers, despite their individual views (and I am not getting into a political discussion about the founding of our nation), pragmatically meant that all middle- to upper-class, White, preferably European, males were given these unalienable rights. We had to fix some things, but we're doing better now. Doesn't she realize the massive inequality out there? The fraction a female worker earns in comparison to her male counterpart, the hatred of women, the sexual violence and objectification that permeates our world? No, she seems not to understand.

Is it good or bad? It bothers me in the thought that kids her age and younger will be continually apathetic towards women's rights and the achievements of the suffragists, the proponents of the ERA, the warriors against violence, etc. I have read a lot of feminist texts, which are in my personal library, ranging from Mary Wollstonecraft to Eve Ensler. I still listen to Riot Grrrl music. I have a blog dedicated to fighting sexual violence caused by sexism. I have created a persona to fight sexual assault! I cannot deny I am feminist; I have embraced feminism, identify with the need to be feminist and the security the label "feminism" provides. On the other hand, it gives me hope that this girl's flippant dismissal of feminism is a reflection that all the feminists who have fought and sacrificed, that their work is paying off, and I'm alive to witness that girls are not being objectified, treated poorly, or being exposed to the nastier side of misogyny.

Then I read the crime statistics in the paper; I see that rape is still prevalent. I see that men treat women like objects. I see people like Hugh Hefner (a dirty pornographer, in my opinion), Chris Brown (known for physically assaulting ex-girlfriend Rihanna), and Kobe Bryant (do I need to explain?) are celebrated in the media. I see the problems in TV and movies, on the radio, online, on billboards, in magazines, and even in person on occasion.

"Feminism is the radical notion that women are people too" (a statement I think was made by Judy Tenutta, although I read it so long ago that I am probably wrong). I'm not a crazy, man-hating, leftist feminist stereotype. I'm a survivor of rape and other sexual assault (and a stalking and more sexual harassment than any individual should ever endure), married to a man, a daughter, sister, granddaughter, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, cousin, niece, and aunt to males who are good people and I care deeply for, with political beliefs that less government is better, who just happens to think that women still have a long way to go before we can declare true equality. I agree with her in that we should all be equal. My hope is that feminism is not dying. I hope we can achieve equality, including and especially gender equality, as feminism and gender studies are not strictly  female issues. Who will assert her or himself to achieve that goal?

Medusa's Musical Musings: Misogyny and Music

For those of you who do not know me well, I love music. Love may not describe it appropriately. I have eaten, slept, and breathed music for most of my life. My mom and dad were into the Oldies; my dad preferred 1950's rock'n'roll, while my mother preferred the British Invasion and Flower Power music of the 1960's. I was raised listening to Buddy Holly, the Beatles, Elvis, Little Richard, The Who, the Stones, The Temptations, The Kinks, The Beach Boys… The list could go on forever. When I was a teen, I locked myself up in my room with the radio for hours on end, learning the words and rhythms that permeated my stereo speakers. My musical spectrum isn't limited to just rock music, though; I enjoy classical, Celtic folk from Ireland and Scotland, and various others that catch my attention.

Somehow, it seems to have all gone wrong! When did the music industry turn into the debauched, sexist, hyper-sexual, image-driven concept it is now? I fully recognize that there has almost always been a sexual element to music, and that early rock'n'roll was full of misogyny. Groupies have existed as long as music, I assume, but that isn't where my problem lies.

I play the bass guitar in a little "band", if you can call it that, with my husband on drums and a guy on electric guitar who we met online and is interested in all the obscure punk and post-punk music we like. I played the clarinet in junior high and high school for seven years. I have a background in music and consider myself well familiar with good qualities of music. I have an interest in poetry, both reading and writing, and I consider song lyrics simply poetry put to music. Well, that applies if the song is written well.

I guess my dismay at music began in the late 1990's, after the alternative music movement was shoved out of center stage by the pop tarts and boy bands who had no musical abilities, but did have record executives pushing them, choreographers showing them what to do, and producers to fix all their mistakes (if you've never heard Ben Folds' song "Rockin' the Suburbs", he addresses this issue, too, and I highly recommend it). Suddenly, I was seeing hyper-sexualized teens dancing provocatively, singing overly sexual lyrics, and, to me, making a mockery of the entire music scene and of themselves. I thought, something will replace this, these kids won't be teeny-boppers forever, and we'll get some good stuff in its place. I anxiously listened to the radio and watched video channels hoping for the change. It hasn't happened. I'm still waiting. I caught glimpses of bands that held promise, only to see them have minor US success with a song, two if they were lucky, and go on to have careers in Europe and Japan.

With the help of my husband who had vast knowledge of underground music from the past and who likes to dig around for up-starts, I began to pave out a new path of music, expanding my interests in Ska, punk, post-punk, various waves of these movements, as well as dig more into my interests in music from the 50's and 60's. Then, my husband gave me a bass guitar and said he'd teach me. I looked at this stringed instrument as though it was an object from Mars, but felt eager to learn how to make it growl. A couple years later, I'm beginning to start figuring out the slap bass technique. We're jamming with a guitar player who isn't focused on playing intricate metal-driven solos (we refer to these individuals as "guitarded"), slamming major influences on my musical leanings, or dismissing parts of the rhythm section. Instead, this guy is shoving a drumstick behind the strings up the fret board and whacking it with another drumstick so we can cover a song by Sonic Youth. It's quite fun!

Last weekend, we went to a local bar to see a concert by two local bands. One is straight up, no gimmicks, rock music, but with the twist in that the lead guitarist is an African-American female and the lead singer/rhythm guitarist is also an African-American female. They put on a very impressive set, including a rocked out version of a classic Blondie cover. I thoroughly enjoyed this. The second act is a band of four men who dress in drag and play music featuring a female vocalist. I thought it would be fun and that they would play good covers from the 70's and 80's, maybe the 90's, when women's voices were gaining strength and power, and I also incorrectly assumed that they would not be overly crass and sexist with the gimmick… They came out on stage, on 4^th of July weekend, waving the American flag, playing the National Anthem on their guitars, and then broke out into "It's Raining Men" originally by the Weather Girls. I was delighted. Then came covers of Katy Perry (who desperately needs those producers fixing her tracks just to sound like she's on key and in tune vocally), Celine Dion, Britney, and even Shania Twain. I stood in a crowd of people, young women, actually, dancing and singing along to these songs that are awful, in the first place, hyper-sexualized, and desperately inappropriate to their target audience. They did play a song by Irish rockers the Cranberries, but the singer was too drunk to remember the lyrics, so they took turns standing at their microphones bashing the Irish and Irish poetry. I'm of Irish ancestry, and they weren't kidding around. We decided to leave after the band quit playing, demanding women's lingerie to be removed and tossed on stage before they'd play again, and the girl who had bumped in to me repeatedly and stomped my toe pulled off her shirt and threw it on stage.

I suppose my problem isn't just with the national market after seeing this display last weekend. I think there's a larger problem, fed by the sexism and hyper-sexuality of the status quo. Turn on any video channel (aside from the "classic" video channel), and if they're playing a music video, it's sure to include nearly naked women dancing provocatively with song content that is also explicitly sexualized. I recently watched Ian Astbury (lead singer for The Cult and moonlit with The Doors) interviewed about current music. His opinion was that the music industry has become so explicitly sexual because the "artists" (I use that term loosely) no longer understand the sexuality underwritten in the blues influence on rock. In other words, using computers and machines to make the musical track instead of using instruments that give music a natural rhythm, groove, and natural sensuality is causing these people who put out the so-called music that the radio stations and video channels are feeding the public, including and especially our youth, to compensate by putting the sensuality in the lyrics and to express this through their dancing. I realize that when "The Twist" by Chubby Checkers came out, parents were horrified at that much pelvic movement. "The Twist" did not mimic actual sexual movements though. Elvis was controversial and could only be shown from the waist up; however, he never dry humped, or actually humped, any individual or object. We can't say that about the images from the music industry today.

My main concern is: How do these images, lyrics, and manners of dressing affect younger generations whose identities are being shaped by these images? I was fortunate for the late 80's, early 90's styles I grew up with that shaped me. Shoulder pads, tight-rolled acid wash jeans, and later combat boots and flannels were the impressions I received. Yes, I had an orange plaid, flannel baby-doll dress that I wore with boots, and I wore shorts under them so no one could catch a glimpse of my underwear. Like Denis Leary said, "it's called under-f*cking-wear for a reason". Now, a woman is nearly fully clothed on a video or concert footage if she is wearing a full bra and panties. How do kids process this? What are they learning from seeing the Beyonce's, Lady Gaga's, Britney's, various dancers and other female images and voices? I think the time for change has come.

The next time you listen to any song, or watch any musical image, be it a video or a concert, really take the time to listen to the words, watch the dancing, the dress, the overall manner of the performance. Maybe if we can affect change in music, we can affect change in other areas of our society. Oh, and I do support our unalienable rights of freedom of expression and freedom of speech, just in case you think I'm calling for censorship. I am calling for a revolution. When we conquer the sexism that dominates society, politically, culturally, socially, artistically, we can make a dent in the horrific epidemic of sexual violence that also dominates our society.

Medusa and Optimism: An Oxymoron?

I haven't posted in a few weeks. I've been sick. I ran out of anxiety medicine and pain medicine at the same time, which can make life very difficult for a neurotic grrl with chronic pain disorders! I was asked by my dear friend, H, to post something positive for a change. She said I was always negative, which surprised me! I thought I was sharing valuable information for other survivors. Then again, talking about my history of rape, other sexual assault and harassment, and abuse are not very positive topics, are they? H, this is dedicated to you:-)

I have wonderful parts of my life, as do most every person, whether a survivor or not. I have a fantastic husband. Let me just say, I never planned on marriage. I did not believe in such a thing. After all, I never had positive marriage models in my life. Then, I met this guy who was just cool. He was fun to hang out with, good conversation, but married. Well, the marriage ended. We were friends. Our
relationship just kind of developed following the dissolve of his marriage to his first wife. With our relationship came hope. We found each other at dark times in each of our lives. He was dealing with his daughters moving away, and I was dealing with a rape I could not comprehend. As a bonus, I got the most amazing step-daughters a person could ask for! They are beautiful, sweet, clever, smart, funny, and just good girls. I love them like they're my own children, even if I did not technically give birth to them. I am proud of what they do, the young women they are growing to become, and the wonderfulness of having them in my lives. Along with getting a husband, amazing step-daughters, I got a family. My in-laws are wonderful people who have welcomed me fully into their lives and family. I realize that even though I have difficulty getting along with anyone in my father's immediate family, God has given me a wonderful family by marriage. I have a
fabulous family on my mom's side, too. We aren't necessarily an emotional group, but we know how we feel, and we stand by each other through the rough times and the good times. I'm a lucky grrl! I cannot imagine what life would have been like without my mom and brother. My mom has been a pillar of stength my whole life. She has also developed a fun attitude in the past few years. We may not have always gotten along so well, but my mom is so important in my life and integral to the woman I have become. My younger brother is the only person who shared my entire childhood. Together, we have survived a childhood of life with a raging alcoholic. We suffered together, but we also lauged together and survived together. He is a newlywed, and I am delighted to have a new sister to share my brother's life.

I also have some pretty amazing friends that I've accumulated over the years. My oldest friend is K; although we are separated by many miles, we are as close as sisters. We talk about
everything, have shared the best and the worst, and have forged a bond stronger than a lot of people will ever know. I'm so glad she is in my life. I've known H almost as long, and H and K are cousins. They've included me in feeling like a part of the family. K and H are both beautiful, funny, sweet, and positive people. They're a good influence in my life, and I am grateful! I have been blessed to have additional friends come into my life, through friends of friends, work, school, or similar interests. I have discovered a bounty of amazing people through Facebook, other survivors, dealing with their own battles, healing in their own ways. We've forged a bond of hope, self-discovery, sharing, and healing. There is also a community of retreatants who have become part of my life through ACTS. I am beyond blessed to know each of these people, and I hope everyone I consider a friend knows how much I care about them.The end of 2010, beginning of 2011 brought a
transition to my life. I had been working part-time retail for about two years. I decided to leave this job at the end of 2010, taking a leap of faith. It has worked out quite well. I was nervous about this change, and my husband was near hysteria about my potential unemployment. Through a new friend, I found a full-time job that I like, as well as a part-time job so I can continue to indulge my interest in clothing retail. I said 2011 will be the year of Medusa, and so far, it's working out for me. I've learned that people enter our lives for different reasons and at different times. Some remain, and some may go. Their presence in your life at any given time does not lessen the significance that the person has had in my life. I've always liked the the lyric from Alice in Chains "You my friend, I will defend, and if we change, well I'll love you anyway" from the song No Excuses.

Yes, I've been hurt by many people. At the same time, I've discovered that
people bring goodness into my life. How do we distinguish the good people from the potentially hurtful ones? It is simply life, the experience, the jouney, the personal growth, development, and course we all take just by being alive and being social creatures. Yes, the pain has taken a toll on me mentally, emotionally, and physically, but when I stop, take H's advice, and consider the good, the good far outweighs the bad. I have found love, friendship, healing, growth, and even some happy through relationships I've had with various people. Thank you for touching my life in a positive way. Even just by reading my words, you have an insight into who and what I am. Thank you, H, for making me consider my positives.

The Father Story: Medusa's Daddy

I have been wanting to talk about him for a long time. Nearly 5 years after his death, I recently had my first dream since he died a wretched death from cancer. This is about my father, Sam.

I remember as a little girl being excited when he came home from a hard day of working. He owned his own logging company. That was a long time ago. He mightbring home a treat, like a Whatchamacallit or Big League bubble gum. Those memories I cherish.

I was still quite young when I realized he was violent. Sam was an alcoholic. Sometimes, if he was unhappy with the supper my mom cooked, the house being dirty, or our presence not at home, he would throw a fit, destroy everything, and make life scary. I remember sitting on my parents' bed as my father smashed up their bedroom and my mom held me. We were getting ready to go somewhere. I don't remember if we actually went or not. The last fit he had like that was before Christmas when I was in the first grade. Sam came home drunk, but my mom, brother, & I were out Christmas shopping with my grandmother. I got my ears pierced, so I could not wait to show Daddy my new ears! We came home to find the home detroyed, glasses broken, the kitchen table missing legs, holes in the walls & bathroom door. My mom told us to pack some clothes. We stayed with my grandparents for several days. Sam made up with my mother before Christmas. I later learned he attempted to set
the apartment on fire that time.

Also, around the same age was my first memory of my dad's verbal abuse. We were having supper, something with buttered rice. My mom always prepared my plate with a little sugar on my buttered rice, and this night was one of the first times I made my own plate. Kids love sugar! I put a spoonful of sugar on my rice, and was getting a second spoonful when my dad says to me, "You're putting too much damn sugar on there! You're gonna be so fat we'll have to put a sign in the yard just to marry you off to a n*gger or w*tback!" (His words, not mine.) Thus began a long battle between us.

For years, he waged war on our family. Sam's own family as a child was an awful situation: impoverished, abusive, and violent. Sam's father, from all accounts, was mean, a drunk, and prone to violence, and verbal and physical abuse. I already told the story of my grandmother aiming a rifle at my grandfather, to kill him if he hit Sam one more time in The Ultimate Survivor. Understandably so, my father had no idea on how to parent or much on how to love.

We had good times, too. We spent summer weekends on the warm East Texas lakes, although he was drunk. Before I got married, my mom attempted a business for packaging, mail, general office services, and natural nail maicures and pedicures. My dad was her first "client", getting a pedicure with bright blue polish on his toenails. He had a silly side. So, my rehearsal pictures feature Sam in shorts, flip-flops, and bright blue toes! The pastor told this story at Dad's funeral, which brought some much needed levity to the somber occasion. Also, standing outside the chapel on an East Texas plantation where I married the love of my life, my dad & I stood alone waiting to walk down the aisle, tears streaming fom his eyes. He took out his handkerchief, wiped away the tears, saying "It's so hot!"; I stil say I am hot when I get weepy. Admittedly, I am somewhat hot as I write this.

I have been to therapy many times to deal with my issues about Sam. On his deathbed, literally, I told him everything was forgiven and in the past. I wish I had meant it. It took more therapy, a lot of conversations with my mom, and seeing my father's family, his sister & her offspring, and his brother and his offspring to see the abusive nature of these people, to understand why my father behaved the way he did. It is no excuse, but I understand as a human being and not an injured little girl. I also learned his demons caused his behavior; I never did anything wrong to deserve his wrath. Understanding I am not culpable for his violence and abuse helped me understand and accept the rape was not my fault, either.

Before his death, my father confessed to my husband his love for me. Sam told my husband he knew I would always be okay because I had a good husband to take care of me. I don't understand why Sam could never talk to me that way. I guess that will always be a mystery.

I do love Sam, my father, despite the pain and fear from chidhood. My brother and I would hide when we heard his truck roar into the driveway; it was better for us to retreat to the safety of our own bedrooms than face his drunken anger. I have found forgiveness in understanding, though it has been a long, scary, tearful journey. I am glad to have this level of acceptance for my broken childhood. I find dealing with my rape trauma easier because I learned the victim is never at fault, and if the victim works hard, we become survivors.

A Reflection

What are the best decisions in my life? I have a few. There's the decision to go to college and get an education. There's the decision I made to marry my husband, which included the decision to become a step-mother and a whole new family. There's the decision I made to work, be able to provide for myself. There was the decision to pick up the bass guitar and rock my little heart out! Then, and this could be one my best decisions, perhaps second to marrying my husband, is speaking out about my rape and assuming the role of advocate and warrior, shedding the shackles of victimization to the freedom of being a survivor. Let me elaborate.I

I first timidly discussed the issue with very few people. A couple of close friends knew, my husband and brother knew, and that was about all. I lived in secret. I kept it all inside. I did go to therapy, but it was still inside me, the sickness caused by someone violating my mind, body, and soul so cruelly. A couple years ago, I told my mother. She held me and we cried together; then she offered to "kill the bastard" herself. I have a really great mom, and she has been nothing but absolutely supportive of me in every endeavor of my life. She even apologized to me fairly recently for thinking I was partying instead of self-medicating with alcohol. She thought I was living it up, when I was actually drinking my blues away (which it didn't) and my grades dropped in college.

Then, I made the decision to speak out. It was out of an anger and outrage so fierce that my guts ached. Without even really thinking clearly, I posted a facebook entry "I am a Medusa", not fully understanding the ramifications of my declaration. It was my way of saying, "Hey world, I was raped my a monster" without saying it explicitly. I got some confused messages, some, okay, go with it girl messages, but most said nothing. I wanted to scream from the rooftop that I was raped, and it was not my fault. I think it took learning that HE raped someone else to fully reconcile my innocence in the matter. I kept thinking, there must have been something I did or something I said and didn't know it. I kept thinking, yes, HE violated me, but I must have allowed it to happen somehow. No. No. NO! NO, it isn't my fault! It was HIS fault. Anyone who has ever been abused, molested, raped, assaulted, or otherwise violated is not to be blamed for the incident; it is the perpetrator's fault. Whether convicted of the crime or not, the perpetrator is to blame. That was a difficult thing to accept, but I have!

I also have built a safety net of people I trust and am comfortable talking about my issues. Recently, as I've been so open about all of my experience, I haven't had many issues. An occasional nightmare, but not nearly as severe as before I was able to build a support network. It's liberating to have a support network of other individuals who understand because they too have been violated by a monster(s). I've heard stories that left me thinking, I'd have killed myself! Then I've heard stories so similar to my own that it's eery. Apparently the wait-til-she's-passed-out method of rape is popular amongst rapists.

The support network, how can I describe it? It's like having a net while walking the high tightrope. It's like having your dad hang on to the back of your bike as you learn to ride two-wheels. It's a great feeling! I thought at the beginning, I'd be met with a lot of hatred from people who blame the victims and other weirdos. It's been quite the opposite, I'm happy to say. People have come to me for support, and others have come to me to offer support. And with each new connection, bond is built in that security network. It's easy to give support to others now. I know how they feel. I know what's happening inside their minds and to their bodies (yes, there are physical postrape symptoms). I know what they are thinking, the despair, the sadness, the guilt, the self-blame, the nightmares, the triggers, the never-ending thought in the forefront of their every waking and often sleeping days. I know it. I've been there. I have bad days, but who doesn't? It's part of learning, growing, and healing.

I'm also encouraged by opportunities afforded me that were never previously apparent. I've been offered to do a book review (which is in the works, and should be published and a version in my blog, soon). I've been able to put my feelings down on paper and in music. I have a song called "One for the Stalker" that was inspired by a Dr. Pepper run before work a few months ago. I also have one that needs music called "For the Damned", about my rapist. I'm excited to be able to do these projects and to be able to explore my experiences and other's experiences through artistic means. I've also drawn, painted, and expressed my rage through these mediums. I have a piece above my mantle, a texturized piece, and when I look at it, I see chaos, turmoil, and I think it is representative of myself at that time (I was also dealing with the stalker during this time).

If I can say one thing, it doesn't matter if you have support from friends and family, many survivors do not. The important thing is to be true to yourself, know what is true, and build a support network for yourself. I'm always available by e-mail or on Facebook. I am well aware I would not be as far along in this healing process as I am if I had maintained my silence. Silence only prolongs the suffering. I want to thank my support network, express my gratitude and love, and leave you with one thought: "Be the change you wish to see in the world" - Unknown.

Medusa: The Monster Within

How does a woman deal with being Medusa? It isn't easy. It is not a choice made lightly. Actually, it wasn't so much a choice as it was an epiphany. Medusa was transformed from an innocent, beautiful girl into a beastly monster following a rape. I feel much the same way, fighting the monster inside me.

Confusion was the first monster. I didn't know, didn't understand. I was unconscious, waking during the violation of my body and soul. My brain failed to understand the "R" word for more than a year, almost two years. All I knew was a sorrow so painful that I cried most of the time. I put on a happy face around other people, but the ache never subsided. At any point I was alone, I was in tears, but I didn't understand why. I turned to alcohol to numb the pain, another deceitful monster. I drank away my sophomore year at a fantastic college. I don't remember much from that year.

Then I relived the experience, yet another monster. Nightmares flooded my nights. Triggers made me panic without warning. I began to have a "nervous stomach" which I am convinced is a body memory. I began gaining weight, and my chronic headaches grew more severe. I had also begun a promising relationship with a promising man, and I was terrified, not of him, just of him learning my dirty secret and hating me for it. Monsters were everywhere!

Anger and depression followed. If I wasn't too angry to breathe, I was too depressed to get out of bed. I walked, talked, and exuded anger and hostility from every pore. The slightest inconvenience or disruption would send me into a fury. Much like my sad and confused state, I internalized most of my anger, but it was there, seething just under the surface. It is difficult to be angry and depressed at the same time, but I am proof it can exist. I reached a point where I first quit eating, under the guise of dieting. I was receiving positive feedback for my depressive anorexia. Then, I stopped sleeping. Bathing was next to go, which sounds disgusting, but if one is sedentary and not eating (thus not using the restroom), a person can go for quite a long time neglecting personal hygiene without notice. My depression became unable to hide when I stopped getting out of bed. My promising boyfriend had become my awesome husband by now, and he probably saved my life. I reached the point of not wanting to live. Anger and depression, monsters indeed.

I got antidepressants, and my outlook improved greatly. I had a dream during this time where I literally and figuratively killed HIM and buried it all in a safe place. Perhaps this monster was suppression, or maybe it was denial. Every therapist I have seen has marveled at the power of this dream and how I lived with zero post rape trauma symptoms. I thought I'd conquered my problems...

Unfortunately, this state of illusion did not last. I relived my rape a second time, a most insidious monster. That was when I first went to therapy for the rape. I'd been before to deal with my issues with my father and previous depression. This round of therapy helped considerably. I do not wish a sex crime on any person. For those who have endured gender violence, I hate the thought of reliving these experiences. To relive the trauma multiple times is a torture I would not wish on anyone, not even HIM!

Thus began the cycle of healing again, accompanied by the sadness, the anxiety, the anger and depression, each a foul monster residing in me. I also went through a period of dealing with the illnesses and deaths of my father and grandfather in a short period of time. Therapy was calling my name! This time, therapy was different because I addressed the pain of my father's emotional and verbal abuse, as well as the rape. Understanding one helped me understand the other. I began to see how, although I internalized the trauma and blamed myself for all of it, none of it was my fault. I had to let go of the guilt, release my culpability. I began to see that my father was the product of his abusive father, and that HE was just a bad guy who hurt me.

I watched a show about Perseus, the Greek mythological figure, demi-god, son of Zeus, who defeated the gorgon Medusa. The program also explained the origin of Medusa, the virgin priestess in the cult of Athena in the Parthenon who was renowned for her beauty and blonde curls. She had many would-be suitors, all of whom she rejected due to her loyalty to her goddess. Poseidon, unable to resist her beauty, according to myth, raped Medusa in the Parthenon, which derives from the Greek word for virgin. Athena, outraged by the defiling of her virginal temple, turned Medusa into the snake-haired, stone-turning gazed monster we are all familiar with. At that point, something clicked, and I thought I'm just like Medusa. I've been turned into something I wasn't because HE raped me. I'm not that innocent girl, just like priestess Medusa. I've been monstrous feeling with all the internalization of my sorrow, my pain, my guilt, and my fury.

Subsequently, I discovered HE did rape others, so I released Medusa onto the world. I still have anger, sorrow, and pain, but with direction now. I am focused. I know where to release the monster within myself. I cannot say I am completely healed. Is any survivor of a sex crime ever completely healed? I don't know; Medusa cannot answer that question. However, Medusa will continue to fight a system that perpetuates the hatred and objectification of women, to speak for those gripped by the monster of silence, and to fight for a better world, a world safe for man, woman, and child.