Crisis of Faith: Reconciling God and Rape

I was raised as a Baptist in a small town. It did not take long to recognize hypocrices and inconsistencies, and I quit going. My grandfather would take me to Sunday school every week, and then I participated in Wednesday night GAs and choir. Even though I quit attending church activities, I held fast to my faith. Through Christ is salvation. Let me be clear: I am not preaching, nor do I believe there is a single path to Godliness. I am relating my story of faith, nearly losing that faith, but finding my relationship with God again.

I was 19 when HE raped me, legally an adult, but with the naivete of youh. It took about a year to understand and comprehend that I was a victim of the "R" word. I began to question how the omnicient and omnipotent God Almighty could have let HIM rape me. I also wondered how God could allow me to suffer. In a fine arts class during my last year in collee, we watched a clip of a Robin Williams film in which he searches for his deceased wife in heaven and hell (I cannot remember the name of the movie). I had to leave the class early because of the hell scenes. I thought that perhaps we are already existing in hell and either too stupid or myopic to understand. I was doubting my faith.

After my father died, my mother was referred (for lack of a better word) to a Catholic retreat. It changed her life. I could see the changes. I was and still am very happy for her! But then she invited me the following year. I made up some excuse. People doubting their faith do not usually engage in religious activity. The next year rolled around, but my mother was asked to give a talk about forgiveness. I thought I should go to support her, although I would not get much out of it. At that time, I was having severe headaches that left me hurting for weeks at a time. I tried to use being behind in work and inability to afford the retreat as an excuse to not go. My mother's friend (and I'm blessed to call this lady my friend now, as well) had paid for another person who was unable to attend. She offered me the spot. I'd run out of excuses, so I went to a Catholic retreat full of reluctance and skepticism.

I expected to be met with the hellfire and brimstone rhetoric from my childhood in the Baptist church. (I have nothing against Baptists! Religion and faith are deeply personal, and I am in no position to judge any person's belief system.) Instead, I was met with about 200 women shining with the light of God's love. The first night, I ran into a problem. The message was that those who sin against us are part of God's plan. I was thinking this would be three days of the "God never gives you more than you can bear" rhetoric. I refused to accept that HIS rape of my body was God's will. Furthermore, I did not want part of any God that would will rape. I was angered and my faith was slipping even more.

The next day I spoke to a lady I call my angel. I explained my concerns, not mentioning rape. I suppose most people thought I was having issues with respect to my father, an alcoholic with a quick temper and violent tendencies. My angel explained that God gave us free will, and most of us make good choices with His gift of free will, but other people somtimes make bad choices with the gift of free will. Those who choose poor use of free will hurt others, and my angel said she thinks it hurts God when we are hurt by others' poor usage of the Divine gift of free will. It began to make sense to me again.

Later on in the retreat, I felt the Holy Spirit, who gave me a message that the time was right to finally tell my mother the secret about my rape and to allow God to help me heal. Some may doubt that I experienced the Holy Spirit, and that's okay. I know it happened, and that is all I need. So, that night, I had a long talk with my mother. We cried, and she held me in her arms. We talked for several hours. She began to understand the changes she had seen in me, such as self-medicating with alcohol, my college grades dropping, my withdrawal from her and family. Our relationship has never been better now, which makes me very happy.

The retreat also taught me about intercessory prayer, prayers sent to saints or other venerables to pray on one's behalf to God. Protestants don't practice intercessory prayer, so I became excited about the idea of asking for extra prayer. Once I got home, I learned that the Catholic church recognizes several patron saints of rape victims. Saints Dymphna, Potamiana (there are spelling variations), and Maria Goretti. I regularly ask these saints to pray for my continued healing on my behalf.

I am not in church every Sunday. I know I commit sin, but I ask forgiveness. I am not sure what religion fits my beliefs. I can say I am an open-minded Christian. I can say that prayer has been an integral part of my healing process. I have my faith again! This reclamation of my faith has prompted my transition from rape victim to rape survivor. For these things, I am grateful and blessed.

Evolution of Medusa: A Chronology

My husband claims I'm radically feminist. I simply believe that women are socially and politically equal to men. I particularly believe no one should be the victim of sexual violence, male or female. This belief stems from a lifetime of facing harassment, being felt up, rape, and a stalking.

My first experience with sexual harassment was in junior high, 8th grade, age 14. As an 8th grader, one privilege was having a top locker, and this locker was prime junior high real estate! It was central to my various classes in addition to closeness to my friends.There was this 6th grade kid (a football player) whose locker was close by. It started with obscene comments and "accidental" brushings. It escalated to this kid grabbing my buttocks. I reported the problem
to the principal, who dismissed my allegations with the typical "he said/she said" rhetoric. I asked the principal to move the kid's locker, but he (the principal) said he couldn't move the kid's locker. I lost my locker. I moved to an inconvenient, bottom locker, but the harassment stopped. This taught me a lesson: don't report your problems because NOTHING will be done to stop it.

A year or two later, I was in high school. Another guy began to harass me between classes. I repressed these memories, but according to my mother I would go home from school crying because the terror was so bad. If the guy, a football player also, wasn't there to harass me, he would get his buddies to harass me. I never reported the harassment because my junior high experience taught me that nothing would be done to this guy. The harassment stopped when my father paid another guy $100 to get the harasser football jock off my back. I don't know what happened, and I didn't know the hired gun. He has my undying gratitude, though. In retrospect, I wish I had reported this situation to my school principal, just so I could know if there would have been repercussions. Probably not, since he played football (in Texas, football rules everything), he was African-American and I'm Caucasian, and because the same rhetoric of "he said/she said" no proof blah blah blah.

The summer between my junior and senior years I got the opportunity to attend a Christian college in west Texas. My best friend graduated a year before me and joined the military. When she came home late that summer to visit, we went to a club that allowed 18 year olds in after hours. At 17, I lied and used my college ID to get in. I just liked to dance. A guy asked me to dance, so I consented. I did not consent to him feeling me up and shoving his tongue down my throat. I could not get away. He finally had to go to the restroom, so I told my friend I was leaving and if she wanted to get home, she'd better come with me. She caught up to me at the exit; I was panicking and couldn't get out
the door. It was my "first kiss", technically, taken by force in a vulgar manner. I prefer to claim the kiss on my cheek from my pre-school boyfriend as my first kiss. It makes a nicer story. By this point in my life, I figure I don't need to be bothered with males, period.

So, then I went to college. I met a girl who was local and introduced me and others to her friends. I experienced several unwanted advances, including fondling. None were as bad as the allegedly "nice guy" who raped me the last night of my freshman year. I got a reputation of being frigid because I fought back. One guy pinned my arms up and grabbed my breasts. When he released my arms, I reached behind me and grabbed his groin. I squeezed my hand and dug my fingernails in so severely that I caused significant pain through thick denim jeans. A minor victory for me! But there were other instances throughout my college years. I eventually obtained a reputation of being "frigid" because I didn't date. And why should I have dated? No one who expressed an interest in me proved himself to be worthwhile. Perverted, socially inept, vulgar, crude, rude, aggressive, these are not qualities I was looking for in a boyfriend.

During my college years, I also acquired a stalker. He worked for the university in the gardening/lawn care department. At first, I didn't think he was threatening. I took a job as a waitress at a restaurant. When he came into the restaurant looking for me, I realized this was not a normal situation. My boss ran him out of the restaurant the second time he came in to "visit" me. I took a year off from school, around the time I got married (I did find the one man I can tolerate and can tolerate me in turn!). When I returned to finish my degree, my stalker found me again. One morning before my first class, he was threatening and would not allow me to get to my class on time. I got scared. I left my class and went to the campus police station. I was stunned because the policeman I spoke to took me seriously! The first time anyone had taken my situation seriously! The officer asked me why I didn't report this problem sooner. The next time I went to my class, my husband and father-in-law escorted me, at a distance. I never saw my stalker again. I don't know if the campus police got to him, or if he saw the large angry men escorting me to class, but it stopped. What scared me most was that he knew my car. He could have found my home because he found me at work.

I have other stories, like the migrant worker coming on to me and trying to kiss me against my will. Or the various unwanted butt or breast grabs I've experienced. These are the reasons I have always taken a stance against sexual violence. The breaking point, for me, was learning that HE raped my friend, too. That was the point I realized I have to speak out, end my silence. I cannot tell her story, or the stories of the other women I know who have been raped and shared their stories with me. I have to speak. I have to tell my stories. I think Medusa has been evolving within me since that first experience of sexual
harassment in junior high. She came to fruition September 13, 2010 when I confirmed HE raped another, my very good friend. I will not stop until we end the violence. If that makes me a "radical feminist", then I embrace that label. Medusa rages on!