Help!

Hello Feminist Friends,

I realize that what I’m about to ask for may piss some people off – this site is supposed be about activism, not about me. I am not a legitimate charity or organization in any sense of the word. However, today I am desperate enough to not care.

In the mail today I received notice that I will not be receiving unemployment benefits anymore. These benefits contributed to about 50% of my monthly income. My husband is a full time student who works part time, and his pay covers the other 50%. I was not expecting to lose my unemployment benefits like this, and now I’m scrambling to figure out how I will make rent for next month. My husband and I are already planning to move in with my mother in two months when our lease runs out, because he is transferring schools and I am just days away from going into labor. I am applying for all the state benefits I might possibly qualify for, but I won’t hear back in time before rent is due.

So here is the reader’s digest version: I was fired from my full time job last November because of pregnancy-related medical issues. I was surviving on unemployment but that has now been revoked. I don’t want to get evicted from my apartment while I’m due to go into labor. I have no expectations, I just figured that desperate situations call for desperate measures. If you are doing well financially, my family and I would really appreciate the help of $5 or $10. It’s super easy – you can just click on the “Donate” button below.  Thank you for reading!

Sincerely,

The Administrator of “Patriarchy Survivor” (WordPress)  and “No, I Will NOT be Quiet” (Facebook)

P.S. – If you do decide to donate please let me know what your address is so I can send a thank you card.

 

“They Kept Telling Me I was Wasting Their Time…” (How a child rape victim can expect to be treated in Ohio).

survivor2

Testimony by Katlyn Milligan

When I was thirteen years old, just going into puberty I was raped. Though at that exact moment in time I didn’t know the meaning of rape so for years I did not call what happened to me rape. Maybe there was a part of me that knew something wasn’t right and just didn’t want to believe that I was raped but I was. My first sexual experience ever. A nightmare I will never forget. I was in a basement of a house in Ohio with a close friend named Storm. Or so I thought he was a close friend. Everything was completely fine. Nothing seemed out of place or unusual. We were sitting on the couch watching T.V and drinking beer. I was close to him and he was just rubbing my legs. That did not startle me at all. Well his friend that was also in the basement with us went upstairs for something so he picked me up and set me on the sink in the bathroom and locked the door. He told me he wanted alone time with me and well I really liked this kid so I said okay. He poured me a drink it was all mixed and handed to me. I slowly started sipping it. He started to rub my shoulders and relax me. I was still on the sink almost done with the drink now and he starts to unbuttoned my pants. I told him I didnt want that. Not now or later. He kissed me and said that’s fine. I asked if I could leave and he locked the door again. He said he wanted to talk. I didn’t want to talk anymore because something wasn’t quite right not to mention I felt very uncomfortable. He told me he would never hurt me and that he just wants to feel. I said I don’t think that’s such a good idea and I really want to go home. As soon as told me no that is when I became very scared and tried to leave. He pulled me back in the bathroom and sat me on the sink. He asked me if I was a virgin and I replied yes. At that point I knew if I fought it would just end up worse. I tried to leave again. I couldn’t. He slid my pants down. I told him no as I pulled them back up. He ripped them off of me and grabbed my vagina. I moved his hand and said no I don’t want to do this. At that point he didn’t care. He just kept handing me these drinks that tasted good. He bent me over smacked my ass and laughed the most evil laugh I have ever heard. Next think I know he was attempting to shove his hard penis into my ass. I jumped begging for him to not do that. He restrained me so I could no longer move. He stuck his penis in my ass multiple times. Very hard and fast. Lots of sharp pain and blood. I tried screaming, yelling, pushing him away nothing worked. After about a half hour of that he said “I want your pussy”. I begged him no and told him how much pain I was in. He didn’t care. He shoved it right in. I was crying the entire time pleading for him to stop. When he finally after about two hours stopped and threw me on the floor. Storm told me to clean the blood up and leave. He threw a towel and shorts at me and told me to “get the fuck out”. I left the blood and ran as fas as I could. I couldn’t even walk when I finally got out of the house. I kept falling over with blood dripping down my inner thighs and the back of my legs. I finally made it home a couple of streets away. I went right to the shower and took the longest shower of my life balling my eyes out in confusion and pain. After that I wasnt normal. I didn’t speak to anyone. I acted different. Acted out in school.  One day I finally broke down and told a counselor at my school. She then called the police to talk to me. The officers came to my middle school in no time. The first set of officers were nice. They asked if I needed to go to the hospital or see a doctor. They took me to the hospital where I stayed for a couple of days. Two built stocky detectives showed up wanting to question me. I was scared, embarrassed, I felt gross. They wanted every little last detail and I couldn’t even speak. They kept telling me I was wasting their time because they have other things to do and I probably wasn’t sexually assaulted or raped. That I was just a girl that got curious and things when bad. That was the moment I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I told the detectives that nothing ever happened and this can all go away now. They charged me with falsified information and I was given probation for falsifying information to law enforcement. I will never ever forget the feeling of not only feeling worthless but hopeless and used because I was punished due to being scared and not understanding. Now I am twenty one years old. This is the first time I have ever written or even spoke about what happened to me. I was given no support, guidance or even an explanation to why I was raped or even the slightest bit of nurturing or love. At the end of all of this that is all I wanted. I wanted someone to care and help me but everyone around me including my parents all took the detectives side. I struggle with myself every day with remembering what happened. I have nightmares and flashbacks at random times. Though I am older now I feel like it was just yesterday that it all happened. My memories are so real and alive. I even remember the smell of him and the look in his eyes. I will never forget it.

“I tried desperately hard to be the kind of girl he would like…”

cryinggirl

Testimony by Anonymous

His name was Ricky. He was 16, about a year older than me, as his birthday is a month before mine. This also put him 2 school years above me. He went to a school near my Nan’s house. Looking back it’s probably a lie, but he claimed to be leader of some sort of metalhead gang in his school. I think he was just a bully – he once punched his neighbour in the face, a boy my age who went to his school.

I thought he was amazing, with his black clothes, metal CDs and motorbike poster. I thought it was fantastic that he wanted to be my boyfriend, and, like any teen but also due to my failed-girl-feelings, I tried desperately hard to be the kind of girl he would like. I think now he had many girlfriends, and I was more the ‘other girl’ than any of them, but I was the one who met his mum. She was lovely, and fed me a lot. I was as skinny as a stick. Maybe she was just home at the wrong time, maybe she just thought he had lots of short relationships, maybe I was the most presentable girlfriend he had.

He spent most of the relationship trying to pressure me into sex; vaguely suggesting penetrative sex, harassing me for oral sex. He would try to get me alone as often as he could, and regularly got me high, to relax me. He would imply that if I loved him, I would do sexual things. I would tell him that I wasn’t ready. He had already broken up with me, by text, while I was at a school-arranged holiday camp. Being a naive kid, thinking him so amazing, I had gotten back together with him.

This time, I was at his house. His mum was out, and we were in his bedroom. We had shared a small joint, so I was a little high, but not out of it at all. He asked me for a blowjob, and I tried to deflect the conversation. Then, he unzipped his jeans and got his dick out. It was the first dick I had ever seen. He told me to suck it. I was so shocked that I just stared at it, not moving.

He was holding it with one hand, his right hand, and he reached out with his other hand. He grabbed me by the hair, yanking my head towards his dick, and I just collapsed at the knee, my body giving way as if I had fainted, and began to cry. I would say burst into tears, but they were silent, snivelling tears. I was sort of kneeling, sort of lying, my head about level with his knees.

I’m not sure why, as the rest of the incident is burned so clearly in my memory, but I cannot picture his dick at all. I can’t remember whether it was hard or soft, whether my reaction changed that at all.

He stood above me, dick still out, still in his hand, and looked at me with disgust. What he said next stuck with me the clearest, and I can still hear it clear as if he were in the room: “You’re frigid. So ugly when you cry. Get out of my house.”

The word ‘frigid’ still hurts to hear, even completely out of context by anyone, like a slap to the face. The second sentence really got to me, and I still find it hard to believe that I don’t turn into a hideous, snivelling, red-faced monster when I cry. I don’t remember what he did after that, but I got up, went downstairs, got my bag and coat, and went to the park. I didn’t go to my Nan’s house so I wouldn’t have to tell her, or my parents.

For many years, I blamed myself. At no point in our relationship did I ever say no. I said “I’m not ready yet.” I said “Um…” I said “Not now” or “Not here.” I changed the subject. I still wonder if he would have done that if I had said no. I think he would have just broken up with me. I never did anything about it, and I never saw him again.

When I was 16, he did come back into my life. He dated a friend of a friend, and I later found out he pressured her into sex, got her pregnant, and pressured her into an abortion, before breaking up with her over the incident, calling her a baby-killing whore. I feel guilty for feeling that I got off lightly, and I feel guilty because I could have done something about what he did to me, and prevented it; I feel guilty because I could do something now, and prevent him maybe doing something to someone else.

“If anything, I am stronger.”

strong

Testimony by “M”

My name is “M.”. I am 19 years old, and this is my story.

I was 5 years old the first time my cousin molested his little sister and I…I remember he called it “the kissy game”. He would tell us over and over again that it was only a game, but part of the game was that we had to keep it a secret. There were times when he would lock us in a closet if we refused to “play”…this went on for two years until I was 7 years old. I never told my parents, my friends, anyone. It was my secret and I kept it well. When I was 13 I got into what would eventually become my first serious relationship. I remember finally telling my boyfriend everything that had happened. And it wasn’t until I saw his defensive/protective reaction, that the weight of what my cousin had done actually began to set in…for all that time I had felt dirty and damaged and insecure, but I had scolded myself saying “don’t be so stupid it was only a game, get over it.”

By the time I was 17 I came to a full realization/acknowledgement that I had been raped. There was no other way to put it. It was NOT a game. It was NOT okay. And I was NOT stupid for feeling that way. To this day it still hurts to think about the things that happened, but I am learning to cope. I am learning to remind myself that I didn’t do anything wrong. I am not damaged or less of a person because of what he did to me. If anything, I am stronger.

“I dont know how to heal.”

imfine
Testimony by Vina L.
My story is not a short one. Like all the other stories, it is also not an easy one to tell. My story begins when I was 16, though the horrors started long before then. I was in love for the first time, with my first boyfriend. He was from Scotland. He played bass and his dad was in a band. He was totally cool, and cute, and I felt so lucky. He came to visit during my spring break and I showed him everything about the US that I could, while he told me everything about Scotland. I was still incredibly shy about boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. We hadn’t even started holding hands yet when he grabbed me and kissed me. I guess that was my first warning, but I was too overwhelmed to be see the signs. Later, he told me that his dad said I was very “well-endowed” while giving him a thumbs-up. That was my second sign, but after a lifetime of being bullied I was happy to take it as a compliment. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could go back in time and slap myself and make myself understand how dangerous my first boyfriend turned out to be. He wanted to kiss me everywhere. I always felt awkward about PDAs but he forced me. He would constantly pick lint off my shirt because he needed “his girl” to look perfect. The first time he abused me was in a dark theatre. I don’t even remember what movie we went to see. I was crying the whole time. All I could remember was how much it hurt because he had long fingernails, and how much I bled and hurt the next few days.  I wish I could say it stopped there, and that my story is over. But it’s not. The next day, while my mother was out, he pinned me against my bedroom wall and kissed me, saying it was time to have sex. That that’s what people in love did. I panicked. I kept saying no. He didn’t listen. he kept “assuring” me that it was what we needed to do. I said no so many times that the word started losing meaning. Eventually I gave up and let him touch me. The only thing that stopped the assault was him prematurely ejaculating before he could get inside me. The rest of his visit, I stayed in sight of my mother, though my mother was convinced I wanted sex despite our previous sex talks where I firmly stated that I didn’t not want to have sex before I was an adult. That belief, I am proud of myself for, because I never faltered from it. But I knew I couldn’t tell my mother what happened, because she would never believe me. She spoke fondly of him for the next couple years. To this day, 8 years later, she has a picture of him on our wall, though I don’t think she realizes that it causes me pain. I have to stare at it every day now that I am living at home again. I am too scared to ask her to take it down, too scared of opening old wounds. When he left, I saw him off with a heart of stone. Many would assume that the nightmare ended at that point. But it was just getting started. After the assault, I started having nightmares so horrible that I would wake up covered in sweat. I showered a lot in those weeks. And then I remembered everything. I was molested by my uncle as a child. I don’t have an exact age – possibly 4 or 5. He used to babysit me sometimes. He would have me lay on his bed and play SEGA while he would touch me and penetrate me. I remember complaining to him that he made it hurt to pee so much, but he would say that him touching me would make me better at the games. He told me he did it because he loved me so very much. A few years later, my cousin, who was about 4 or 5, started touching me, too. He wanted to feel my chest, though there was barely anything there. He told me that his dad said all boys should touch as many girls as they could. He only touched me once, and I told him it wasn’t okay. I repressed those memories for many years. It took being assaulted to remember. By time I realized what had been done to me, the statue of limitations was long past. And so I kept this knowledge a secret, knowing there was no point in telling anyone. There is one last, bitter chapter in my story of abuse, though this did not happen to me directly. Recently, my cousin (who is 15 now) had been accused of molesting three of his younger siblings. He was charged for one of them and given simple probation. The legal proceedings haven’t started for the other two yet, but I hope he goes to jail. I feel like I need so desperately for those kids to have the justice I never had. The nightmares haven’t stopped since I heard the news about this. I feel partially responsible for not speaking up as a kid. Maybe all of this could have been prevented. But it is pointless to think those things, to blame myself. Maybe there’s nothing I could have done to change it. Maybe my uncle would have gotten away with it anyway. I wish I could have a happy ending to all this, or some way to inspire others and tell them that it will be okay. But it took me until my early 20′s to fall in love again, to learn to trust again, and I ended up leaving him because after years of dating, a controlled, yet powerful sexual desire had built up between us (we both wanted to wait for marriage, him for religious reasons and me because I needed time, and so we respected each other’s wishes). It was beautiful, and everything love should be, but nothing ever came of it because I made up every petty excuse I could find to leave him. He never knew the truth. I’d rather he hated me than know the truth. To his credit, he later opened the door of friendship to me and we remain best friends to this day. I guess that’s kind of happy. I am now nearly 24 years old. After everything that has happened, my heart is truly stone and will not let love in. I do not feel like a survivor. The term “survivor” feels like something reserved for men and women far stronger than I could ever be. Lately I have been tired and unmotivated. I see my friends going out and having fun and dating and getting married and having kids, but I am afraid to go out in public. it takes a lot of mental preparation to leave my house, though I play it off as if I’m perfectly fine. I don’t know how to heal. I don’t know how to not be a victim anymore. I want to be a survivor. I just don’t know where to start.

Her Name was Sophia Marquez

angelswinging

Testimony by Patriarchy Survivor

Two summers ago I was summoned for my first jury duty. Since it was my first time I was a little nervous but my friends assured me that I would just sit around all day and  that my name would never get called. I was in the court house for all of five minutes before my name was called, and I was immediately one of twelve jurors on a murder trial.  I wanted to tell the judge about my anxiety disorder and about the fact that I was a rape survivor myself and didn’t know if I could handle the stress of the trial. But I was still struggling with overcoming the shame of the attack and wasn’t ready to share that story. So I made it on to the jury.

The victim’s name was Sophia Marquez. I can still see her face in my nightmares. I can still see Sophia’s sister crying on the witness stand because Sophia had been raped, strangled to death and left naked on the side of the freeway. The accused had no alibi at all, there was convincing DNA evidence and absolutely no reasonable doubt. The other 11 jurors and myself convicted him of first degree murder during an attempted rape (there wasn’t enough evidence to prove completed rape).

Most victims of sexual assault do not get justice, and it’s horribly cruel that a rape victim (or attempted rape) usually has to be murdered for the criminal justice system to even consider prosecution. If Sophia had just been sexually assault and left naked but alive on the side of the road she wouldn’t have gotten justice. The statistics are no better now than they were in the 70′s, most rape kits just sit in evidence lockers collecting dust, because the police cannot be bothered to investigate them. I am glad that Sophia’s family got justice for her murder, but most rape/ attmepted rape victims will not – their cases won’t even be investigated. And I am angry. I am angry that the district attorneys will not prosecute rapists without media pressure. I am angry that society blames rape victims and forgives rapists (boys will be boys!). I am angry that most rape survivors will not even report getting raped because the police victim blame and slut-shame. I am over this, I want things to change. Women are human beings, and our lives have value. I shouldn’t have to explain this to people, but I do.

Her name was Sophia Marquez, she was murdered during an attempted rape  in Sacramento, CA, and her naked corpse was dumped on the side of a freeway. I will never forget her face, I will never forget her name.

My Two Year Anniversary

intherain

Testimony by Lucy Kidd

This week was the two year anniversary of the last time I was sexually assaulted. This last time was the most traumatic to me for several reasons. First, It was the only one I actually shared with people in my life, second, there were witnesses, third, there was the combined trauma of the sexual assault and the victim-blaming, 4. my attacker wrote a letter of apology to my boyfriend for attacking me (but not to me, because apparently I’m  just my boyfriend’s property), and 5, I had a mental breakdown afterwards and had to quit my job, and 6, because the attack happened in my own home I no longer felt safe there, and 7. I couldn’t sit through a class without having a panic attack, so I had to withdraw from all my classes, even though I was supposed to graduate that semester. With my previous attacks I was able to cope somehow, but not this last time. Not two years ago.

To someone who hasn’t been sexually assaulted, it’s hard to explain the phenomena of the “anniversary,” but I will try.  For some reason, the memories come back in full force – unwelcome and all-consuming. The nightmares of being attacked returned this week as well, the uncontrollable crying, and the intense feelings of anger towards the people in my life who victim-blamed me. There are the feelings of intense shame and humiliation, and the inability to control my emotions.

There are some positive things that came out of my anniversary – it forced me to deal with the fact that I am not yet recovered, that I still have a lot of work to do. I finally had the courage this week to seek out sexual assault counseling.  two years overdue but never too late. I am now able to hold down a job and a loving relationship. These are things I can be proud of.

To the Reader: your input is welcome, so long as it is not victim blaming, slut shaming, or advice on how YOU would have dealt with being attacked. If it’s not your trauma, then you have no idea.