My body has been used as a weapon against me. Every night for the past six years, my mind is still his weapon. Recurring nightmares about my rape haunt me, my guy friends laugh at rape jokes, and my girl friends tolerate them. As a reaction to the rape, my period has become so heavy that I have to take medicine so that I don’t lose too much blood and have to spend more nights in the ER. The man who raped me has suffered no consequences for his acts, and he continues to rape today. The detective wouldn’t take me seriously when I told him that the reason I waited over a year to report the crime was so that I could turn 18, so that my parents would have no way of finding out about it. My great grandmother, great grandfather, and great aunt sexually abused me. My father had no tolerance for my fear of them. The detective had no tolerance for me either. The man who raped me threatened to sue me when I contacted his girlfriends to warn them about him. According to the law, he should be serving 48 years in prison for what he did to me, but he has served none. My therapist told me that my desire to hurt the man who raped me is unhealthy because the consequences of trying to stop him from raping others are too dangerous. I should come to peace with it within my mind, she said. The problem is that nothing about my rapes was peaceful. I fought back, I pleaded, I was choked, my vagina cut open, my limbs held down by a man I trusted in a house I didn’t know, in a city I didn’t know, in a culture that provided no one for me to go to. My first sexual experience was being anally penetrated by a man thirty-five times my age at a family reunion in Torrance. My first teenage sexual experience was spent with my boyfriend’s weight suffocating me, forcing his penis in and out of me, with every thrust my blood spilling onto his couch as warm tears flowed down my burning face; my hands were white from having the circulation cut off in my wrists, and I was left with no physical scars to prove my experience. Spousal rape isn’t illegal here, they told me. Besides, the statute of limitations is two years. Honey, you really need to stop taking your anger out on innocent men. The law hasn’t helped me, social services hasn’t helped me, so all I have left is my community. But for the most part, my community isn’t supportive of victims and survivors of sexual assault, of people like me. A man in my community has raped. A man in my community has raped, and I see him on his bicycle almost every time I leave my house. He rides by in the afternoons and because of that I’m now afraid to go outside. It feels like he’s everywhere at once. He’s come to bean night after being told not to attend anymore. He sits at the coffee collaborative, looking onto the street, taking possession of the space that’s no longer safe for me to attend. I’m scared. I’m scared, and all of you are laughing about rape. So please, go ahead and tell me again to calm down. Tell me I’m overreacting. Tell me rape is funny. I fucking dare you.